No Good Deeds Part 8

"Will they-Oh, no. A newspaper reporter. Not television."

This seemed to disappoint Lloyd, but he nodded.

"I don't get it," Whitney said. "So he had the card. So some stranger who claimed he had a grudge against Youssef gave it to Lloyd and asked him to use it at a certain time and throw it away. What does that really establish?"

Lloyd also looked puzzled, as if he couldn't see how he fit into this larger story.

"I'm not sure," Tess said. "Someone went to a lot of trouble to make it appear that Gregory Youssef was the victim of a certain kind of crime, something personal and a little tawdry. Something that would make everyone squeamish. But if this can be traced back to a local drug dealer, then Youssef's death actually could have been a consequence of his job after all."

"I didn't say anything 'bout a drug dealer," Lloyd said, but the denial rang hollow to Tess.

"So what do we do?" Whitney asked. "Call the cops?"

"NO COPS!" Lloyd roared.

"No, no cops," Tess said. "But if Lloyd tells the Beacon-Light everything he knows, the cops will get the information just the same."

It also would smooth over her own relations.h.i.+p to the newspaper and make amends to Feeney. As his friend, she had tainted him a little with that outburst the other day. This would put them back to even, or closer to it. And she had a hunch that Feeney would agree with her that Marcy Appleton deserved this juicy plum of a story. She was the federal courts reporter.

"We won't even risk going down to the newspaper. We'll make the newspaper come to us. Tonight, in fact. And then we'll be out of your hair for good, Lloyd."

"Better be some dinner involved," he said. "Real food, too. Not that weird s.h.i.+t."

"Whatever you want. Chicken box? Sub? Pizza? Burgers?"

"Yes," Lloyd said.

GOOD FRIDAY INTO BAD SUNDAY.

11.

Even if Marcy Appleton had been able to meet all her editors' various directives and second guesses in one day of reporting, Tess had always a.s.sumed that the Beacon-Light would hold Lloyd's story for the Sunday edition, when it would make the biggest splash. Besides, it had taken most of Thursday and then Friday morning for Marcy to play the time-honored reporting game of "Would I Be Wrong If?" So would I be wrong if I wrote that the ATM card was used at these locations? Am I right about the code? I won't print it, but would I be wrong if I said the Beacon-Light has a source who knows the code? Would I be wrong if I said the videotape showed someone in a hoodie and a North Face jacket?

The multilingual, smoothly confident Marcy had started with the Howard County detectives. While the suburban county had its pockets of bad neighborhoods, it was overall a blandly peaceful place. Great for kids, as its residents said defensively, but not so great for homicide detectives, whose skills didn't get much of a workout. Even over the telephone, Marcy picked their bones clean. She then took on the interim U.S. attorney, Gail Schulian, who lost her much-admired cool, revealing in the process just how little she knew about the investigation. Marcy never got fl.u.s.tered, according to Feeney, who kept Tess apprised of the story's movements-and reiterated his pledge, in each conversation, that Lloyd's name would never, ever be mentioned, not even inside the newsroom. Reporters at the Blight were now required to reveal anonymous sources to at least one superior. But Feeney counted as a superior, hilarious as Tess found that fact.

"It's gone," he told her wearily Friday evening. "We lawyered it this afternoon, and it cleared the copy desk about five minutes ago."

"Are you their bright and s.h.i.+ning star now?"

"More Marcy than me, although she's been good about sharing credit. She told the bosses that an old source of mine was the go-between. Guess that's true enough. Only downside is we both have to work Easter Sunday, doing the j.e.r.k.-.o.f.f. react."

"Better than covering an Easter-egg hunt or the perennial gang fights that break out in the harbor when everyone goes promenading."

The bulldog, the early Sunday edition, goes on sale Sat.u.r.day morning. Tess Monaghan remembered the jargon, if not the reason for it. Something about the bulldog chasing the other editions off the street. But that was simply by virtue of its heft. There was precious little news in the bulldog most weekends. People bought it for the real-estate ads and the coupons, not the stories. However, a big investigative piece, such as Marcy's article on the new facts in the Youssef case, would be anch.o.r.ed on the front and stay there throughout the run. Only an event of great significance-another 9/11, the death of a world leader-could knock off an exclusive this strong. The a.s.sociated Press and the out-of-town papers would start working it immediately, but the Beacon-Light had a head start, while the other news outlets would be trying to find officials willing to pick up their phones over the Easter weekend. The television stations would settle for rip-and-reads, all but reciting Marcy's story into the camera while standing in front of suitable backdrop-the federal courthouse, the riverbank where Youssef's body had been found.

Running errands Sat.u.r.day morning, Tess stopped at her neighborhood coffeehouse, Evergreen, to skim the article. Feeney and Marcy had kept all their promises. Lloyd's ident.i.ty was cloaked, and not a single one of his a.s.sertions had been shot down. Marcy also had been careful, as Tess had insisted, not to a.s.sign Lloyd's gender. It had made for some awkward writing, with endless repet.i.tions of "the source" and "a person with firsthand knowledge." Marcy hadn't even used the name of the store where Lloyd had purchased his jacket and shoes, not that Tess believed that a store clerk could remember who bought a North Face jacket on the day after Thanksgiving. In fact, neither Tess nor Lloyd would have cared if the newspaper had named the Downtown Locker Room, but the Blight's advertising department had pleaded with the editors to omit that detail.

Satisfied, Tess went about her day, convinced she had done a good deed.

But just as she no longer remembered the rationale behind the name of the bulldog, she had forgotten how much a story could change from bulldog to Sunday final.

In the gym, sweat pouring onto the paper as he pedaled a stationary bike, Gabe Dalesio read the story with a mix of despair and pride. He had been right, he had been onto something, he had been so close. But who would believe him now? He knew that Youssef wasn't at the wheel of his car when it left the city, and now this story all but proved it. It was an elaborate ruse, an electronic trail meant to conceal Youssef's real movements. But his brainstorm was moot now. There was no point in being right unless others knew about it. f.u.c.k Collins, for being so dismissive. He probably wouldn't even remember that Gabe had said anything. The only thing that Collins carried away from that conversation was that Gabe spent a lot of time thinking about getting b.l.o.w. .j.o.bs from other guys. d.a.m.n it. d.a.m.n his own self. He should have told the boss lady what he had figured out.

He wondered how Marcy Appleton had found this anonymous source anyhow. She was a decent reporter, well liked around the courthouse, but better known for her exotic looks than her smarts. A house cat, not a s.h.i.+t disturber. Maybe a defense attorney had acted as matchmaker, offered up his client in hopes of spinning the story. No matter how ignorant the source was of the larger crime, he could still be squeezed as an accomplice. But if it were a matter of trying to protect a client from other charges by giving up valuable information, no seasoned attorney would do that through the media. He would come straight to the prosecutors, put his cards on the table. And if the source didn't have a potential charge hanging over him, then why talk at all? If the source had been picked up for something else, perhaps by city cops, Gabe could see him making this deal, but there didn't seem to be anyone official involved. Just the reporter and the source.

Absentmindedly Gabe rose from the bike and grabbed a cup of water.

"You're supposed to wipe the equipment down," a middle-aged woman berated him, one of those frightening, pared-to-the-bone types who thought having no body fat was the same as being attractive.

"Sorry," he said, running his towel over the seat.

"It's just hygiene," the dried-up s.k.a.n.k said, clearly on a mission to humiliate someone to make herself feel better. "A lot of people 'round here think the rules don't apply to them, but your sweat's not nectar, you know? I don't want to sit on your sweaty seat."

"Trust me, ma'am, I don't want that either." She didn't get it, just hopped on and began pedaling away, as if she had somebody's little dog in her basket.

h.e.l.l, Gabe's problem was that he had been too circ.u.mspect, too mindful of rules and protocol, wasting opportunity after opportunity. He had planned to make his bones on the Youssef case, but this d.a.m.n reporter had pulled the rug right out from under him.

Still, might as well drop by the office, see what was buzzing. He could at least get brownie points for showing his face in the middle of what was shaping up to be a real cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k.

Jenkins spent weekends out in West Virginia, in an una.s.suming built-to-spec A-frame near Berkeley Springs. Inside, it had some nice touches-a plasma television, vast leather chairs, high-end bathrooms, a kitchen with all the extras. The latter had been done with an eye to his ex-wife's taste, although Betty was long gone before he started building the place. In the back of his mind, he thought she might come back. If not for him, then at least for granite countertops. But Betty found West Virginia even less appealing than Baltimore.

He was settling in for a day of NCAA basketball, brackets and a Sam Adams at his side, when his cell phone rang. It was the fake-o switchboard number that showed up on office calls, and he almost said f.u.c.k it-his days of worrying about work 24/7 were long gone. He had done that, and look what it had gotten him. Demoted, humiliated. Still, few work emergencies could be so severe that they would order him back from the mountains, a two-hour trip, so he decided to risk it.

"There's something in the paper today," Collins said without preamble. "Someone who used Youssef's ATM card talked to a reporter. And the Howard County detectives all but verified it. Remember how cagey they were with us? Well, one of the things they were sitting on was some info about the card. Turns out it was used two more times after the initial withdrawal, even as Youssef's car was heading up the interstate. We knew about the first withdrawal, which matched up with the E-ZPa.s.s-northbound car came through the lane at ten forty-five, it was used on Eastern Avenue at eleven-oh-five. So now they know the killer wasn't the one who used the card, a.s.suming the killer is the one who drove Youssef's vehicle up 95 to the turnpike."

"Interesting," Jenkins said. He liked to be taciturn on the phone, holding his cards as close as any target would. Not because they had any reason to worry about what they said on the phone, just because Jenkins liked discipline for discipline's sake, and he had taught Collins to do the same. It helped, thinking like the people you were targeting, aping their habits. "Should I come back today, face the music? They let me act as liaison on this because they thought the Howard County cops would be open with me, so I guess I'm in the s.h.i.+tter now."

"Actually, they're saying Gail is spitting nails about Howard County, but your name hasn't come up."

So Jenkins was so far down on the s.h.i.+t list he wasn't even worth getting mad at. There were worse things than being invisible, although he couldn't think of any just now. "Thanks. Who you like in Syracuse-GW?"

"Orangemen versus Colonials? Orangemen. p.u.s.s.y names, I have to say."

"Spoken like a true Poet." Collins had played for the Dunbar Poets, a Baltimore powerhouse that had sent some big players to college and even the NBA.

Jenkins hung up, mourning the loss of what should have been a sweet, relaxed day. He could understand the cops f.u.c.king over Gail, but why had they withheld the ATM stuff from him, when all he'd ever done was smile and charm and do his aw-shuckswe're-all-in-this-together routine? He hadn't leaked anything. Howard County had let the E-ZPa.s.s stuff out, but maybe they had realigned the facts in their mind, decided Jenkins was to blame. It wouldn't be the first time he'd been scapegoated that way. b.a.s.t.a.r.ds. They were going to do him again. He just couldn't win.

Not even in the brackets, as it turned out. By the end of the afternoon, Jenkins was already statistically eliminated from the NCAA pool, which he once ruled. He was losing his touch across the board.

Lloyd spent Sat.u.r.day the way he normally did, roaming the neighborhood with Dub, looking for financial opportunities, as they liked to call them. He had been taken aback to learn that there was no money to be had from the newspaper. Maybe he should have gone to the cops after all. Cops paid for information. But no, he couldn't risk that. Once the cops got him, they wouldn't let him go until he gave them what they wanted, and he had nothing to give. Besides, he had gotten some good food out of it. He had told his story to the man and the lady from the newspaper over a huge meal in that crazy lady's house, the scary blonde. They had let him have anything he wanted to eat, from anywhere, so he had ordered up a feast-subs and chicken boxes and pizzas, eating from it all as if it were just a big motherf.u.c.king buffet, not worrying about what would go wasted, then taking the leftovers away, along with the last two bags of cookies.

He had eaten and talked, talked and eaten, and almost come to enjoy it, the way those people hung on his every word. He was going to help solve a big-a.s.s murder. He was almost inclined to brag on himself to Dub, but then he remembered: If the ATM card was linked to some murder, the murder was almost certainly linked to Bennie Tep, and Lloyd did not want to be crossways with any drug dealers. He'd have to keep it quiet. Still, he had a private thrill when he and Dub stopped in the Korean's and he saw the front of the newspaper framed in the box on the corner. He leaned closer, reading a few lines, until Dub punched him and asked what he was doing, looking at the newspaper like some old-timer.

They walked across Patterson Park, the fields still muddy. The day was cold and bright, but it held the promise of spring. Lloyd liked spring. People seemed nicer in the days after the cold weather snapped, and it was easier to b.u.m money from the tourists who flocked to downtown. If you got too close to the harbor proper, the cops or the purple people ran you off, but a block or two away, near the parking garages, was just as good. Yes, spring would be great this year, he promised himself. He'd get something going this spring.

Crow worked at the Point all day Sat.u.r.day and into early Sunday, arriving home at 3:00 A.M. Restless, he prowled the house. Since going to work at her father's bar, he had tried to keep to Tess's more normal hours as much as possible, but he just couldn't throw himself into bed upon coming home, especially when a band like the Wild Magnolias had played. His head still buzzed with the music, and he hummed a few bars of "Smoke My Peace Pipe." He wished he could get out his own guitar and play, but that would be unfair to the slumbering household. Instead he went into the den, thinking to smoke himself into serenity, but the unicorn box was gone. Oh, Lloyd. Tess wouldn't miss the dope. A little more law-and-order every year, she seldom smoked anymore and was nervous about Crow's occasional indulgence. But the box was a recent gift from a little boy named Isaac Rubin, who had purchased it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art while on a pilgrimage to visit the location of his favorite book of all times, The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Isaac had given the box to Tess for agreeing to speak to his cla.s.s on Career Day. The loss of the box would kill Tess, who could be surprisingly sentimental about objects. Maybe Crow could go online, order her another one.

At 5:00 A.M., still wide awake, he heard the thud of the newspaper on the front steps, decided the Beacon-Light would be as good a soporific as dope. He settled in at the dining room table, reading Marcy's story. He read the same words that everyone else had read in the bulldog edition, except for one key change. Now, in the home edition's second paragraph, it said, "In a meeting arranged by private investigator Tess Monaghan, the source told Beacon-Light reporters..."

s.h.i.+t. Crow skimmed the rest of the story. Lloyd was safe, as promised. Marcy and Feeney, covered by state s.h.i.+eld laws, couldn't be compelled to reveal his ident.i.ty. Even if the feds decided to get involved, it would take months to play out. So they, too, were protected, if only in the short run.

But Tess wasn't. Neither were Crow and Whitney, if it came to that. Citizens had no s.h.i.+eld protection. But Tess was the only one whose name had been served up to the authorities, a fat, juicy target for what were probably some very angry people.

He let her sleep until seven-thirty, then woke her with breakfast. "What's wrong?" she demanded the moment she saw the tray with fresh pastry and coffee purchased from Evergreen.

She was gone by eight, about an hour ahead of the Howard County detectives, as it turned out.

"Where is she?" asked a freckled, redheaded detective, who brandished his badge as if it could make her reappear magically. "When is she coming back?"

"I have no idea," Crow said, and it was the absolute truth.

PART TWO.

MOBTOWN.

MONDAY.

12.

Tess, I don't know what to tell you. I edited the story myself and baby-sat it every step of the way through that first edition. I checked midday Sat.u.r.day to see if anything had cropped up, if the top guys were second-guessing so much as a comma. Sunday editor told me everything was okay. Even so, I had my cell phone on every moment, and no one called me."

Tess almost felt sorry for Feeney, who was so upset that he couldn't be bothered to sip the martini in front of him. But Feeney wasn't the one who had to move out of his own house Sunday morning and go into semi-hiding. Feeney was going home to his own bed tonight.

"So how does my name end up above the fold and before the jump? It might as well have been in neon."

"Hector called Marcy at home at six P.M., began badgering her. Said one anonymous source was pretty thin, and couldn't we source it at all? She only told him about your role to b.u.t.tress the case that the source was trustworthy. He didn't tell her that he was going to put it in the story, just turned around and called the desk himself. That's why it reads a little stilted."

"How could he do that without talking to you first?"

"As an a.s.sistant managing editor, he outranks me. He doesn't need my permission to do anything."

Neither one of them mentioned the obvious fact-that the AME might not have been so quick to insert Tess's name in the story if she hadn't p.i.s.sed him off earlier in the week. Her mother had frequently told Tess that there was a cost to speaking one's mind, but Tess had never imagined that it could be jail time. But that would be the outcome if she was brought before a grand jury and refused to testify.

She chewed her lip, found that unsatisfactory, and decided to try the olives the restaurant had provided. Baltimore had discovered tapas, or vice versa, and the city was now thick with variations-Greek, Spanish, Middle Eastern. Tess and Feeney had agreed to meet at Tapas Teatro because it was reliably chaotic, the kind of place where no one attracted attention and even the most determined eavesdroppers were thwarted. Plus, it had windows on the street and several exits through which Tess could flee if any official types showed up.

"I promised Lloyd. I gave my word that I wouldn't tell the police his name. You did, too, but you're covered by s.h.i.+eld laws."

"Only on the state level, although I'd never reveal an anonymous source. But what's Lloyd got to lose by coming forward?"

"He thinks that the police won't believe he's told all he knows, that they'll hold him as an accomplice to the homicide until he's revealed the name of his contact-and he doesn't have it. He's given us everything he's got."

"Can you argue that your position in this is privileged, that Lloyd falls under the attorney-client exemption?"

"Lloyd's not a client, and he didn't sign the usual paperwork. Tyner's never heard of him, and I can't ask an attorney to lie about that."

Tess drained her sangria as if it were fruit punch and looked around the restaurant. So many happy, normal people with such uncomplicated lives, chatting about the films they had just seen at the Charles Theater next door, eating with gusto and joy. Not a single one of them under the threat of federal investigation.

Actually, neither was she. Yet. For the past thirty-six hours, only the Howard County detectives had been trying to find her for questioning, sending increasingly urgent messages via Crow, then her lawyer Tyner, who was able to say truthfully-and, because he was Tyner, loudly and brusquely-that he didn't have any idea where she was. No one did. She had packed a bag, turned off her incoming cell phone, and checked into a nightly rental at a North Side high-rise. Even some of the residents didn't know about these by-the-day rooms, so Tess was confident that she had bought herself a little time. Very little.

"They're saying you did it for the reward money."

"What? What they?"

"The feds. It will be in the paper tomorrow. The U.S. attorney says if you're a good citizen, you'll cooperate with the investigation. But then she floats the possibility that you arranged for the interview to get part of the reward."

"I didn't even know there was one."

"There is, and it's hefty as these things go, a hundred thousand. Hey, maybe that would be enough to get Lloyd to come forward voluntarily."

"Maybe. But it's not a sure thing, right? You usually only get the money upon the conviction of a suspect. Lloyd's not going to have the patience to play those odds. And Crow won't forgive me for betraying Lloyd."

"Even if it comes down to you being jailed for contempt?"

"Crow idolizes the Catonsville Nine and some group called the Baltimore Four. He expects me to live up to their lofty example."

"The Baltimore Four? Crow expects you to have twenty winning games as a pitcher?" It made Tess feel better that Feeney's brain also jumped to the Orioles, not some long-forgotten incident at the Customs House.