BUTCHERS HILL
A TESS MONAGHAN MYSTERY
BY
LAURA LIPPMAN
For Susan Seegar,
who taught me how to read,
encouraged me to write,
and convinced me to cut
all the hair off my Barbie.
I'm glad I was never an only child.
I am indebted to the usual suspects: John Roll and Joan Jacobson, my first readers; Mike James, Peter Hermann, Kate Shatzkin, and many more colleagues at the Baltimore Sun shared their advice or support along the way; Holly Selby and Connie Knox deserved to be thanked long ago, but they know me well enough to tolerate my tardiness.
I am grateful to Lee Anderson, the most resourceful searcher I know, and Patti White who introduced us.
I also want to thank every worker and volunteer who ever fielded a question from me about homelessness, poverty, child care, foster care, adoption, or welfare. You make Baltimore—and the world—a better place.
Contents
Epigraph
Prologue
He was deep in his favorite dream, the one about…
Chapter 1
Tess Monaghan's blotter-size appointment calendar was the largest, whitest space…
Chapter 2
By the time Beale left, Tyner's card clutched in hand,…
Chapter 3
The third-floor ladies room at the Enoch Pratt Free Library…
Chapter 4
At the Daily Grind, Tess insisted on paying for Martin…
Chapter 5
Somewhat to her chagrin, Tess found herself humming a Garth…
Chapter 6
Almost a decade had passed since Gramma Weinstein had given…
Chapter 7
It was commonly believed that the mayor of Baltimore awoke…
Chapter 8
"Who are you?"
Chapter 9
They drove into the city together, although it would mean…
Chapter 10
Even from across the street, it was obvious that something…
Chapter 11
On Sunday morning, Tess started her Treasure hunt.
Chapter 12
"I think coffee is getting better," Tess said, sipping a…
Chapter 13
It was just after nine Tuesday morning when Tess left…
Chapter 14
"Doesn't Carroll County still have an active chapter of the…
Chapter 15
Luther Beale was scrubbing his marble steps, a cherished visual…
Chapter 16
The cops came for Luther Beale late that afternoon. They…
Chapter 17
Tess yearned to go straight to Tyner's office the next…
Chapter 18
The Butcher of Butchers Hill was back. With a vengeance,…
Chapter 19
As many times as she had been there, Tess always…
Chapter 20
There was, in fact, quite a bit of blood on…
Chapter 21
Uncle Donald worked fast when he had something to do.
Chapter 22
"This is familiar," Martin Tull said. "You, me, a murder…
Chapter 23
A week went by, a week in which nothing happened.
Chapter 24
They finally agreed on Wednesday, after school. Jackie and Tess…
Chapter 25
Tess hated all seafood. Crab hated her back. One bite,…
Chapter 26
Tess's driving proved to be the least of Judith's concerns,…
Chapter 27
Chase Pearson's office in Annapolis was far grander than Tess…
Chapter 28
They took Pearson's car, the sleek little 911 Porsche of…
Epilogue
The unseasonably beautiful summer had finally yielded to something more…
About the Author
When years without number
like days of another summer
had turned into air there
once more was a street that had never
forgotten the eyes of its child
W.S. Merwin, "Another Place"
Prologue
Five years ago…
He was deep in his favorite dream, the one about Annie, when he thought he heard the scratchy sound of pebbles on his window pane. Snick, snick, snick. No, he had been the one who had thrown the pebbles against Annie's window, so many years ago, back on Castle Street. Then he would sing, when he saw her pull back the curtain: "Buffalo girl, won't you come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight." And she did.
What a skinny, long-legged girl she had been, creeping down the fire escape in her bare feet, high-heeled shoes stuck in the pockets of her dress, bright red birds sticking out their long necks. "Patch pockets," she had said when he had marveled at them. He marveled at everything about her—the white rickrack she sewed along the hem and neckline of her dress to give it what she called pizzazz, her heart-shaped face, the hollow at the base of her throat, where he hung a heart-shaped locket.
No matter how many times she crawled down that fire escape to meet him, she always hesitated on that final step, about a half-story above the ground, as if she were scared of falling. But he knew she was a little scared of him, of loving him, of what it meant for a young, high-spirited girl to love a man so serious and solemn. She would hang, the toes of her bare feet curling in fear as she swung above the street, and he would laugh, he couldn't help himself, at that skinny long-legged girl swinging above Castle Street. His Annie. "The prince is supposed to take a girl to a castle, but you already live on one," he used to tell her. "Where am I going to take you, Princess?" He promised to take her to Europe, to Jamaica, to New York City. In the end he had taken her the five blocks to Fairmount Avenue, with a week at Virginia Beach every August.
Snick, snick, snick.
But that was forty years ago and Annie was dead, almost ten years now, and he was alone in their bed. The little burst of noise at his window must be a tree branch, or sleet on the pane. But there were precious few trees on Fairmount Avenue and it was early June, June third. Even half-asleep he knew the calendar to the day, knew which numbers had come in, because he always wrote them on that day's date. 467 on the Pick Three, 4526 on the Pick Four, which he had straight for $350. His lucky day. But that was yesterday. He had already collected on the ticket down at the Korean's. He would have to check his dream book in the morning, see what the number was for a lost love, for a heart, for the color red.
Snick, snick, snick. Then a thicker sound, one he recognized immediately, the now all too familiar sound of breaking glass. Window glass, straight below him—no, a windshield this time. The sound shattered what was left of his sleep, his dream, his Annie.
Those damn kids, the ones from over on Fayette. Well, no more, he resolved, then said it out loud. "No more."
He kept his gun in his bottom bureau drawer, in a nest of single socks he held on to, because their mates might show up one day. They made for good cleaning rags, too, slip one over your hand and dust the woodwork. The bullets were with his never-worn cufflinks, in the tiny drawers on either side of the old-fashioned chifforobe. He loaded the gun with care, not rushing. After all, they weren't rushing. When those kids got started, they took their sweet time, knowing no one would call the police, and it wouldn't matter if they did. Everyone in the neighborhood, so scared of those little kids, and the cops so indifferent it could make you cry. "It's just property," they said, every time he called. Not their property, though. Just his car, his radio, his windows, his front door. His, his, his.
He moved slowly down the staircase in the dark, huffing a little. Lord, he was getting fat, he'd have to start p
utting skim milk on his cereal. Nasty stuff, skim milk, not much more than white water. But a man had to do what a man had to do. John Wayne had said that, he was pretty sure. Saw that movie with Annie in the old Hippodrome theater, or maybe the Mayfair. One of those. It was hard to hold on to your memories with any exactitude the way the city kept tearing things down. And the things the city didn't tear down just fell down all by themselves. He and Annie had gone dancing afterward, he was sure of that, over on Pennsylvania Avenue.
When he came out on the stoop, the children were too engrossed in their nightly game of destruction to pay him any heed. They dragged sticks along the sides of the parked cars, methodically kicked in the headlamps and banged the fenders with rocks. Eventually, he knew, they would break all the windows, then steal the radios, if the radios were worth stealing. Those who didn't have a good sound system in their cars were rewarded with ripped upholstery, garbage on the floor, dog shit on the seats.
The marble steps were cool and slick beneath his bare feet. He missed the bottom one, falling to the sidewalk with an embarrassing dull, heavy sound, a too-ripe apple dropping to the ground. Startled, the children looked up from their work. When they saw it was him, they laughed.
"You go inside, old man," said the skinny one, the one who always did all the talking. "You need your sleep so you'll be ready for all that napping you have to do tomorrow."
The short, chubby one laughed at this great wit, and the others joined in. There were five of them, all foster kids living with that young Christian couple. Nice as could be, well intentioned but they couldn't do a damn thing with these kids. Couldn't even keep them in nice clothes. Just kept taking kids in and watching helplessly as they ran wild. The skinny one, the chubby one, the boy-and-girl twins, and the new one, the scrawny one who always needed someone to tell him to wipe his nose. Yeah, that was the one thing these anticrime streetlights were good for, letting you get a good look at the criminals as they went about their work.
"This is gonna stop," he said. "It's gonna stop right now."
They laughed even harder at this, at this pitiful old man sitting on the ground, telling them what to do. Then they unloaded everything they had in their hands, pitching rocks, sticks, and soda cans at him. He didn't try to cover his face or head, just sat there and let their trash shower down on him. When all the rocks and sticks had been flung, when they had shouted the last crude thing they could think of—it was then, only then, that he showed them the gun.
"Shit, old man, you ain't gonna use that," the skinny one said, but he didn't seem as cocky as before.
"That what you think?" He fired straight up, into the sky.
"He's gonna kill us. He's gonna kill us all," the girl screamed and began running. She was fast, that girl, faster than the rest, although her twin was almost as fast. The two of them were at the end of the block and turning north before he knew what was happening. The chubby one took off then, while the tall, skinny one tugged at the littlest one, the snot-nose one, who seemed frozen not so much in fear as in open-mouthed stupidity.
"C'mon, Donnie," the skinny one pleaded, yanking at his arm. "The old man's got a gun. He ain't messing with us this time."
Snot-nose hesitated for a moment, then began heading toward the corner in a clumsy, loping stride, more or less keeping even with Skinny's long-legged sprint. He could have caught them, if he wanted. Instead, he fired again, then again, the gun a living thing in his hand, separate and apart from him. A car was turning onto Fairmount as they ran, someone raised a window and shouted to stop all the noise down there, and there was a backfire, a young boy's voice screaming, another backfire, and the gun just kept shooting. The noises all jumbled together, he couldn't tell which had come first. The littlest one stumbled and fell, and now the skinny one was screaming, high and thin like a girl.
And then the street was empty, except for a crumpled little pile of clothes near the corner.
He looked at the gun, still held out at shoulder height in his strangely steady right hand, but quiet now. He was waiting for something to happen, then realized it already had.
He went inside and put the gun beneath a pile of quilts on the floor in Annie's closet, a door he seldom opened. He grabbed his broom and his dustpan, put on some shoes to protect his feet. By the time the police and the paramedics arrived, he was almost done sweeping up the broken glass from in front of his house. Wouldn't you know, this would be the one time they would get here so fast, when he had so much to do.
"Give me a minute," he said, and the police officers, speechless for once, waited as his broom hunted down the last few bits of glass and trash on his little patch of Fairmount.
"Okay," he said, leaning the broom and dustpan against the stoop, knowing he would never see them again. "I guess I'm ready."
Chapter 1
Tess Monaghan's blotter-size appointment calendar was the largest, whitest space she had ever contemplated. Thirty boxes of June days, vast as the Siberian steppes, stretching across her desk until it seemed as if there were room for nothing else. She thought she might go blind staring at it, yet she couldn't tear her gaze away. Thirty perfect squares, all awaiting things to do and places to go, and only today's, the fourth, had a single mark on it:
9:30: Beale
10:30: Browne
(SuperFresh: Dog food)
There was also a doodle in the lower left-hand corner, which she thought a pretty good likeness of a man in a wheelchair taking a long roll off a short pier. In terrible taste, of course, unless one recognized the man as her erstwhile employer, Tyner Gray, in which case the drawing took on a droll charm.
She had told Tyner that June wasn't the right time to open her own office, but he had pushed and nagged as usual, promising enough work from his law office to carry her through those early dry months. At her darker moments—this one would qualify—she believed all he had really wanted was to free up a desk for his summer clerk.
Well, she had only opened for business last week. One expected things to be a little slow just after Memorial Day weekend. Then again, July and August would be quieter still, as most of Baltimore escaped to Ocean City and the Delaware beaches.
"But not us, Esskay. We're working girls," she told her greyhound, who was doing a fair imitation of a Matisse odalisque from her post on the lumpy mauve sofa. "The Pink Nude." No, "The Black, Hairy Nude with the Pinkish Belly." A one-time racer, Esskay was now a world-champion napper, putting in about eighteen hours a day between the sofa here and the bed at home. Esskay could afford to sleep. She didn't have overhead.
Overhead—now there was a wonderfully apt word. Tess was over her head all right, deep in debt and sinking a little more each day. So far, her Quicken accounting program showed only outgo at Tess Monaghan, Inc., technically Keyes Investigations, Inc. The business took its name from a retired city cop whose credential was essential if Tess wanted to operate as a licensed private detective in the state of Maryland. She had never actually met Edward Keyes, who put in the incorporation papers in return for a small percentage of her profits. She hoped he was a patient man.
But now her first prospective client, a Mr. Beale, was due in ten minutes. She suspected he would be pathologically punctual, given that he had literally tried to be here yesterday. He had called just after eight the night before, as if his need for a private detective were a craving that required instant gratification. Tess, who had stayed late in a futile attempt to make her new office look more officelike, wasn't in a position to turn down any client, but she thought it wiser to let this one stew in his own juices overnight. Or unstew, as the case may be. Beale had sounded the slightest bit drunk over the phone, his words pronounced with the elaborate care of the inebriated. Tess had given him a nine-thirty appointment, after much ostentatious fretting about the havoc it would wreak in her busy, busy day. Yes indeed, she had cut her morning workout by almost thirty minutes, rowing her Alden racing shell only as far as Fort McHenry.
Last night, in the almost-summer twilight,
the office had looked clean and professional, a few easy touches away from being a first-class operation. Today, with bright sun slanting through the plate glass window, it looked like what it was—the bottom floor of a too-often-renovated rowhouse in one of the iffier blocks on Butchers Hill. Almost 100 years old, the building had long ago buckled with fatigue, its linoleum floors rippling like tide pools, the doors and the jambs barely on speaking terms. Eggshell paint, even three coats, could only do so much.
If Tess had more money, she might have done better by the old storefront, bringing in real furniture instead of family castoffs. Of course, if she had more money she would have taken a better place in a better neighborhood, a bonafide office with wooden floors, exposed brick walls, maybe a harbor view. In nicer surroundings, her junk could have achieved funk status. Here, it was just junk.
Her Aunt Kitty's office-warming gift of framed family photographs, seemingly so whimsical and inspired, only made things worse. What type of businesswoman had a tinted photograph of herself smeared with chocolate, holding fast to the neck of a coin-operated flying rabbit while her grandmother tried to pry her off? Impulsively, Tess yanked this off the wall, only to be reminded that the enlarged photo hid the small wall safe, where her gun rested in solitary confinement. Petty cash would be housed there, too, as soon as she had some.
A hand rapped at the door, with such force it sounded as if it might crash through the glass pane at its center. Eager-beaver Beale, ten minutes early by the neon "It's Time for a Haircut" barbershop clock that hung on the wall, another contribution from her aunt. "Come in," Tess shouted over her shoulder, looking around quickly to see if there was anything else she could hang over the safe. The doorknob rattled impatiently, reminding her that she kept it locked, a sad but necessary precaution in Butchers Hill.
Butchers Hill Page 1
