No Good Deeds

by Laura Lippman

  "What he really needs is a home-cooked meal, something that will stick to his ribs. I was thinking lamb stew, some chipotle muffins." He was trying to soften her up, naming two of her favorite dishes. It was working.

  "Okay. To dinner. I'm not guaranteeing him a bed for the night. I get to reserve judgment on that until I meet him."

  "Tess, I'm not the naïf you like to make me out to be. I've got some street sense."

  "Of course you do," she said, but her assurances rang hollow even to her.

  She pushed her way into the ladies' room. This, too, had been upgraded, the once institutional green-and-peach color scheme replaced with gleaming stainless steel and stark white tiles. A young woman, the multinational brunette from the presentation, leaned toward her lovely reflection, inspecting her invisible pores, her nonexistent lines. Asian? Black? Latina? Possibly all three.

  "Your talk was fascinating," she said when she caught Tess's eye in the mirror. "Completely opened up my mind to new ways of reporting."

  Tess wanted to take the compliment, but the gushing was too rote.

  "Please don't suck up. It makes me nervous."

  "That's refreshing," the girl said, returning her gaze to her own face. "The men around here can't get enough smoke blown up their butts. I tell you, it's exhausting."

  Tess laughed with relief. Here was the smart-aleck attitude she remembered, the coarse vocabulary she expected from journalists.

  "I'm rotten with names. You're…"

  "Marcy. Marcy Appleton." Tess tried not to smile. It was such a hilariously all-American, blond-cheerleader name. The girl's accent was midwestern, too, with broad o's and a's. "I cover federal courts."

  "You really want to do investigative stuff?"

  "It's the most prestigious thing you can do here, now that they're consolidating the national bureaus throughout the chain. And everyone knows that the foreign bureaus will go next. Which sucks, because I came here banking on a post in Asia. I'm fluent in Mandarin, and I traveled throughout the region between college and grad school. Know who they sent to cover the tsunami? Thomas H. T. Melville III, who's barely mastered English."

  "He's…"

  "The idiot who started to ask you what it felt like to kill someone."

  Marcy paused, took a pot of gloss from her purse, and rubbed it gently over her lips. Apparently she wanted to know, too, but was too polite to ask outright. Tess opened her own leather satchel and revealed the Beretta that she always kept at hand.

  "I didn't always carry this. Now I do."

  The girl nodded. She was perhaps six or seven years younger than Tess, but she seemed to be from another generation or perhaps even a different species, one characterized by boundless confidence and self-esteem. "And I guess you don't use it as a figure of speech anymore. It would be impossible to say ‘I want to kill so-and-so' once you've done it literally."

  "Yeah," Tess said absently. "Yeah." She was thinking, Actually, I want to kill my boyfriend.

  "There was one thing you said—about the Youssef case—that didn't exactly track for me."

  "Yes?" Tess suddenly didn't feel as kindly inclined toward the girl.

  "The federal courthouse is my beat, although all the boys keep trying to bigfoot me on the story. Only nothing's coming out. It's not the most leak-happy place under any circumstances, but the discipline on the Youssef murder is remarkable. I can't get the feds to speak, even off the record, about what a piss-poor job the Howard County cops are doing, and I can't get the Howard County cops to say anything about what the feds should or shouldn't be doing."

  "The old divide-and-conquer technique, huh?"

  "Exactly. You were probably a good reporter in your day."

  "Merely adequate. But the closemouthed atmosphere you're describing—that only supports my theory, right?"

  "I suppose so." Marcy frowned. She really was lovely. With a face like that, she probably wasn't used to not getting what she wanted from men, and the federal bureaucracy was dominated by men, although the acting U.S. attorney was a woman. "The thing is, Youssef was a flirt. I always thought he was kind of hitting on me. But, you know, it would have been unethical to act on it. He was a source."

  "And married."

  "Oh, yeah," Marcy said, although this seemed a secondary concern to her. The paper's ethics policy probably didn't cover adultery, just sex with sources. "Still, he definitely had an eye for women."

  "Good cover for a closeted man, don't you think? They can be the worst Lotharios of all. Or maybe he was bi. Or his killer could have been a female prostitute. His wife was eight months pregnant at the time. The particulars remain the same. It was vicious, it was personal—and no one wants to talk about it."

  "Maybe," Marcy said. "I don't know. In the end it's so hard to know what goes on in anyone's head."

  "Keep that kind of talk within these walls. Out there never admit that you don't know anything. They don't."

  Emerging from the sanctuary of the ladies' room, Tess almost tripped over a lurking man, a whey-faced middle-aged version of the young comers she had been instructing all day. Introduced to him that morning, Tess had already forgotten his name, but she retained his bio: a new assistant managing editor, imported from Dallas just a few months ago, according to Feeney. Rumor was that he had been installed by corporate with orders to gut the newsroom budget. When that was accomplished, he would be rewarded with the top job.

  "Initial feedback on your presentation was very positive," he said. He had that unfortunate bad breath that nothing can mask, so it ends up being bad breath with a minty, medicinal overlay. "The reporters said you had lots of insight into out-of-the-box thinking."

  "I hope no one actually said ‘out of the box.' Or if they did, they were promptly fired."

  "We're a union paper, we can't fire anyone," the editor said, wringing his hands mournfully. Hector Callahan, that was his name. Hector-the-Nonprotector. Hector-the-Nonprotector-Complete-with-Pocket-Protector-Who-Liked-to-Talk-About-News-Vectors. Tess was training herself to use rhymes as mnemonic devices.

  "I was joking."

  "Oh." He looked puzzled, as if jokes were an archaic social custom. "You know, I think that there could be a place for you here. On staff. Well, not on staff—we couldn't offer benefits—but on retainer, as a consultant."

  Here was the offer that Tess had dreaded, the one she must sidestep adroitly if she was going to turn this into a traveling gig throughout the chain's holdings.

  "That would create all sorts of conflicts of interest for me. Few clients are going to feel comfortable working with a private investigator who also works for the local newspaper."

  "But if we did it on a case-by-case basis—the Youssef matter, for example. If you, as a private detective, fleshed out your theory—did some actual legwork to verify your…um, suppositions—and brought that report to the newspaper, then we could report your findings."

  "You mean, I could be the messenger that everyone wants to shoot and the paper could claim it was just reporting what someone else said. It would be an ingenious way of advancing a salacious story—and then the paper could promptly back off, throw me to the dogs if I made even the tiniest mistake. Have your dirt and make me eat it, too."

  "Being on retainer for the paper would be a steady source of income that would help you weather the…um, droughts endemic to small businesses such as yours."

  He said "small businesses" as if the very concept were distasteful, as if it smelled as rotten as his breath.

  "You sound almost as if you know something of my finances, Hector." She managed, just, not to add the rest of the rhyme now bouncing in her head. Hector the Nonprotector / Likes to Talk about News Vectors / Does he have a brain, this Hector? / That is simply mere conjecture.

  He smiled, expelling another puff of minty-bad breath.

  "We do know how to do some basic investigative work. Just think about it, Miss Monaghan. Don't be so hasty. Don't make your decision now. Think about it, sleep on it."

 
; Somewhere in Tess's brain, a cautionary voice reminded her to count to ten, to wait before saying the words springing so automatically to her lips. But the voice was too faint, too weak. Sentences were already forming and heading out into the world, as impossible to marshal as the wind.

  "You know, whenever anyone tells me to think about a proposition, he—and it's almost always a he, come to think of it—seems to disregard the fact that I have thought about it. Thought about it, considered it from every angle, and rejected it. So no, I'm not going to think about it. You don't need a PI on retainer. You need to devote more resources to hiring experienced reporters who can do the kind of investigative journalism you want, or else come to terms with the fact that you're putting out a piece-of-shit newspaper that's interested only in its bottom line."

  Hector backed away from Tess, then turned and, in his haste to escape from this Cassandra-like creature, caromed off the wall with a loud thud, righted himself, and limped into the newsroom, favoring his left hip.

  "What was that noise?" Marcy asked, coming out of the bathroom, hands smoothing her silky brown hair.

  "Me, derailing my own gravy train."

  4

  Gabe Dalesio debated whether he would need a coat to dash over to the courthouse for the 3:00 P.M. initial-appearances hearing, running through the pros and cons with the same swift analysis he brought to everything he did. Pro: There was snow on the ground. Con: The snow had pretty much stopped. Pro: It was still cold. Con: If he stopped at the smoking pad afterward, the men who smoked—the DEA agents, Customs, ATF, even IRS—almost never wore top-coats, no matter how bitter the day, and Gabe wouldn't want to look like a pussy. Six months in, he was still enough of a newbie to worry about the impression he made on the guys. If he could only impress them, maybe they would start bringing him cases and he wouldn't have to play second goddamn chair on other AUSA's cases. The smoking pad was usually a reliable place for nicotine freaks to bond, but he had yet to make a single real friend.

  If only the boss smoked. That would be a golden opportunity. But the interim U.S. attorney was a pinch-faced, uncharmable woman. Lesbo? Gabe didn't automatically assume that a woman was gay just because she was immune to what all his female relatives had long assured him was a completely irresistible charm. Still, one had to consider the possibility. He almost hoped for her sake that she was, because he couldn't imagine what kind of man would want to be with her. Fugly bitch.

  He left his coat in his office, a decision he regretted when he felt the air. He regretted it more when he finished the mind-numbing routine of extraditing the lowlife of the day and saw that two middle-aged secretaries were the only people on the slice of patio allotted to the federal courthouse's smokers. They welcomed Gabe nicely enough, and he flashed his boyish smile. Force of habit. Besides, secretaries were always worth sucking up to, although these two didn't seem particularly interested in him. Perfunctory greetings exchanged, they turned back to their conversation, which centered on what they had done over the weekend.

  Weekend talk—that was the mark of going-nowhere losers in Gabe's head, people who were always talking about their weekends, either the one just past or the one about to come. It was why he had been such a bad fit in Albuquerque with all those outdoorsy types, whose jobs seemed to exist only to support their skiing and hiking habits. That and the fact that he didn't speak any Spanish beyond sí and huevos rancheros, and he couldn't give a shit about immigration casework. Gabe didn't even like three-day weekends, feeling they disrupted the rhythm of work. January and February had been a bitch for just that reason. The Christmas holidays finally over, all he had wanted to do was work, get some traction, and here came Martin Luther King Day and then Presidents' Day. The city even took a holiday for Lincoln's birthday, which he found totally bush. But then he found everything about Baltimore bush league.

  Gabe wasn't a monk. If he met a woman worth dating, he'd take her out to a restaurant, try to extract the reasonable quid pro quo. (And any woman who said she didn't operate on a sliding scale, who claimed to behave no differently whether it was the Double-T Diner or Charleston, was lying through her teeth.) He went to the gym, sometimes took in a Ravens game, although the brokers' prices were steep and he couldn't accept anything from anyone. The ethics policy for federal prosecutors was about as strict as they come: Nothing from nobody. They couldn't even accept freebies to redistribute to orphans, for Christ's sake. But Gabe was cool with that. He wasn't consciously preparing himself for Senate confirmation down the road, but he'd be ready just in case. His life was going to be so clean it squeaked.

  Besides, what was wrong with dreaming big? You had to be able to envision something in order to achieve it. Once, he had read this interview with the guy who did the Dilbert cartoon, and he said he had used visualization techniques, that self-actualization thing where you write down what you want every day, over and over again. Gabe had been a little scared to try the writing-down part—it would be too embarrassing if someone found those hopeful sentences, as damning as a teenage girl twining her initials with some boy's—but yes, in his mind he pictured himself in the robes of the federal judiciary. Look, someone had to be a federal judge. Why not him?

  He took one last greedy drag, staring balefully at the ridiculous piece of modern art on the tiny patch of courthouse lawn. It was Gabe's understanding that the twisty piece of orange, blue, and yellow metal had long been the unchallenged title holder for ugliest piece of public art in Baltimore, but it had gained some serious competition from a towering man-woman figure outside the train station. That hermaphrodite monstrosity had been the first thing Gabe had seen when he made the trip down from New Jersey for his job interview, this giant male-female of steel, with a pulsing purple-blue light where the heart should be. It completely dwarfed the train station. Gabe was no philistine, but what message was such a statue trying to send? Welcome to Baltimore, the capital of androgyny. Welcome to Baltimore, the land of hollow people. Welcome to Baltimore, pre-op tranny capital of the world, where you can't tell the men from the women. The last was kind of true, actually.

  Gabe had been lured to Baltimore by the former U.S. attorney, a gungho guy who spoke passionately of nailing corrupt public officials, who dangled the bait of vast conspiracies and career-making casework. An Italian-American, he had bonded with Gabe over their loathing of The Sopranos, The Godfather, and every other guido stereotype. Truth was, Gabe sort of liked mob shows, not that he was the kind of guy to park himself in front of the television on a regular basis. Anyway, he was only half Italian. His mother was German-Irish. She had the Irish charm, if not the German mania for cleanliness, and her emotions ran as freely as water. Meanwhile his Italian dad was as starchy and reticent as any WASP, a shirt-and-tie civil servant. So Gabe could, and did, play his identity numerous ways—Horatio Alger boy made good, solid middle-class citizen used to creature comforts, arm-waving Italian, poetic Irishman, orderly German. Some people might call that phoniness, but Gabe considered his ability to fit in with others a social nicety. He didn't lie, not exactly. He just played up whatever part of himself made others feel comfortable.

  He put his cigarette out in the ceramic container, one of those overdesigned contraptions intended to be mildly decorative. Someone made that, Gabe thought, although probably not in this country. That was someone's job, poor bastard. Most people had jobs like that. Meaningless, disposable, of no import. Whatever his frustrations, his work mattered. He never lost sight of that.

  He checked his watch and realized he needed to get to the staff meeting. An oddity, scheduled for day's end on a Monday instead of a Friday, suggesting that it might actually be about something. But whatever the topic, it would circle back to the Youssef case. All the meetings did.

  He arrived for the 4:30 P.M. meeting at exactly 4:29. Punctual but busy, that was the message to send. Show up five minutes early and everyone wondered why you were so free. One second after the boss, and you were toast. With the calculation that Gabe brought to everything at
work, he chose a seat in the middle of the room, one where he could make eye contact with the boss but also steal looks at Lombard Street if it got too deadly dull.

  He listened attentively, looking for opportunities to contribute, but only if he could be original, meaningful. No talking for talking's sake. Still, no matter how on point Gabe was, he never seemed to earn more than an impatient frown. The boss woman just wasn't in his corner. True, she hadn't hired him and she wasn't here for the long term, but her indifference bothered Gabe. Why didn't she like him? He was good and eager and hardworking. In his head he was a rising star, and his inability so far to persuade others of that fact had been the biggest shock of his postcollege life. After a lackluster year with a Wall Street firm, he decided the federal system would be more of a meritocracy, less inclined to be impressed by prestigious law schools and things like law review. Albuquerque had been okay, but Baltimore was supposed to be closer to the center of things, especially terrorism. So he came back east, only to find out that they now thought Al Qaeda was infiltrating Mexico. Gabe never seemed to be in the right place at the right time.

  The meeting was just a regular staff meeting, a nuts-and-bolts thing, but the boss lady did bring up Youssef at the end.

  "I know you don't want anyone in this office to talk to the press about Greg," said one of the more senior prosecutors, a woman on whom the boss just doted, Terri Hamm. She got the hot cases, the big drug dealers, the gang members who were getting federal death-penalty sentences. Again, it was a matter of having the connections, of knowing the agents who would bring you the good stuff. Youssef had been doing a lot of those cases before he moved to antiterrorism.

  "I don't want anyone in the office to talk to the press, period," Gail said, and everyone laughed dutifully. A joke, but not.

  "The thing is, that lets the Howard detectives off the hook, because no one's calling them on what a shitty job they've done. And the less that's said, the more people on talk radio feel free to indulge in wild speculation, some of which leads right back to this office. We look awful, through no fault of our own."