Charm City

by Laura Lippman

  When Wink’s past was revealed, he must have decided that Tucci should be humiliated as well. Or perhaps he thought Tucci was the source of the stories, that Tucci had set him up in order to force him from the ownership group. It would have been easy enough for Tucci to dose Wink’s drink with Percodan, or whatever he took for his still ailing knee. Even lame, Tucci was big enough to carry a slight guy like Wink to his car, hoist him into the convertible, and wait for the carbon monoxide to work.

  “There’s my girl.” Spike’s brown eyes fluttered as he came to. His speech was slurry and soft, almost as if he had no teeth, but he was awake, he would live.

  Remembering the nurse’s injunction, she didn’t try to ask him anything other than “How do you feel?”

  “Been better.”

  “I found the ears.”

  He looked troubled. “I didn’t want you to.”

  “Yeah, well, when I’m allowed to interrogate you, I want to know more about that.”

  “I’ll tell you everything I told the police.”

  “I’m guessing that’s not much.”

  Spike smiled, closed his eyes, and drifted back to sleep.

  “Good night, Uncle Spike, I gotta go see a man about a dog. One of the human variety.”

  “It’s not a bad theory,” Sterling said cautiously that evening, as Tess paced in his office, running through the scenarios she had concocted in Spike’s hospital room. She could hear the skepticism in his voice, and it hurt. She had counted on him to be the one person who wouldn’t think she was crazy.

  “But not a good one, right?”

  Sterling wasn’t a great liar. Although he tried to smile encouragingly, his eyes made it clear he thought her idea half-baked at best. Tess turned away from him and looked through the glass windows of his office, toward the newsroom. Dusk had fallen and snow was in the forecast again, so deadlines had been moved up, stealing time from the production of the paper in order to ensure its delivery. Consequently, the reporters and editors on the city desk were frenzied, gripped in their own snowstorm panic attack. It didn’t help that they were trying to report on something that hadn’t actually happened yet.

  “You think I’m spinning my wheels, trying to prove Rosita was killed so I can absolve myself in her death,” she said flatly. “You think I should have stayed at the hospital with my Uncle Spike, rather than chasing down a junior high school yearbook.”

  “There’s just not enough solid information to go to the police with your theory yet. You’ll have to wait until schools open Monday to check your hunches. And I’m not sure enrollment records are public information.”

  “Oh, I’d get them somehow. I have an uncle in state government who could always call in a favor. I could have them by tomorrow if I really pushed.”

  Sterling played with a paper clip, twisting it into a straight line, then into a triangle. “There is a way we could make things move even faster, if you’re willing to be a little devious.”

  “Always,” Tess said. “What’s your plan?”

  “You told me Lea cut a page out of the yearbook before she gave it to Rosita. But if Tucci has the book, he doesn’t necessarily know why the page is missing.”

  “So?”

  “Think, Tess. What was Linda’s maiden name?”

  “What is this, the Socratic method? Linda’s maiden name was Stolley.”

  “How many kids fell between Stolley and Tucci in the eighth grade at Rock Glen Junior High?”

  Tess visualized the page. The photos had been small, in order to accommodate five across and eight down, forty in all. Linda had been in the middle of the page. Rock Glen was a big school, there were probably plenty of eighth graders between ST and TU. Still it was possible—plausible, even.

  “So if Tucci thinks that page is hidden somewhere…”

  “He might be interested in getting it back. And even if we’re wrong about his class photo falling on that page, if we’re vague enough, he might think there’s another page cut from the book, which does show his photograph, in some club or something.”

  Tess practically held her breath as Sterling picked up his phone, asked information for the number to the Tuccis’ import-export business, then dialed.

  “Paul Tucci, please,” he said, after what must have been eight or nine rings. “I’m sure he’ll want to take this call. Tell him it’s’…someone from the yearbook committee at his old school. His real old school.”

  Now, this is a man after my own heart, Tess thought happily.

  “Mr. Tucci, I have the yearbook page I think you’ve been looking for. No, I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’d like to make this available to you, for a price. Why don’t we meet and discuss this, sooner rather than later? At the tennis courts in Leakin Park, in an hour. Come alone, Mr. Tucci. You may rest assured, however, that I won’t be alone and I won’t have the page with me, not tonight. It’s in a safe place.” He paused, let Tucci have his say. “Tonight, Mr. Tucci. No second chances.”

  He hung up the phone and Tess could tell he was pleased with himself.

  “I’ll have Lionel call Detective Tull and tell him what we’re up to,” he said. “But not until the last possible minute.”

  “And Feeney,” Tess said. “You should alert him, so he can be in on the story from the first.”

  “No, I’m afraid the police would frown on that. Besides, how would you explain it to Tucci? Feeney will have plenty of time to follow the story. After all, I’m sure at least two of the primary sources will cooperate. Now let me go tell Lionel what we’re up to, and give him Detective Tull’s number.”

  “Sure,” Tess said, studying her wrist the way Lea Wynkowski had, although she had no golden bracelet to twist. It didn’t seem right for Feeney to miss out on this. As soon as Sterling was out of sight, she sat down at his computer, signed on, and sent Feeney a message:

  This is Tess typing. Leakin Park in 30 minutes for the story of your life. SERIOUSLY!!!!!!!!

  The message went through, indicating Feeney’s computer at the courthouse was on, but he didn’t reply. Maybe there was time to page him—

  “Hacking again? I hope you’re not sending messages out under my user name,” Sterling said from the door. His voice was sharp, but he laughed when she jumped.

  “N-no, no messages at all. I was checking the forecast, seeing how bad it’s not going to be.”

  “Just teasing you. Look, Lionel thinks our plan is a little unorthodox, but he’s going to back us up. Says he’ll call the police at the appointed hour. Now, are you a McDonald’s woman, or a Burger King loyalist?”

  “Roy Rogers, pardner.”

  Only a few light flakes had started falling when they pulled into the gravel parking lot off Windsor Mill Road, but that hadn’t kept other drivers from acting as if a fullscale blizzard was laying siege to the city. Roy Rogers had run out of buns—plenty of roast beef and ground beef patties, just no buns to put them on—and Tess had ended up making do with potato salad, while Sterling had settled for baked beans. It wasn’t a half-bad dinner, but her stomach was doing nervous flip-flops, wondering how angry Sterling would be when Feeney showed up. If Feeney showed up—she couldn’t be sure he had seen her message.

  “Let’s have our picnic in the snow,” Tess said, getting out and then climbing up on the trunk of Sterling’s car, a new-looking Honda Accord. She was conscious of testing him, checking to see if he was fussy about his car. She considered that a bad sign in a man.

  Sterling rummaged through the glove compartment, then perched next to her on the trunk.

  “Something to warm you up?” he asked, holding out a small bottle of amber-colored whiskey and a pewter Jefferson cup, the collapsible kind that came in fancy picnic baskets. She and Whitney had used them and a thermos to smuggle mint juleps into the Hunt Cup one year.

  “You drive around with this in your car? I’m shocked, Mr. Sterling, shocked.”

  “You’ve heard of the old newspaper editor with a bottle in
his desk? Well, I have bottles secreted everywhere. My nod to tradition.”

  Tess laughed, reaching for the bottle and cup, silver in the moonlight. Make new friends, but keep the old. Sterling was rubbing his wrist the way he did because of his bouts with carpal tunnel. For some reason, it reminded her of Lea and the way she touched her bracelet, as if it were an amulet that could protect her from harm. One is silver, but the other’s gold. You’re golden, Wink. So Wink had been gold and Tucci was silver. Well, maybe silver plate. It was a stretch to see him as sterling.

  Sterling. He was a good guy. She felt guilty now about ignoring his instructions. What would he say if Feeney did show up? “Look, about Feeney—”

  Sterling tapped the cell phone he kept in his breast pocket, beneath his camel’s hair coat. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him miss the big story. I always put the paper first.”

  Always? Abruptly, Tess dropped the cup and bottle, spilling the drink in her lap while the bottle skittered under the Honda, spilling out the rest of the bourbon before Sterling could retrieve it.

  “Dammit,” he said angrily, then softened his tone. “I’m sorry, it’s just that I tore the knee of my pants leg crawling around on this gravel. And I admit, I was hoping for a little of this, too.”

  “I guess I’m a little nervous. My hands are shaking.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” He opened up his arms as if to embrace her.

  “How do you mean that, exactly?”

  Sterling looked at her strangely.

  “Never mind.” She glanced back at the road to see if there was any traffic—deserted, but there was an apartment complex on the other side, not even 100 yards away.

  “You know, I bet he’s not coming,” she said. “If he’s not here in fifteen minutes, let’s bag this meeting and try it again tomorrow. What do you say?”

  “You are a smart girl,” Sterling said. He reached out and caressed her cheek with his gloved hand, then leaned closer, as if to kiss her.

  “Look, Sterling—” she began. He punched her so hard in the stomach she bent double and fell to the ground, the gravel tearing and scraping her palms.

  “Jesus.” She wasn’t sure if she had spoken out loud, or only cried out in her mind. She tried to rise to all fours, but Sterling kicked her in the ribs, flattening her. On the proper foot, a Bass Weejun could feel like a blackjack.

  “But—I—didn’t—drink,” she panted. And if you didn’t drink the drug-laden drink, you didn’t pass out, and if you didn’t pass out, Jack Sterling couldn’t put you in a running car or toss you from a balcony, then page his star reporter. She had figured that much out. So why was she down on the ground, feeling as if there were small fires burning all over her body—in her knees, on her palms, in her side, on her face?

  “The Jack Daniels did have a little something in it, to slow you down, but three suicides would have been over-kill—if you’ll forgive the expression,” Sterling said, straddling her, digging his heels into her waist as if she were a horse he was trying to break.

  “However, it is plausible you’d be found murdered, Tess. After all, you had that nasty run-in with those kidnappers. It was even written up in the paper, remember? I told you how worried I was that one might come back. I mentioned my fears to others, too—Feeney, Whitney, even Lionel. Lionel couldn’t help noticing how fond I was becoming of you.” He kicked her again in the ribs, then bent down and grabbed the collar of her coat, jerking her head back so hard she thought she might have whiplash.

  Tess could not believe how quickly he moved, how expertly. Then she thought about the West Baltimore shopkeeper, his heart giving way after a boy, a boy who grew up to be this man, whipped a pistol back and forth across his face. Wink could never hurt anyone, Lea had cried. He never hit me back, Linda had sneered. No, Wink’s great shame was that he couldn’t hurt anyone, although he could stand by with the best of them and watch a man die.

  “You were Wink’s accomplice,” she said. Her rib, cracked or broken, made it hard to talk. She felt as if she had tumbled down a long flight of stairs and was still falling. “You’re the one on the yearbook page. If I had seen it again, I would have known you.”

  “Actually, I’m on the facing page. And Raymond Sterling was so fat, with such long hair hanging in his face, you probably wouldn’t have recognized him. But I couldn’t take that chance.”

  “Raymond?” If she hadn’t been in so much pain, she might have laughed.

  “Raymond John Sterling. I started using my middle name after my parents sent me to military school in Indiana. That was the deal my father cut with the judge—military school instead of Montrose. After all, I’d never been in trouble before. Wink was the bad boy. Wink was even bad at being bad—the only time I ever got caught was when I was with Wink. That’s the real difference between bad boys and good boys, you see. Bad boys get caught.”

  She tried to rise again and he pushed her down by stomping on her back with his foot, then squatted over her. His mouth was close to her ear, his voice the soft, encouraging voice of the man she thought she knew. “I have to hit you a few times, Tess, to make it look realistic. Just a few more taps, then I’ll shoot you, I promise. One quick, clean shot in the head, okay?”

  He patted her cheek, then slapped her so hard that her teeth cut the inside of her mouth and blood began dribbling down her face. It was a strange sensation, wet, cold, and hot all mingled on her face.

  “Silver and gold,” she panted, spitting blood with each word. “Sterling and Wink.”

  “Yeah, that’s me,” he replied, not realizing she was still fitting the pieces together. The cell phone in his pocket, and the convenient call to Feeney the night of Wink’s death, making sure the Blight got the story. The edge in his voice, when he’d found her at his computer tonight. He had spoken that roughly to her only once before—the day she’d confessed she had been to see Linda Wynkowski. Turkey sausage on Rosita’s pizza, his constant quest for low-fat food. Little things, but they had come together in one moment of perfect clarity. If only she could have had that moment in a less deserted, better-lighted place.

  Sterling brought a sleek, almost elegant gun out of the pocket of his coat. Even Tess, with her complete ignorance of firearms, knew it was exactly the sort of weapon the greyhound gang would have used on her. Sterling was careful, he thought things out.

  “Rosita?” she asked. God help her, but she really wanted to know.

  “She jumped,” he said. “Honestly. We had been…together for a while, after I first came to the paper. Consenting adults, a no-fault break-up. But she tried to use that to get her job back, said she’d go to Lionel and complain I had harrassed her. Another blackmailer, like Wink. She crawled out on the balcony railing, said she would jump if I didn’t get her reinstated. As if I could, after all she had done.”

  After all she had done?

  “All I want to do is get on with my life,” he said, almost as if he expected some sympathy. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  High beams from an oncoming car swept across the parking lot and Sterling dropped his left hand to his side, so the gun was out of view. Feeney, Tess thought, at once hopeful and despairing. Sterling would simply kill him, too.

  But the car that idled fifty feet away was an expensive utility vehicle, something Feeney wouldn’t be caught dead driving. Tess heard its door open and slam, heard a key clicking in a lock, a trunk’s springs yawning.

  “Fancy meeting you two here.” It was Whitney’s voice, as clear and obnoxiously self-assured as if they’d met at some restaurant or museum.

  “Gun,” Tess said, or tried to say. Her nose was bleeding and her speech was getting gummy and thick. Sterling backed away until his car was between him and Whitney. Tess heard a shot, then a muffled sound of surprise. Jesus, he had killed her. She almost wished she could live long enough to see how Sterling was going to arrange this “accident.” College Roomies in Bizarre Murder-Suicide in Leakin Park/Longtime Relationship Suspecte
d. Both their mothers would die.

  A second shot, much louder than the first. Tess still couldn’t see anything—Whitney’s lights must be on bright, they were so blinding. How had Sterling been able to aim? He hadn’t. Sterling staggered forward, his right hand pressed to his shoulder, where a shiny mass, purple-black in the headlights, was spilling across his camel’s hair coat. He dropped his gun and fell forward.

  “That’s the problem with hunting rifles,” Whitney said, walking toward Sterling, who had joined Tess in the gravel. “They rip the shit out of things at this range. You probably won’t have a tendon left in that shoulder, Sterling. No more squash for you.”

  Sterling didn’t give up easily. He tried to crawl toward his weapon, reaching for it with his right hand. But he was left-handed, and his injury made him clumsy and slow.

  “Oh, Sterling, give me a break.” Whitney cracked the rifle hard against his injured arm, and he screamed again, a pathetic, high-pitched sound. For good measure, or perhaps for the sheer hell of it, Whitney took the butt of the rifle and brought it down hard on Sterling’s nose, breaking it with a fearsome crack almost as loud as the gunshots.

  “It’s very important that you stay still now,” she told him, as if he were a small child and she his babysitter. “I’ve had enough from you.”