Charm City

Chapter 28

The first thing Tess noticed when Lea Wynkowski opened her front door the next morning was that damn gold bracelet on her wrist-even though Lea was still in her robe and nightgown at 11 A.M., her brown hair sticking up in tufts all over her head. She apparently had gone from the insomnia stage of grief to the sleep-all-the-time stage, a progression of sorts.

"Tooch said I should stop talking to people, people I don't really know," she said nervously, fiddling with the bracelet.

I bet he did. "This is important, Lea. I think your husband was murdered, but I need your help to figure out why, and who did it."

Lea twisted the bracelet around her slender wrist, staring at it as if it were a crystal ball that might reveal the right answers if you turned it often enough, in just the right way.

"I don't know," she sighed. "That newspaper reporter was over here on Saturday and she said the same thing, but I haven't heard back from her."

So she didn't know Rosita-Rosemary; Tess would never get use to Rosita's real, posthumous name-was dead. The television stations, like the newspaper, didn't report a private citizen's private suicide.

"What did she tell you Saturday?"

"Not much. She thought Wink was killed, but she needed proof. So I gave her what she wanted and Tooch was so mad when I told him. You see, I thought it was a good thing if Wink was killed-well, not a good thing, but better, and not just because we'd get the insurance money then. It would have meant he didn't leave us, you know, me and his babies. But Tooch said the reporter was a liar who wanted to make more trouble for us, which is the only reason she wanted it in the first place."

"Wanted what, Lea? What did you give Rosita?"

"The yearbook, the one I showed you." Lea lowered her voice as if there was someone who might overhear her, although there was no evidence of anyone else in the big house. "I cut out that one page first, the one you saw. I was the one who wrote…that word on it. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I hated her so. She didn't deserve all that money. But the reporter might've thought Wink had done it, like you did-so I cut it out and put it down the garbage disposal."

Check enrollment records. Rosita's memo to herself. Schools had closed Friday for spring break, making that difficult, so she had procured the yearbook instead, using it as a shortcut to something, or somebody. But the book hadn't been in Rosita's apartment, Tess was sure of that.

"Do you know if Tooch-Mr. Tucci-went to junior high with Wink?"

"Tooch? No, he went to parochial school before Loyola-calls it his sixteen-year stint in the Catholic penitentiary. The brothers at Mount St. Joe actually beat boys back then." Lea's eyes were wide at this story, which must have seemed as chronologically distant to her as the Industrial Revolution. "Can you imagine, someone hitting little boys?"

Tess could. Worse still, she could imagine what little boys could do back.

Spike was asleep when Tess arrived at the hospital for afternoon visiting hours.

"You can sit with him if you don't pester him," the nurse said. "And if he comes to, don't pester him with questions. The police just about wore him out."

"Fine with me," Tess said. "I don't think he has the answers I'm looking for, anyway."

She stared outside the window, wishing for a brainstorm like the one she had the last time she stood there, staring out over the parking lot and the ambulances. The brainstorm that had gotten Rosita fired. And now Rosita was dead, because of her own brainstorm. Check enrollment records. Tess had gone to the Pratt library, but the usually reliable Maryland Room did not carry junior high year-books. Meanwhile, the school administration offices on North Avenue had closed for spring break along with the schools. Tess was sure if she could only locate someone to ask, she would find that Paul Tucci, despite his proud proclaimations about parochial school education, had attended Rock Glen Junior High through eighth grade with Wink, transferring to Catholic school about the same time Wink had ended up at Montrose-right after the robbery in which the shopkeeper had died. Too bad she didn't feel comfortable confronting Linda Wynkowski so soon after their last meeting. She might know if Tucci were #2-the second boy in that long-ago assault, but one with a well-connected father who could keep him from serving the same sentence meted out to the fatherless Wink.

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 Suspected. 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."

The passenger side door of Whitney's Jeep opened then. Tess, still at ground level, saw a pair of sockless ankles, red and chafed in the wintry night. It was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

"I called 911 on the car phone," Feeney said. "I told them we're going to need an ambulance."

"Feeney," Tess said. "Whitney?" She wondered if she was ever going to speak in complete sentences again, or even lift her arms over her head. But Feeney understood what she was trying to ask.

"When I got the message from you, I thought I could get Whitney to give me a ride in her four-wheel drive, maybe play peacemaker between the two of you and get my big story at the same time. It never occurred to me Whitney's hunting rifle would come in even handier than her Jeep Cherokee."

"You never know when you're going to need a little protection." Whitney raised an eyebrow at Tess, keeping her rifle trained on Sterling. "I believe I tried to tell you that once, back in the sub shop."

Feeney picked up Sterling's gun and held it in his palm a little tentatively, as if it might bite him. Then he pointed it at his boss, now almost unconscious from the loss of blood.

"I've waited my whole life to hold a gun on an editor," he said. "I thought it would feel better than this."

"Speak for yourself," Whitney said, but her voice was shaking.