write-ups
just two months ago in both the Washington Post and the Washington Times ,
probably the only thing those two papers have ever agreed on. But
neither article mentioned what happened in Baltimore five years ago.
Chances are the reporters didn't make the connection and the
Nelsons didn't volunteer it."
"Maybe they figured they might not
get such big grants if they admitted a kid got killed in their
care."
"Look, they didn't
exactly give him permission to go out at two a.m., breaking
windshields." Feeney flipped through the pages of his
reporter's notebook. "I dug up an address on Donnie
Moore's mom—she tried to file a civil action
against Beale while he was in prison, figuring she could attach his
pension and Social Security. Here it is—she's in
those projects they're about to blow up, over on the west
side."
Tess made another note on her legal pad,
copying the address scrawled on the inside cover of Feeney's
reporter's notebook.
"What happened to her
lawsuit?"
"She settled. It was sealed, but
word around the courthouse was she ended up with less than five figures
after her lawyer took his cut. It's a little ugly, how they
do the math in these cases. Donnie Moore's worth was
calculated on his future earning potential."
"Damn, I wonder what I'd
be worth according to that formula."
"Hell, Tess, they'd get
more for you if they sold you for parts." Feeney cackled at
his own joke.
"Thanks. You want to get together
for dinner sometime soon?"
"Maybe later this summer.
I'm taking four weeks off. I've got so much
vacation banked they're ordering me to take some of
it."
"Where you headed?"
Feeney looked embarrassed.
"California. My sister lives in Long Beach and I
haven't seen her daughters for three years. We're
going to do some family junk together. Go to the zoo down in San Diego,
stuff like that, then I'm going to head into Baja by myself,
sit on the beach and drink. You ever been there? Beautiful, beautiful
place."
Tess wasn't distracted by his
babbling about Baja. "Feeney, are you going to Disneyland
with your nieces?"
He nodded, mortified. The phone rang and he
grabbed it, shouting into the phone in glad relief: "Yeah?
Well, fuck you too, Bunky. You know, if I wanted shit from you,
I'd squeeze your head."
Tess waved good-bye, still grinning at the
idea of Feeney and his nieces bobbing through the Pirates of the
Caribbean, Feeney with the animatronic Lincoln, Feeney being accosted
by various Disney characters, who would be drawn like a magnet to his
surly countenance. If only she could obtain photographic evidence, the
extortion potential alone would allow her to retire.
The main office at Gwynn's Falls
Middle School was in a figurative and almost literal
meltdown—sweaty miscreants lined up outside the vice
principal's office, all the phone lines lit up, and the air
conditioner on the fritz. Tess, who had been called in by the vice
principal a time or two during her own middle school days, felt guilty
and paranoid just standing in the midst of this bedlam, as if the
unpunished sins of her youth might suddenly come to light.
"Can I help you?" The
harried secretary at the front desk didn't bother to make eye
contact with Tess and her clipped words made it clear that she hoped
she couldn't help.
"I'm trying to get some
information about one of your former students."
Tess was nonchalant, as if it were perfectly
routine for some stranger to request a student's record, but
the secretary was having none of it. A black woman with dyed blond
hair, grass-green eyes, and a crumpled linen dress of a tropical
pattern with glints of both colors, she stared at Tess as if trying to
match her to some of the faces she had seen on the wall during her last
trip to the post office.
"I take it you're not a
parent."
Tess considered lying, but decided she
wouldn't get away with it. She hadn't seen a single
white student in the office, nor in the school's gloomy
corridors. "No, I'm a private investigator
who's been
just two months ago in both the Washington Post and the Washington Times ,
probably the only thing those two papers have ever agreed on. But
neither article mentioned what happened in Baltimore five years ago.
Chances are the reporters didn't make the connection and the
Nelsons didn't volunteer it."
"Maybe they figured they might not
get such big grants if they admitted a kid got killed in their
care."
"Look, they didn't
exactly give him permission to go out at two a.m., breaking
windshields." Feeney flipped through the pages of his
reporter's notebook. "I dug up an address on Donnie
Moore's mom—she tried to file a civil action
against Beale while he was in prison, figuring she could attach his
pension and Social Security. Here it is—she's in
those projects they're about to blow up, over on the west
side."
Tess made another note on her legal pad,
copying the address scrawled on the inside cover of Feeney's
reporter's notebook.
"What happened to her
lawsuit?"
"She settled. It was sealed, but
word around the courthouse was she ended up with less than five figures
after her lawyer took his cut. It's a little ugly, how they
do the math in these cases. Donnie Moore's worth was
calculated on his future earning potential."
"Damn, I wonder what I'd
be worth according to that formula."
"Hell, Tess, they'd get
more for you if they sold you for parts." Feeney cackled at
his own joke.
"Thanks. You want to get together
for dinner sometime soon?"
"Maybe later this summer.
I'm taking four weeks off. I've got so much
vacation banked they're ordering me to take some of
it."
"Where you headed?"
Feeney looked embarrassed.
"California. My sister lives in Long Beach and I
haven't seen her daughters for three years. We're
going to do some family junk together. Go to the zoo down in San Diego,
stuff like that, then I'm going to head into Baja by myself,
sit on the beach and drink. You ever been there? Beautiful, beautiful
place."
Tess wasn't distracted by his
babbling about Baja. "Feeney, are you going to Disneyland
with your nieces?"
He nodded, mortified. The phone rang and he
grabbed it, shouting into the phone in glad relief: "Yeah?
Well, fuck you too, Bunky. You know, if I wanted shit from you,
I'd squeeze your head."
Tess waved good-bye, still grinning at the
idea of Feeney and his nieces bobbing through the Pirates of the
Caribbean, Feeney with the animatronic Lincoln, Feeney being accosted
by various Disney characters, who would be drawn like a magnet to his
surly countenance. If only she could obtain photographic evidence, the
extortion potential alone would allow her to retire.
The main office at Gwynn's Falls
Middle School was in a figurative and almost literal
meltdown—sweaty miscreants lined up outside the vice
principal's office, all the phone lines lit up, and the air
conditioner on the fritz. Tess, who had been called in by the vice
principal a time or two during her own middle school days, felt guilty
and paranoid just standing in the midst of this bedlam, as if the
unpunished sins of her youth might suddenly come to light.
"Can I help you?" The
harried secretary at the front desk didn't bother to make eye
contact with Tess and her clipped words made it clear that she hoped
she couldn't help.
"I'm trying to get some
information about one of your former students."
Tess was nonchalant, as if it were perfectly
routine for some stranger to request a student's record, but
the secretary was having none of it. A black woman with dyed blond
hair, grass-green eyes, and a crumpled linen dress of a tropical
pattern with glints of both colors, she stared at Tess as if trying to
match her to some of the faces she had seen on the wall during her last
trip to the post office.
"I take it you're not a
parent."
Tess considered lying, but decided she
wouldn't get away with it. She hadn't seen a single
white student in the office, nor in the school's gloomy
corridors. "No, I'm a private investigator
who's been
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