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Authors: Laura Lippman
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hired to find this student."
"By a custodial parent?"
The secretary drew out the legal term, cu-sto-di-aaaaaaal, as if to
warn Tess she knew what was what.
"Um, no, but my client does have a
legitimate interest in finding this child."
"Really? How can
anyone—someone who's not a parent, probably not
even a relative—have a legitimate need to find one of our students? If it were the law, you'd
have a badge. If you were from Child Protective Services,
you'd have a state ID. If it's not the law, and
it's not the state, then you're not legitimate and
I don't want you in my school."
Tess decided to pull rank. "Look,
maybe you should just get the principal. This is a sensitive matter, it
requires someone who has authority, and the discretion to use
it."
"I am the principal, Missy, and you're the sensitive matter.
Strangers who walk in off the street are something we take real
seriously around here. Now clear these premises, and don't
come back. If I see you again, I'll have you arrested for
trespassing."
Tess left the way she had always left the
principal's office—head down, cheeks hot, certain
everyone she passed knew of her misdeeds.
Donnie Moore's mother
wasn't at the address Feeney had provided. The apartment had
been taken over by her sister, a spaced-out woman probably ten years
younger than Tess. She might have looked younger, too, if not for crack
cocaine, which had cooked her body down until it was nothing more than
a little skin stretched over some long, knobby bones. Or perhaps her
habit was heroin; she seemed in mid-nod when Tess knocked. Head swaying
dreamily, like one of those plastic dogs you still saw sometimes in the
back of souped-up Chevies, she leaned against the door frame and
directed Tess to a rowhouse on Washington Street.
"Near the hospital?"
"No, farther south." In
her drug-soft mouth, the phrase came out: "Farver
sauf."
"But that's practically
back in Butchers Hill." Tess felt as if she had been driving
all morning, only to find that what she wanted was a few blocks from
her own office.
"Yeah, that's where
Keisha's new house is. Her baby's fahver helped
find it for her." The sister faded out for a second, closing
her eyes. Then her eyes popped open again. "He treats her good ?"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Her baby's
fahver," she corrected. An important distinction, apparently.
"Say hey to her for me, will you? Tell her Tonya says
hey."
"Donna?" Her words were
virtually without consonants, almost impossible to understand.
"Uh-uh. Tone-ya. Like Toni
Braxton, you know, 'cept different. Hey, you know my cousin
know a girl who know one of her sisters, down in Severna Park, where
she's from?"
"A girl knows your
sister?"
"No, she know Toni Braxton. She
says she's really nice, not at all stuck-up. She say she
comes home and sings in the backyard, and they have chicken. They gonna
call me next time she visits." Tonya closed her eyes and
hugged herself, thinking of her private backyard barbecue with Toni
Braxton.
A rat waddled down the sidewalk in front of
Keisha Moore's rowhouse. The house looked neat, but dark, its
windows shut and curtains drawn against the bright sunlight. It had the
feel of a place where everyone was fast asleep, although it was now
almost noon. Tess knocked several times and was about to leave when she
heard footsteps on the stairs.
"What you want?" The
woman who flung open the door wore nothing but a bra and a pair of
baggy athletic shorts. At least, the shorts had been designed to hang
loosely. Her substantial frame filled every fold. She wasn't
fat, really, but big and solid in a way Tess imagined was probably
appealing to most men. Certainly, this wasn't the wasted
frame of an addict.
"Are you Keisha Moore?"
"You from Social
Services?"
"No—" Tess
fumbled with her knapsack, trying to find her wallet and her
P.I.'s license.
"Because I told you, there's no man living here."
"No, really, I'm a
detective."
Poor word choice. "I
ain't done nothing. What the cops want
"By a custodial parent?"
The secretary drew out the legal term, cu-sto-di-aaaaaaal, as if to
warn Tess she knew what was what.
"Um, no, but my client does have a
legitimate interest in finding this child."
"Really? How can
anyone—someone who's not a parent, probably not
even a relative—have a legitimate need to find one of our students? If it were the law, you'd
have a badge. If you were from Child Protective Services,
you'd have a state ID. If it's not the law, and
it's not the state, then you're not legitimate and
I don't want you in my school."
Tess decided to pull rank. "Look,
maybe you should just get the principal. This is a sensitive matter, it
requires someone who has authority, and the discretion to use
it."
"I am the principal, Missy, and you're the sensitive matter.
Strangers who walk in off the street are something we take real
seriously around here. Now clear these premises, and don't
come back. If I see you again, I'll have you arrested for
trespassing."
Tess left the way she had always left the
principal's office—head down, cheeks hot, certain
everyone she passed knew of her misdeeds.
Donnie Moore's mother
wasn't at the address Feeney had provided. The apartment had
been taken over by her sister, a spaced-out woman probably ten years
younger than Tess. She might have looked younger, too, if not for crack
cocaine, which had cooked her body down until it was nothing more than
a little skin stretched over some long, knobby bones. Or perhaps her
habit was heroin; she seemed in mid-nod when Tess knocked. Head swaying
dreamily, like one of those plastic dogs you still saw sometimes in the
back of souped-up Chevies, she leaned against the door frame and
directed Tess to a rowhouse on Washington Street.
"Near the hospital?"
"No, farther south." In
her drug-soft mouth, the phrase came out: "Farver
sauf."
"But that's practically
back in Butchers Hill." Tess felt as if she had been driving
all morning, only to find that what she wanted was a few blocks from
her own office.
"Yeah, that's where
Keisha's new house is. Her baby's fahver helped
find it for her." The sister faded out for a second, closing
her eyes. Then her eyes popped open again. "He treats her good ?"
"Her boyfriend?"
"Her baby's
fahver," she corrected. An important distinction, apparently.
"Say hey to her for me, will you? Tell her Tonya says
hey."
"Donna?" Her words were
virtually without consonants, almost impossible to understand.
"Uh-uh. Tone-ya. Like Toni
Braxton, you know, 'cept different. Hey, you know my cousin
know a girl who know one of her sisters, down in Severna Park, where
she's from?"
"A girl knows your
sister?"
"No, she know Toni Braxton. She
says she's really nice, not at all stuck-up. She say she
comes home and sings in the backyard, and they have chicken. They gonna
call me next time she visits." Tonya closed her eyes and
hugged herself, thinking of her private backyard barbecue with Toni
Braxton.
A rat waddled down the sidewalk in front of
Keisha Moore's rowhouse. The house looked neat, but dark, its
windows shut and curtains drawn against the bright sunlight. It had the
feel of a place where everyone was fast asleep, although it was now
almost noon. Tess knocked several times and was about to leave when she
heard footsteps on the stairs.
"What you want?" The
woman who flung open the door wore nothing but a bra and a pair of
baggy athletic shorts. At least, the shorts had been designed to hang
loosely. Her substantial frame filled every fold. She wasn't
fat, really, but big and solid in a way Tess imagined was probably
appealing to most men. Certainly, this wasn't the wasted
frame of an addict.
"Are you Keisha Moore?"
"You from Social
Services?"
"No—" Tess
fumbled with her knapsack, trying to find her wallet and her
P.I.'s license.
"Because I told you, there's no man living here."
"No, really, I'm a
detective."
Poor word choice. "I
ain't done nothing. What the cops want
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