Tess drew a line down the center of a legal pad and created two categories-matrimony and betting. Lea had sworn Wink wasn't a gambler, but wives didn't know everything. She then called up the archived electronic copy of that notorious first story, preparing to jot down the names of Rosita's sources and call them back.

No wonder Jack and Lionel had been troubled: there wasn't a single person speaking for attribution in the entire piece, unless the information was so innocuous as to be meaningless. ("‘Everybody loves Wink,' said longtime friend Paul "Tooch" Tucci. ‘Even when they lose to him, they love him.'") At least Feeney had a trail of court papers to buttress his claim Wink wasn't liquid; Rosita had a friend close to Wink, or someone close to the couple. It would be impossible to double-check any of this. Which was probably the point. Rosita had learned at least one thing since leaving San Antonio: how to cover her tracks.

She read the story again, hoping for a lead to follow, anything. Here was the detail about Wink and Linda's bungalow in Violetville, the neighborhood that Jack Sterling had found such an incongruous place for a tough guy. "The wood-frame bungalow on MacTavish looked like the archetypal honeymooners' cottage from the outside, with its new plantings and fresh paint. But a source close to the couple said the honeymoon was over from almost the day the two crossed the threshold, as Wynkowski repeatedly battered his new bride."

The Blight had thoughtfully provided Tess with a city crisscross. Finally, a break. Half the residents on MacTavish, barely two blocks in length, had lived there when Wink and Linda were keeping house, according to the listings. The neighbors probably knew as much about the couple's marriage as anyone, Tess figured. Wood-frame bungalows, with their thin walls, were notoriously bad at keeping secrets.

Chapter 21

Had violet ever bloomed in Violetville? It was hard to imagine now. The neighborhood was in the city's industrial southwest corner, barely within the city limits, an important distinction, for Baltimore is the rare municipality that lies within no county. It stood alone when it was rich, and now it stood alone in its poverty, a civic pariah. Violetville was one of those strange islands one found along the edges.

Still, it was holding on to middle-class status by the skin of its teeth. Streets with names like MacTavish, Sharon-Leigh, Benson, Clarenell, Haverhill-names with no connection Tess could discern-looked like John Waters, circa Pink Flamingos. Modest houses, green corrugated awnings, metal porch chairs, kitschy yard art that didn't know it was kitschy. Even the lighting was the same as Waters' early work-washed out, harsh, wintry. The old Wynkowski house-the "honeymooners' cottage"-was the seediest on MacTavish, as if Wink and Linda had left all their bad karma behind when they'd moved on.

Tess canvassed the block, working a loop that took her north, then across the street and south along the brick rowhouses, then north again, until she had arrived at the Wynkowskis' neighbor. Along her circular path, a few residents had remembered the telltale signs of a tempestuous marriage: bursts of noise, especially in the summer, when windows were open and voices carried. But nothing more. Everyone was happy to talk to her-Tess had the sense she was the most exciting thing to happen on MacTavish in quite some time-but their memories were blurred, or vague, and they had nothing but praise for Rosita. "Such a polite young woman." By the time Tess reached the last house, she was bored and anxious to move on. She almost hoped no one would answer.

A wizened figure in a faded blue bathrobe answered the door while her knock still echoed. Tess stared down at a pink scalp and wispy white hair, which contrasted nicely with the baby blue robe and matching slippers. From this perspective, it was impossible to tell if the person staring at her sternum was male or female. The hair, while thin, was longish and untidy. A man overdue for a haircut? Or a woman who no longer took pains with her appearance?

"What can I do you?" Even the voice did not give away the gender. It was a smoker's rasp, neither high nor low.

"I'm a fact-checker at the Beacon-Light." This was one of several stories Tess had told as she had gone door to door, varying it in order to keep herself interested. "It's part of our new ‘Aim for Accuracy Always' program. The Triple A. We want the community to know we're committed to getting things right."

The gnome squinted up at Tess's face. The gender was still a toss-up. The hair had a mannish style about it, but there were a few chin hairs, which seemed more appropriate to an elderly woman with bad eyesight.

"It's a bit backwards, innit, checking the facts after you print' em?"

"Oh, we check beforehand, too. This is the double-check, I guess you could say, in case something erroneous slipped through despite our best efforts. Mi-mi-I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Athol. Bertie Athol." Great. Even the name was asexual.

Bearded Bertie led Tess into a dark living room, which did not appear to have been dusted since the Iran hostage crisis. A man, Tess thought. Only a man could be such a careless housekeeper.

Or a near-sighted woman, she amended, as Bertie bumped into the water-stained oak table next to his/her chair, a stuffed chair whose faded gold damask bore the faint outline of Bertie's lumpy body, like a watermark.

"So what do you want to ask me about? I tell you, I hate them new stock tables. Print's too small, I can't follow my mutuals. Box scores, too. Everything's too small. You skimpin' on paper down there?"

"Actually, I'm not here to talk about the stocks or the scores, although I will make a note of your concerns. We're interested today in your impression of the stories about Wink Wynkowski."

"The Wynkowski boy? Why, he used to live right next door. Has he been up to something again?"

"Um, he's dead."

"You don't say." Bertie began to laugh, a dry cackle. "I'm just having fun with you. Of course I knowed what happen to Wink. I talked to that little girl when she was here. We spent quite a bit of time together."

"Did she use anything you told her?"

"Why, I'm the source close to the family! You know, where it says-" and Bertie paused, taking the time to gather up the right words from memory. "Where it says, ‘But a source close to the couple said the honeymoon was over from almost the day the two crossed the threshold, as Wynkowski repeatedly battered his new bride.' Very ellygant, the way she put it. I'da never thought to say it so good."

Tess stared at the old man/woman skeptically. "You're the source? Were you really close to Wink and Linda?"

Bertie jerked his/her chin in the direction of the Wynkowski's onetime home. "I don't know how you could be closer. Not even ten feet from my kitchen winder to their bedroom winder. In the summers, when I was warshing the dishes in the zinc, I could hear 'em going at it many a night."

Warshing the dishes in the zinc. Bertie could give lessons on Bawlamerese. Whatever the gender, the speech had all the touchstones. Probably listened to the Erioles, thought a far was something you toasted marshmallows over, and went downy eauchin in August, to a rented condo on the boardwalk.

"Is that what you told Rosita Ruiz?"

"Yeah, the girl from the paper, Rosie. I got her card around here somewhere still." Bertie began patting the bathrobe's pockets, as if the card might materialize, but only a few used tissues turned up.

"Did you know for a fact that there was violence involved, Bertie? A lot of people get loud."

"Yeah, but they don't start throwing furniture at one another. And they don't call amb'lances."