"Wish we had a TV here," he said. "NCAA basketball is on."

Not a Baltimore accent, but close. Obviously not familiar with the city at all, if they needed directions to Route 40. Philadelphia? Wilmington? Spike had claimed to be coming from the Delaware racetracks when he'd left the mulch for her mother. And Spike didn't go in for elaborate lies, preferring simple sins of omission when he couldn't tell the truth. What was the other thing they wanted? How could she find out?

"I know a good way to pass the time. Do you know how to play Botticelli?"

"Is that Italian for ‘Spin the Bottle'?"

"No, it's like twenty questions. You see, you pick a letter-say, S-and I ask you a question about a person whose name begins with S. For example, say your person was Mike Schmidt-"

"Greatest third baseman to ever play the game."

Definitely from Philadelphia, Tess decided. A local would pick Brooks Robinson every time. "Whatever. Anyway, if your letter is S, I might ask, ‘Are you a classical composer?' If you can't think of an answer-say, Stravin-sky-I get to ask a yes-no question about your person, until I have enough clues to finally guess the identity. Get it?"

Long pause. "Yeah."

"Good. Now to make it really interesting, why don't you tell me the letter of what you're looking for, and we can play for that."

"I dunno-"

"Oh, c'mon. What are the odds I'll actually guess?"

Another round of deep thought, as if he were actually calculating her chances. "You got a point."

"Good. Now what's your letter?"

"I guess it's V. Could be C-no, it's V, definitely V."

"Okay. Are you a twentieth-century writer with a cult following?"

"You gotta be fucking kidding me."

Tess imitated the sound of a game show buzzer's rude call. "You're not Kurt Vonnegut. Now I get to ask a yes-no. Are you-the item you're looking for-related to betting?"

"Can I say kinda?"

"Usually not."

"Well, I'm gonna say kinda. It's kinda about betting, but not really. Tangential, you might say."

"Fair enough. Next question. Are you Lolita's creator?" The real rules were clear that only last names could be used, but Tess had been deliberately vague in explaining the rules.

"I am not…I am not…I am not Valentine? Volare? Some Greek god, right?"

"Good try. Vladimir Nabokov. Do you have a monetary value?"

"No, I mean, it could, but only to a few people. You couldn't sell it from the back of a truck, but some people might pay you big money for it."

"Okay. Are you the Pope's residence?"

Her competitor looked insulted. "I'm not the Vatican." He crossed himself.

"Good. Very good." A right answer would soften him up, she decided, although she hadn't intended to ask him anything he knew. "Are you a UN official with Nazi past?"

A blank look.

"Kurt Waldheim," she said, giving it the German pronunciation. He wouldn't know how it was spelled. "Was this thing ever alive? Or part of something alive?"

"That's two questions. But no to both of them."

"Well, I guess that's a good sign." Esskay stuck her snout in her lap, insistent on affection. Tess rubbed the dog under the neck, trying to think of her next question. Botticelli was harder with an it than with a person. Esskay's fur was matted and chafed beneath her collar. She could ask him a question about Voltaire, or Venus. The greyhound books said you were suppose to use a nylon leash, but there had never been time to replace this length of chain, Spike's improvisation. Sid Vicious? Dick Van Dyke? She played with the catch, clicking it open and closed, holding the dog close to her all the while.

"C'mon, ask me another question. This is kind of fun."

"Are you a moron?" Tess asked.

"Wait, I know this one. Some comedian, right? The guy who plays retards in all his movies. I am not…I am not…"

Tess leaped from the chair and lashed out at him with the chain, catching him across the face. He wasn't quick enough to grab the lethal leash, and he wasn't close enough to grab her. Tess backed away from him, moving toward the door and away from the fireplace, where his gun still sat on the mantel. He kept advancing, so intent on taking the chain away from her that he didn't think to retreat and grab his gun.

"Stupid bitch," he panted. "I am going to" -another futile grab-"make you so sorry." He caught her left wrist just then, but Esskay interceded, sinking her teeth into his hand. Not much of a grip, but she could do some damage. He yelled and fell back, then scrambled for the other side of the room, where his gun waited. But Tess and Esskay were at the door by then and Tess wrenched it open, letting Esskay go first and set the pace, praying the dog would have the good sense to run toward the streetlights, not into the alleys, where they were less likely to be seen. Her keeper might have enough power to overcome her in a sprint, but she was sure she could outlast him over anything more than a few blocks. And she was pretty sure he wouldn't want to fire his gun on this quiet suburban street.

Esskay ran, easy and happy, kicking up her back legs in the now-familiar kangaroo style. Tess followed breathlessly behind. By the time they stopped, they were at a Royal Farm a quarter-mile up Frederick Road and their captor was long behind them, if he had tried to chase them at all. Tess had never looked back. She called the police from the pay phone, then convinced the clerk to let her and Esskay wait in the back, where the greyhound finally received her long-awaited treat-two slices of bologna and three of her own namesake hot dogs. Taste the difference ka-wality makes, indeed.

Chapter 25

"Did you really hit him with a dog chain?"

"Don't you believe everything you read in your own paper?"

"The story won't be in ‘my' paper until tomorrow. Remember, we didn't find out about your little adventure last night in time for today's editions. It's a good read, too, but I can't help being nervous, dining with a woman known to lash men with dog chains."

For once, it was Tess who blushed, while Sterling smiled at her discomfort.

They were in the Joy America Cafe, the restaurant on the top floor of the American Visionary Art Museum. The food at the Joy America, as visionary and unusual as the museum's world-class collection of outsider art, was a little determinedly creative for Tess's taste. Citrus and pumpkinseed seared antelope with Virginia ham and butternut squash succotash. Food miscegenation, Whitney called such cuisine. Tess thought of appropriating the line as her own, then worried Sterling would be offended. He could be a little on the earnest side.

"Have you noticed people still call this the new Visionary Museum, although it's been open for almost two years?" she asked instead, falling back on the reliable conversational gambit of mocking her hometown.

"There are people here who still think of the Inner Harbor as new, and it was redeveloped almost two decades ago. I'm resigned to being called the new guy for the rest of my career at the Beacon-Light." Sterling took a tentative sip from the soup before him, a deep terra cotta color with a slash of avocado green through it, like the mark of Zorro. "Chili powder and cilantro in mango soup. Not bad, but I detect some cream in here, despite the waiter's assurances."

Tess tried not to make a face. She was eating field greens dressed in raspberry vinaigrette, a prosaic choice by Joy America standards. The waiter had not approved. That was fine, she had not approved of the waiter. While her brain understood this was one of the city's best restaurants, her palate secretly yearned for less determinedly fashionable places. Antelope was a poor substitute for Hausnner's potato pancakes, or a plate of tortellini from the Brass Elephant. But you couldn't veto your host's choice and Joy America did have a spectacular view of the harbor-the National Aquarium and the Columbus Center, the row houses and churches of Little Italy beyond them. She could even see the Fells Point waterfront, lights blazing on a Saturday night.