"Do you know anything about computers?" she asked Beale skeptically.

"Huh. I know enough not to buy a Mac, like you did. I have an IBM clone, with 200 megahertz and a gigabyte of memory. Did you know you can read almost every newspaper in the country online? I bet I save fifty dollars a month that way."

"Someone might have made some copies of my files last night."

"Don't you have a password, for security?"

"No," Tess said. If Beale were really so computer-savvy, he should know that. Hadn't he seen her use the computer on his first visit here? "It never occurred to me I'd need one, not in a one-woman office."

"What was in my file, anyway?"

"Not much. Some leads on the twins. You weren't too good on the names by the way. They're Treasure and Destiny Teeter."

"Never was good with names," Beale murmured. "So where are they?"

"Not sure. According to neighbors, they technically live on Biddle Street, but they're still seen a lot around here." She wondered if she should tell him that, according to the neighbors' description, neither one was exactly college material. But college tuition was only one example of the help Beale wanted to provide. Maybe he could get Treasure in drug rehab, find Destiny a program, something like the Nelsons' school in D.C., only for girls.

"That all you found? That's not much."

Tess, still on hold with the Eastern Precinct, hung up and hit the redial button. Again, she was placed on hold before she could utter a single syllable.

"I think it's pretty good, considering how little information you brought me. Four days ago, I didn't even have the names. Now I know where to look for the twins, and I've pinpointed another one, Salamon Hawkings. He's on scholarship at a private school. Eldon Kane is wanted on a warrant and believed to be far from Maryland, so I guess we can cross him off your list."

"You been to see the Hawkings boy yet? School's almost out."

"Haven't had a chance."

"Moving kind of slow, aren't you? If I pay by the hour, I expect you to make the most of every minute."

Beale was as exasperating as Gramma Weinstein, never pleased, never satisfied.

"I've found it's something of a handicap, having to play Tipton to your anonymous benefactor. Schools don't much like strangers trying to track down their students for reasons they won't divulge. Now I have to come up with a plausible reason to see Salamon Hawkings."

"That's easy," Beale said. "When you get in touch with the school, just tell them there's some money coming to the Hawkings boy, without being too specific. People always go for that."

"You mean like those unclaimed accounts the state advertises every year?"

"Naw, that's too easy to check. Maybe you could be that place that makes kids' dreams come true. Make-a-Wish, Dream-a-Dream, whatever it's called."

"I think that's for sick kids," Tess said. "Still, it's the right idea, at least."

Beale stood to leave. He wore the same brown suit from his first visit, only with a blue-and-yellow striped shirt this time. He carried the same yellowing Panama in his hands.

"Just don't lollygag," he said. "I am paying you by the hour, as I recall. And that doesn't include sitting here, waiting for a locksmith." Then he was gone, without a "thank-you," without a word of praise for what Tess had done so far. Well, that's what being in business was about. People who paid you didn't have to be grateful, they just had to give you checks that cleared. On that score, Beale was a dream client.

Still on hold at the Eastern Precinct, she hung up and called her landlord instead. Let Hersh deal with the busted door, nattering to the locksmith about how he, tortoiselike, had progressed so far beyond the Weinstein hares. She was going to work out.

Tyner had been unusually nice to Tess as of late. She suspected he felt guilty for forcing her out of the nest of his office and giving her desk away while her chair was still warm. Certainly, she didn't expect his little kindnesses to last. But she was enjoying the temporary benefits of his guilt, the gifts he showered on her, such as the new watch and this free summer pass to his gym, the Downtown Athletic Club, a place she couldn't afford on her own budget.

The DAC, as its denizens called it, was not the grandest club in Baltimore, but it was easily the largest. Built in an old warehouse on the site where Lincoln's funeral train had passed through, it had its own history. The legendary fights over parking, as the workout-bound folks jockeyed for the spaces closest to the door, determined not to walk one more inch than necessary. The pickup scene that made the men's locker room strictly NC-17 on the weekends. Then there was the apocryphal story about the man who suffered a heart attack during the peak evening hours. While some people had rushed to his aid, other impatient exercisers had used the confusion to sneak ahead in the StairMaster line.

"Oh, c'mon, Mr. Gray," protested the young trainer who was bumping Tyner's wheelchair up the short flight of steps to the main floor as Tyner repeated all these stories to Tess, his stentorian voice jouncing with each stair. "You know no such thing ever happened here."

"If it isn't true, it should be," Tyner insisted. With the attendant's help, he hoisted himself into the Nautilus butterfly machine, pulling on his weight-lifting gloves once he was settled. "What do you have today, Tess? Weights or aerobics?"

"I rowed this morning, a good long one, so all I have are weights. But I'll start with lower body."

"Don't slack. I'll be watching you."

"Watch yourself." Tess reached out and caught Tyner's arm as he attempted to return the weight to its resting position. "C'mon, fight me a little, old man. Press harder. Harder. You can do it."

He could, quite easily. Tyner had taken good care of himself. Above the waist, he was as lean and strong as he had been in his early twenties, when he was on the Olympic rowing team. Below-well, below, he was what he had been for more than forty years, since a speeding car had crumpled his legs and ended his Olympic pursuits.

"I've still got much more upper-body strength than you," he taunted her good-naturedly.

The DAC was quiet on a Saturday afternoon. Although school wasn't out, people with weekend shares had already started heading to the shore, or moved their athletic pursuits outdoors while the weather was so fine. Tess would have preferred to be outside herself, but there was no outdoor substitute for weight-lifting.

A stringy, pale man in his forties was on the quad machine. "May I work in?" she asked.

"Only two more," he said, holding up two fingers helpfully. But he just sat there, as comfortable as a man on a barstool, in no hurry to move. Tess decided to work on the leg press instead of waiting, and took the machine next to him.

"What do you think of that?" he asked, still stalling, not anxious to start his next set.

"Think of what?" she gritted out as she released on the final rep, the weight bouncing a little as it hit. She hoped Tyner hadn't heard it, he'd been on her back for such sloppy work.

"The guy in the wheelchair. What's that about?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

"He's an old guy in a wheelchair, for Christ's sake. What's the point? I do this because I got divorced last year and I'm, you know, out there. Gotta keep the old bod in shape. I hate it, but that's the price you pay. What's he doing it for?"

"You finished on there yet?" Her tone was light, but as sure as Clark Kent slipping into a phone booth, she could feel her secret alter ego emerging. She counted to thirty, but not to control her temper. She was just marking the time of her rest periods, trying to keep them as short as possible.

"Almost." He huffed and puffed through another set much too quickly, his motions fast and jerky, his legs swinging as loose as a little kid. He held up a single finger. "One more set. What's your name, anyway?"