"I was in the Social Services Administration."

"Right, the division that oversees foster care." Tess smiled at Pearson's discomfort. "As it happens, I've recently had a crash course in the various divisions at the state Department of Human Resources. I know all the acronyms now. DHR, SSA, DSS, CAP, AFDC. This morning, I even learned the wiggly words you guys use for abuse and neglect investigations. ‘Indicated' and ‘Unsubstantiated.' I have to say, those are the best CYA words I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot in my time."

"CYA?"

"Cover Your Ass. The worker can't be faulted either way, you see. Indicated or unsubstantiated. If the child turns up dead, the worker isn't held accountable."

Given that Pearson always looked vaguely disdainful, it was hard to say that his expression was responding to anything specific Tess had said. But a corner of his upper lip seemed to lift slightly. "Such half-baked cynicism often tries to pass as sophisticated policy analysis. Did you go to Baltimore City schools, Miss Monaghan?"

"Yes, but I can still do math in my head and pounce on the occasional dangling modifier. Or, in your case, the dangling fact."

"Dangling fact?"

"Donnie Moore's mother, Keisha, she would have been ‘indicated' for neglect, right?"

"I wouldn't know."

"That's funny, because you knew exactly what I was talking about the night Keisha Moore was killed. ‘She always did keep bad company.' That was never part of the public record, how Keisha lost Donnie. But Donnie's social worker would know all about the company Keisha kept."

Pearson's chin moved. It wasn't even a nod really, just a slight tilt of his chin, a sign that he was still listening.

"You placed Donnie in the Nelsons' home, didn't you? Donnie, Destiny and Treasure, Eldon and Sal. Five kids in a three-bedroom house. Five kids who never had nice clothes and looked as if they didn't get enough to eat. Except Eldon. The Nelsons made at least twenty-five hundred dollars a month on that arrangement, possibly more if any of the children were classified as ‘special needs.' Where did the money go, Mr. Pearson?"

"You'd have to ask the Nelsons that question."

"Now see, this is where I get confused. Because I'm pretty sure it was your job to ask the Nelsons that question. You were in charge of making sure these children were cared for properly. You were one of those reform-minded young workers recruited by the system after the lawsuit. Why would you ignore the rules to put five kids in a run-down house in a terrible neighborhood? What was in it for you?"

Pearson's desk was devoid of props. His hands crept across its surface, looking for something to occupy them, then retreated to his lap.

"The Nelsons were loving, caring foster parents," he said. "Do you know how hard it is to find young, vigorous foster parents still in their thirties? The Nelsons believed they could provide a setting few foster parents could, even if they didn't have much in the way of material things. I believed in their vision."

"How much did they pay you for that particular belief?"

Pearson was cooler than she thought he would be, much harder to rattle. "You're dreaming up conspiracy scenarios again, Miss Monaghan. It's an interesting theory, I grant you. Social worker places children in home in return for kickbacks. I can see how it might happen. In theory."

"It's not that complicated. A fourteen-year-old could figure it out. A fourteen-year-old did figure it out. Sal Hawkings put the pieces together and shook his old worker down until he arranged for a scholarship to Penfield. Of course, you wouldn't pay for it out of your own pocket. Even now, when you're making good money, you're still kind of tight, aren't you?"

She could hear Pearson's knee knocking at the underside of his desk as he jiggled it. "Go on," he said. "I want to see where you're headed with this little story of yours."

"I'm going back to a night five years ago. A boy is killed in front of his four friends. It's a horrible thing, terrifying even for street-hardened kids. But their social worker and their foster parents aren't worried about the fallout from that trauma. All they care about is splitting the kids up as quickly as possible, getting them in new homes so the reporters won't have time to focus on how weird it is for five foster kids to be living in some tiny little rowhouse in a rotten neighborhood where they receive virtually no supervision."

"The compromises made in order to remove children from truly harmful environments are sometimes difficult for laymen to understand," Pearson said. "You can't imagine the conditions that these children had endured. The Nelsons' home was paradise to them."

"Right."

"The twins had an addict for a mother, you know. They lived in a basement without electricity or plumbing. They were assigned to me when she almost burned the place down with a candle. They were ecstatic to live in a three-bedroom house with a toilet.

"Donnie-well, you know what his mother did, how she left him alone for days while she went off to Atlantic City. Then there was Eldon. His father caught him hitting a dog with a stick and decided to administer the exact same punishment to Eldon with the same stick. At least, that was the story Eldon's father told the Foster Care Review Board when he petitioned to get him back. My guess is he beat Eldon first, and Eldon turned on the dog. You know, that's actually a good indicator of violence in a family, violence against pets. As it happens, child abuse laws in this country were derived from the old anticruelty statutes. Until the late nineteenth century, there was no legal prohibition against harming one's children."

Pearson's voice trailed off. He had veered almost automatically into a bureaucratic set piece, the kind of statement he might make before a Senate committee, then remembered his audience. He stared out the window at his undistinguished view.

"What about Sal?"

"Sal?" He looked genuinely confused, as if he couldn't place the name. "Oh, Sal. He was different, a true orphan, which is rare now. His parents were killed in a car accident when he was eight, and there was no other family, no place for him to go. He was sent to one of our best homes, run by a wonderful woman. A saint, an absolute saint. We could have used a thousand like her. But she suffered a stroke when Sal was eleven, and I had to find a new placement for him. He was the first child I put with the Nelsons." He paused. "I always liked Sal, you know. I would have helped him with Penfield under any circumstances. I even gave him a book once, one of my childhood favorites."

The Kipling, Sal's precious Kipling.

"Did Sal ever tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"What the children saw on Butchers Hill the night Donnie was killed? Why they had to lie, never mention the car, or the other gunshots?"

Pearson looked at her with something almost like pity, except he didn't like her enough to truly feel sorry for her. "Miss Monaghan, give it a rest. Yes, the Nelsons and I had a mutually advantageous financial arrangement, not that you'll ever be able to prove it. That doesn't mean Luther Beale didn't kill Donnie Moore or the twins. Face facts. A man who fires a gun at a group of children is capable of anything."

"Why don't you call Penfield and tell them we're headed there to talk to Sal? Maybe if I threaten to send his benefactor away to prison, Sal's memory will get a lot better."

"If I do this for you-if I convince Sal to tell the truth, whatever it is, you'll leave us alone?"

"Yes." Tess figured it wasn't a binding promise. Chase Pearson's fate could be decided later. "You can put him on the speaker phone, if you like, right now, and I'll be out of your life sooner rather than later."

Pearson reached for the phone and dialed.