Detective Johnson picked up a piece of paper. “The purchases-the Nikes, the North Face-they were men’s, according to the receipts.”

“I buy men’s shirts at the Gap,” Tess said. “I’m wearing one right now. At any rate, I’m not going to answer questions that imply the gender of the source is known.”

“Okay. Did he or she identify the person who gave him or her the ATM card?”

“Not to me.”

Tess was walking a very fine line here. Lloyd had not identified the source of the card at the time of the interview. But he had told Crow yesterday, prompting their flight. She didn’t know the name, but she knew it was gettable. All one had to do was look at who had been killed late Monday or early Tuesday-something that Tess had steadfastly avoided. With so many secrets to protect, a little genuine ignorance was bliss.

Poor redheaded Howard Johnson was beginning to sweat. “Your source is protecting a killer, which makes him-”

“Him or her,” Tess said.

“Him or her an accessory. Which means you are obstructing justice.”

“Charge her with that and we’ll proceed from there,” Tyner said. “Until then it’s an empty threat.”

“The source knew nothing about the murder of Gregory Youssef. The source believed the whole incident to be some kind of low-level scam. But-” Tess looked at Tyner. They had spent much of the morning trying to decide if they should share the new information that Crow had provided, brainstorming every ramification and possibility. It was hard to know sometimes how a piece of information would land. To Tess it was obvious that the murder buttressed her position. But it might not appear that way to the detectives and attorneys. “I do have some new information. New to me.”

She was aware of the anticipation in the room, the hope that she would tell them something significant, the worry that she was setting them up for the anticlimax.

“I still don’t know the name of my source’s contact. But I do know that the contact is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Homicide.”

“Who? When? How could you know this?”

“As I said, I don’t know his name. But I can give you some information about my source’s contact.”

Detective Howard Johnson leaned forward.

“The victim was one of the city’s sixty-some homicide victims since the beginning of the year. So you have a finite universe of cases to examine.”

“We will put you in front of the grand jury,” the detective said, his temper beyond lost. “We will hold you in contempt. We will let you sit in the detention center until you get over yourself and stop this stupid shit.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Tess said. “But the person I’m protecting honestly believes this to be a matter of life or death. Someone has already been killed. We don’t know for certain that it’s connected to the Youssef case, but it’s a possibility we have to consider.”

“Only, the person who was killed wasn’t in protective custody,” Johnson pointed out. “Your source would be a lot safer, coming to us.”

“You think? There’s a tradition of dead witnesses in Baltimore that belies your confidence. Besides, even though I could tell you who my client is, if I were so inclined, I can’t tell you where the client is. The source has created his-or her-own brand of protective custody. Has left the area and has no plans to return for the time being.”

“Are you being truthful?”

“I’ve been truthful at every point in this interview.” Tess couldn’t keep a little heat out of her voice. When the circumstances suited her, she was perfectly capable of lying, but she had been extremely precise today. True, she hadn’t been particularly helpful, but that wasn’t the same as lying. She had walked the line, as the old song had it.

And was hovering right above a ring of fire, to keep it in the Johnny Cash canon.

On the other side of the glass, Jenkins popped a Pepcid, although he kept his face impassive, unreadable. Sanctimonious bitch. Where did she get off?

No matter. He had been smart to heed his stomach’s queasy instincts and invite the AUSA last-minute. This eager beaver next to him was the key to finding out what he wanted to know. All he had to do was unleash Fido here and he would cheerfully, happily, and quite legally proceed to press this bitch until she was begging for mercy. Jenkins hoped she was smart, or at least pragmatic, the kind of person who would abandon a principle when things got rough. Let her play this half-assed game with him and he would own her. Sure, she could be all noble here, when the only thing she was risking was some penny-ante shit from county cops. But when it was her life versus someone else’s, those lofty principles would fall away. They always did.

The thing is, he sort of got where she was coming from. In a different context, he might have respected her. He knew what it was to believe in something and how hard it could be to give it up, even in the face of overwhelming evidence that those to whom you were loyal had no loyalty to you. She had been taken in by this kid, whoever he was, bought into the idea that he needed her protection. Couldn’t see the forest for the trees, a figure of speech that had long puzzled Jenkins, who had always been able to see everything all at once. She had placed herself at the center of the Youssef matter, losing sight of the fact that it wasn’t about her, that she was an insignificant player. This wasn’t her story, but he could see why she might think it was. To her credit, she was trying to do what she thought was right.

But she believed in the wrong thing, she had chosen the wrong side, and that was reason enough to dismantle her life.

THURSDAY

17

“Ocean’s hell on paint and wood,” Edward Keyes said, handing out scrapers and brushes to Crow and Lloyd. “Ocean’s hell on everything, corrosive as a sonuvabitch. I usually paint in the fall, but my Mexican crew up and quit on me.”

“Do you have to stereotype them by race?” Crow said automatically, then regretted it. They were dependent on this man’s generosity, after all.

“What I’d say? Just said they quit, and they did. Left me high and dry last fall, and now I’m way behind if I’m gonna open for Mother’s Day weekend. I should give up on shingles, go with something more mod-ren I know, but I like the old-timey look. It’s not as much work as it looks to be, not once you get a rhythm.”

Lloyd, who had glared at Edward Keyes throughout his overview of the seasonal preparation required by Frank’s FunWorld, spoke for the first time. “Why Frank?”

“What?”

“Your name ain’t Frank. So why this place called that?”

“Sounds better, don’t you think? Allitter-something.”

“Alliteration,” Crow put in, and the other two regarded him as if he were the nerdiest kid in the class.

“Had a cat named Frank once. Mean old tom. By the way, you’ll want to get as much painting done as you can in the morning. Wind kicks up in the afternoon something fierce. That’s why I usually do it in the fall.” And with that, Edward Keyes left them, whistling a happy tune.

Crow supposed that he would be cheerful, too, if he were dispensing the supplies for this backbreaking work, then retiring to the sheltered interior of the park to tinker with the rides and reassemble the Whac-A-Mole games, with a radio to provide some mental distraction. Crow and Lloyd remained outside on this bright, windswept day, with nothing but their own companionship. Which could have been pleasant, but the only conversation Lloyd seemed capable of was a litany of complaints.

“Why we got to paint? We’re paying our way, aren’t we? You givin’ him cash for our food and our rooms, which ain’t much. So why we got to work?”