Looking back, Jenkins regretted all the thinking and conniving. The overreaching, really. He knew better. The shrewder you tried to be, the greater the likelihood that something would trip you up. The E-ZPass, for example. That little discrepancy had brought Dalesio into the investigation, and they would have been better off without him in the long run. Better off without his death for sure. And he should have known not to rely on some street kid like Le’andro. Why had he handed the ATM card off to someone else, who then screwed it all up? What had he told the other kid, if anything? Maybe they could stop now, play the odds that this other kid didn’t know anything that could implicate Bully, much less Jenkins. But if the kid dragged Bennie Tep into this, he’d sell them out in a minute. Well, sell Collins out. Bennie Tep didn’t know Jenkins existed. No, it couldn’t be risked. They had to plug this last leak.

But they had a plausible reason now. Collins was going to go to Delaware and find this kid, assuming Dalesio was right about where they were. Collins was going to finish the job that his new best friend wouldn’t be able to do, being shot down and all in the prime of his young life. They were going to find the source-no, the accomplice, which would explain why he was so desperate to evade them-and whose fault would it be if the kid pulled a gun on them, refused to be taken alive?

The only question was whether they should leave tonight or tomorrow morning. Tomorrow, he was thinking. Sick days all around. As the afternoon wore on, he started blowing his nose, talking a little raspier than usual, complaining about the pollen. He even sneezed a couple of times, not that a single one of his so-called colleagues said so much as gesundheit or bless you. Well, fuck you guys, too.

Tess hadn’t realized how lucky she’d been, getting Tull on her first try that morning. Despite her multiple urgent voice mails and pages, even with the “ 911” code appended, it was almost seven before he got back to her. It was hard, competing with the murder of an assistant U.S. attorney-even when you had what might be relevant information. Tull sounded weary and stressed, the end of his day still distant.

“There’s this DEA agent, Mike Collins-”

“We’ve talked to Mike Collins,” he said. “He had a drink with Dalesio in Canton, said good-bye to him in front of the bar, and headed out. He told his boss, and his boss told him to come talk to us. And yes, we know that Gabe Dalesio was pressing you on the Youssef murder.”

“Tull, Collins is the killer. There was no carjacking. This is what this guy does. He makes murders look like, well, other murders. A carjacking in this case. I think he also did Youssef and that street kid I was asking you about, Le’andro Watkins. See? He plays with the stereotypes of homicide, makes us see what we expect to see.”

“Tess, I know they’ve been leaning on you, but this is beyond paranoid.”

“But he could have done it, right? He was with him right before.”

“Sure, if we’re talking about the mere physics of the situation. As a problem of time and space, it’s possible. But why in hell would a DEA agent kill this guy, much less the other two?”

It was an excellent question. Tess pondered the stray bits of information she had gathered-the money in Youssef’s account, the death of a teenager who worked for a drug dealer, a teenager whose name that Collins knew, a teenager who was connected to Youssef’s ATM card. She felt like she was working a monochromatic jigsaw puzzle. The pieces fit theoretically, but trying to piece them together could make you go blind. Or mad.

“Would you pull him in for questioning tomorrow, hold him on that pretext until I make some…um, arrangements?”

“Not without a lot more information.”

“I’m sure that Collins killed Dalesio, Martin.” The use of his first name, which Tull loathed, was almost a code between them, a sign that Tess was as serious as she ever got. “Maybe because Dalesio figured something out that he wasn’t supposed to know.”

“Is this insight coming from your elusive source?” There was an unmistakable edge to Tull’s voice. He was a loyal friend, but he couldn’t possibly approve of Tess’s refusal to cooperate with a homicide investigation.

“Mike Collins is one of three feds who’s spent a lot of time in the past ten days trying to get that information out of me. Dalesio was one of the others, and the third is an FBI agent, Barry Jenkins.”

“I knew Barry Jenkins on his first pass through Baltimore. He’s a good guy.”

“Okay, sure.” Tess had no desire to argue this point. It was Collins she feared, not Jenkins, who was probably in the dark as well. She assumed that photo of Whitman had been meant for him, or someone else familiar with Collins’s life story. “But keep all this in mind, Tull. If anything happens-to me, to Crow, to our…um, friend-remember this conversation, okay? Remember that I tried to tell you.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic, Tess. You’re talking about a DEA agent and a longtime FBI guy. They don’t go around killing civilians, much less assistant U.S. attorneys. Hell, the DEA and the FBI don’t even work together under normal circumstances. They got no use for each other.”

“If you say so. But if I bring…my source to you, can you offer true protection? Can you guarantee anyone’s safety?”

Tull paused, all the answer Tess needed. “It’s hard, Tess. Put aside your whole conspiracy theory. This kid is afraid because he’s double-crossed a drug dealer, right? Unless he’s got family someplace well outside Baltimore, unless he’s willing to stay off the streets, I’d be a liar if I promised anything.”

“That’s what I thought. What if I can bring you proof that Collins is connected to all of this?”

“Whatta you got?”

“I’ll tell you in an hour.”

32

The police had come and gone at Gabe Dalesio’s rental house, which was what Tess was counting on. If time hadn’t been at a premium, she would have hunted down the landlord and talked her way in, used one of her official-looking ID cards. “Death inspector” for the state medical examiner’s office was good. So was any kind of public-utility business card, which allowed her to claim reports of a gas or carbon monoxide leak. But it was past 7:30 P.M., and she didn’t want to waste time trying to track down the registered owner of this property on Hanover Street. Even if she did find the landlord, he could turn out to be an out-of-town investor who used a local property-management firm. More time wasted.

And with the sky still light, thanks to daylight savings time, breaking and entering wasn’t the best option. So Tess decided to go straight at it, knocking on a neighbor’s door and asking if he had a spare key.

“I’m a friend of Gabe’s family…”

“From Jersey?”

“Yes.” It was amazing, the information that people would plant in a well-timed pause, then give one credit for knowing. “They want me to go into the apartment, make sure certain things are there. The police”-she wiggled her fingers-“don’t always leave things as they found them.”

“I saw the cops. They wouldn’t tell me anything, but…it’s him, right? The guy killed in Canton?”

The neighbor was in his late twenties or early thirties, an aging frat-boy type with a paunch. His shock at his neighbor’s death had been dulled by a beer-bred complacency. Again, perfect for Tess’s needs. An older, more vigilant neighbor would have been inclined toward hard-nosed skepticism, while a young woman would have been outside her charm range. This was her optimum demographic for manipulation. Tess nodded, eyes downcast.

“The thing is, Gabe had my keys, but he never gave me his. He was kinda paranoid.”

Shit. “Darn.”

“But you know what? I bet you could get into his place via the roof.”