“Miss Monaghan?”

Jerold Ensor was a tall, cadaverous man with bloodhound-droopy features. His face was so sad Tess wondered if she had missed the news about some large-scale tragedy-an assassination, a war, a natural disaster, the imminent departure of the Orioles for Washington. With that face, Ensor should have been an undertaker or at least a professional pallbearer.

But the effect was undercut by his voice, a high tenor popping with Baltimore vowel sounds that he couldn’t quite suppress, although he seemed to be trying.

“My housekeeper brought me your card, said you wanted to talk to me about security in the wake of the break-in here some months back. I hope this isn’t your way of trying to sell me something.”

Yes, I’m using Tyner’s plan, she told her sniping conscience. What of it?

“No, I don’t represent a company, if that’s what you fear. But I am trying to expand my business by helping businesses and private residences assess their security needs.” She was bullshitting, but, as it often happened, her bullshit caught her fancy. Maybe she should set herself up as a security consultant. That could provide a nice little revenue stream. “Because I’m still trying to break into this area, I’m not selling anything yet. I’m interviewing those who have already been victims to see what I can learn about what works and what doesn’t.”

“My story isn’t a particularly interesting one-”

“I wish you’d let me be the judge of that.”

He seemed to be looking not at her but past her, at the reflection of her back in the mirror. “Should we have a seat in the parlor?”

The parlor, as Ensor would have it, was one of the most overdecorated rooms into which Tess had ever ventured, overwhelming the eye. The walls teemed with framed paintings, while bric-a-brac sprang from every possible surface, toadstools in a forest. It was like falling inside a kaleidoscope; one was too close to the pieces to discern the larger pattern. Slowly, small surprising details began to shake out. An old revolving metal postcard rack stood in one corner, filled with antique views of Baltimore and Maryland. A cigar-store Indian kept vigil from another corner, and next to him-could it be?-an old-fashioned drinking fountain was attached to the wall.

“It works,” Ensor said, following her gaze. “I bought it from the school district when they redid the old Polytechnic and made it into the administration building. I was a Poly boy, and I admit to a sentimental-perhaps I should say egotistical-yen for anything from my own past. The postcard stand was in a store where my family stopped for ice cream on Sunday drives, and the cigar-store Indian stood in my own great-uncle’s shop. I’m a collector, but I collect things only I care about.”

A glorious understatement, Tess thought, her eyes still dazzled by the room.

“I can’t help wondering,” she said, “how you would even know if anything was missing. Or how a burglar could choose what he wanted here. You have so many things, I would think a form of paralysis would set in.”

She also couldn’t help thinking how tempted Bobby Hilliard might be, if he stood in this room. He had stolen at least one item from the Pratt, if not more, and this town house was full of the sort of pretty-pretty things Daniel had said were his former colleague’s weakness.

“I’m afraid the burglar knew all too well what he wanted,” Ensor said. “My stereo, my video camera, and a television set in the kitchen. He was a strong fellow, I’ll give him that, hardworking and very methodical. It was almost a relief to have a professional at work, instead of someone who throws a rock through the window and reaches in to grab whatever is handy, like one of those Boardwalk crane games.” He paused as if he had been about to say something more, then laughed. “Actually, I have one of those too, upstairs. From Ocean City.”

“How did this burglar gain entry?”

“The back door was unlocked.” He offered this without apology and without embarrassment. What an idiot, Tess thought, then remembered her conversation with Tyner and felt guilty. No one deserved to be a victim.

“Did you have a security system?”

“I do now. I decided the third time was the charm. But, really, you’re not part of the Bolton Hill neighborhood until you’ve been burglarized at least twice. It’s sort of like joining the Tennis and Swim Club.”

“And all that was taken were electronics.”

“Yes. As I said, the things I collect have no value- except to me. You know, it’s something of a comfort, having things no one else would want.”

Tess had once based her whole life on a similar philosophy. Choose to be miserable, and no one else can make you unhappy. It hadn’t proved to be a satisfying way to live, but it seemed to be working for Ensor.

“Have the police mentioned to you that your burglary may be connected to other crimes?”

Ensor shifted in his seat. He seemed at once bored and wary. “Burglaries often are. People who steal keep stealing.”

“No, I was thinking about the attack on Shawn Hayes and the shooting at Poe’s grave.”

“What an interesting idea. Is it yours?”

Not ludicrous, not surprising, she noted. Just interesting.

“No. I believe it’s the police department’s. Has anyone there told you of this?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, with a tight little smile. “But they have asked me not to speak about it. To anyone. Not to the press and particularly, the homicide detective emphasized, not to a female private detective with her hair in a pigtail down her back.”

“Oh.”

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, until he resembled a praying mantis. “But I will tell you this much, for your own edification. I’m not gay. In fact, my three ex-wives will be happy to tell you how not-gay I am. So much for the hate-crime theory. Now, shall I call Rainer and tell him you were here? For that is what he asked me to do. Or would you like to offer a defense on your own behalf? I’m amenable to being persuaded.”

He was toying with her, enjoying her discomfort. What he didn’t know was that her discomfort was caused by the implicit sexual boast about his ex-wives. Really, sex with someone who looked like Jerold Ensor would qualify as necrophilia.

“I don’t think I can persuade you.”

“Ah, I am very susceptible to a woman’s charms. One could even say it’s my primary weakness.”

Did he really expect her to pout or plead? She would not have been surprised to find out that, somewhere in this overstuffed town house, Jerold Ensor had a collection of pinned butterflies in a glass case. Now it came to her why his house seemed so creepy: It reminded her of the Gnome King’s sitting room in her favorite Oz book, Ozma of Oz. There, all the items were really people and animals, transformed by the king into permanent objets d’art until a particularly bright chicken broke the spell. It was one of the most literal tales of possession that Tess had ever read, and it scared her more today than it had twenty years ago. She had learned from a man, now dead by his own hand, to be wary of people who took too much pleasure in owning things. They sometimes tried to own people as well.

“Did you know Bobby Hilliard?”

“Not that I know of. But I ate out a lot, perhaps he knew me. The police asked the same question. I understand the source of their interest. What’s yours?”

“I’m not sure,” Tess said honestly. Since the Pig Man’s visit to her office, she felt she had been drawn into a game of blindman’s bluff against her will and she was wandering, eyes covered, in a circle of snickering children. Everyone was in on the joke except her.

“Did you-” she began.

Ensor sat back in his chair, crossing his long legs, resting his narrow face on the tips of his index fingers. “I’m not supposed to talk to you, and I’m not going to unless you make this more fun.”

“I don’t think I want to know what your idea of fun is.” Without bothering to say good-bye, Tess left, her only backward glance for her reflection in the mirror that had borne witness to the death of Francis Scott Key. Really she was going to cut that damn braid off one day. Then how would anyone know her, how would she be described?