“Actually,” Rainer said, “we like it when they run. Because then we know we’re chasing the right guys.”
Not two hours ago, the police had found Ensor’s robin’s-egg-blue Mercedes in the long-term lot at the Philadelphia airport. A clerk said a man with Ensor’s photo ID had purchased a ticket to Mexico City with cash. The assumption was that Mexico was a jumping-off spot for a country where he’d be harder to find- and harder to extradite. Tess had to give him credit for a shrewd move: By using a charter service that flew out of Philly he had eluded the cops, who had given his name and description to all the major airlines at the Baltimore and Washington airports.
Pitts hadn’t even left that much of a trace. He and his coral-colored van had simply disappeared. Tess couldn’t fault the earnest young Dr. Massinger: Pitts hadn’t checked out, he merely walked out, grabbing a cab and heading over to Bayard to get his van. The cops had found the cabbie who took him there, but that’s all they had. Oh, and they knew that Pitts had filled his painkiller prescription at an all-night Rite Aid in White Marsh about 2 a.m. White Marsh was north of town, just off I-95, on the way to Philadelphia, among other places. Tess decided there was no percentage in pointing this out. If Rainer didn’t make a connection on his own, it had no credence for him.
“Ensor attacked Pitts in front of your clients,” Rainer said. “Pitts’s hospital confession to Tess-the details about what he stole, how he did it-will be admissible in court, if you find him. I know the Hilliard case can’t be officially cleared, but I can tell the media that we have identified a suspect.”
“Only in the Hilliard case. We still don’t know who stabbed Yeager.”
Rainer shrugged. “Not my case, not my problem.”
“Pitts thinks Ensor killed Yeager,” Tess put in.
“Why?”
“He was worried about what might be in Bobby’s little black book, apparently. He didn’t know it was all Yeager’s invention. Besides, he’ll have to come back to Baltimore.”
“How do you figure?”
Tess thought of the house in Bolton Hill. “Ensor lives for his possessions. I don’t think he can handle being exiled from them. His obsession with material goods is his Achilles heel. It led him to steal and kill. It will bring him back to Baltimore and his things, against his better judgment. He won’t be able to help himself.”
“Great,” Rainer said. “Then he’ll probably find some psychiatrist who says he’s got a disease.”
“Why don’t you concentrate on getting him to court before you lose the case on some expert’s testimony?” Tyner suggested. “Don’t you need to make an actual arrest before you can claim the case is cleared?”
Rainer fell into an abstracted silence. You could literally hear him think, Tess marveled. He ground his teeth, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and rapped his knuckles on his desk. The whole performance made Tess think of a mechanical chicken she had once seen at an old country store out Frederick way. You put a quarter in the slot and it strained and clucked and fluffed its metal plumage, and, after what felt like eons, a tiny dusty gumball rolled out.
“I wonder why he went to Mexico City,” he said at last. “I’d have headed to one of the beaches, Cancún or Cozumel.”
Outside the police station, Tyner made a point of going straight to his van and driving away. He was still angry with them, despite Rainer’s cavalier attitude. “Imprudent” was the word he used, and Tess was surprised at how much it stung. Whatever she had done, right or wrong, it had been thoughtful, considered.
The whole city looked gray from here-the sky, the buildings. Tess glanced over at War Memorial Plaza, thinking back to the bright Sunday that Cecilia had caused such a stir in this spot. She saw the Hilliards in her mind’s eye, dwarfed by the great horses. She had warned them she could only establish Bobby’s innocence by proving someone else’s guilt. Rainer was eager to believe she had done that. So was Gretchen, and Tyner for that matter. Even Pitts. Everyone agreed Ensor had attacked Hayes and probably killed Yeager as well, fearful he had proof about his relationship to Bobby. That’s why he had fled.
She wished she were as confident.
“I guess I can move back home now,” she said to Gretchen. “Ensor’s too busy running to bother me anymore.”
“You sure it was him who left the notes and called you that night?” Gretchen asked.
“It doesn’t matter. Clearly, I no longer represent a threat to anyone. My hunch is that Pitts sent the notes but Ensor made the call. I don’t think either one trusted the other-for good reason. Pitts was scared because he believed Ensor beat Shawn Hayes and killed Bobby Hilliard. Ensor may have suspected that Pitts was the one who had the items from Shawn Hayes’s house.”
“But there were no items stolen from Hayes’s house, remember? The guy at the museum said so.”
“The Poe docent told us there’s no gold bug and no locket,” Tess agreed. “But I think something was taken from Shawn Hayes’s house. Pitts’s lies always have chunks of honesty running through them, if only because he’s too lazy to make up anything out of whole cloth. He said as much.”
“Tess-” Gretchen stopped, suddenly shy about giving advice.
“What?”
“If you move back home, keep looking over your shoulder. I didn’t want to say anything in there, but a car at the airport doesn’t prove anything except that there’s a car at the airport.”
“What do you mean?”
“You leave your car at the curb, you buy a ticket. People assume you went somewhere. Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. It’s a whaddaya-call-it-an optical illusion of sorts. See, maybe he didn’t get on a plane. Or he got off when it made the connection in Dallas or wherever. Or he went to Mexico and turned around, came back by car or bus. That border’s pretty easy to cross, especially if you’re white. Besides, we don’t have any idea where Pitts is, and he’s a mean little man. So I’m saying be careful, because… because…” She seemed to be fumbling for another word.
“Because?”
She sighed. Her cheek was no longer swollen, but Ensor’s hand had left a mark of rich royal purple, shot through with red and gold highlights, a misshapen family crest.
“Because you’re not that good. I’m sorry, but it’s true. You’re good on the thinking end, but you’re not street-smart. You can’t pick up a tail to save your fuckin‘ life, and you hold your gun like it’s a hairbrush.”
And with that Gretchen was gone, their partnership apparently dissolved.
The memory of Gretchen’s words descended on Tess like a cold front when she crossed her threshold later that day siphoning much of the pleasure from her homecoming. A joyful Esskay made a beeline for the sofa, while Miata all but sighed and turned her woeful brown eyes on Tess as if to say, When do I get to go to my home? Crow went immediately to check on the kitchen cabinets, picking up a piece of steel wool and turning on his boom box. It was Mardi Gras on East Lane again.
Tess was left in the center of the living room, taking inventory of her possessions. Everything was here: the dog-flecked velvet sofa, her “Human Hair” sign, the Four Corners tortilla-chip platter she had picked up while trailing Pitts; the oyster tin that Fuzzy Iglehart had used to stave off her demands for payment. There was a restful oil painting of trees, unearthed at a local consignment shop, distinguished by nothing other than her fondness for it. She also had a painted screen, by one of Baltimore ’s best known screen painters, Dee Herget. The half circle showed the prototypical view of swans gliding through a placid pond.
All told, you couldn’t get a thousand bucks for the room’s contents. But Tess liked her stuff too much to put a price on it. In part, she defined herself through the furniture she chose and the things she hung on her wall. She made judgments about other people based on the same criteria. Funny, she knew-and disliked- women who rated men according to the cars they drove. And Whitney had once broken off a promising relationship because the man was, as she put it, “so clueless that he got the Caesar salad from Eddie’s already mixed.”