"Great," Tess said, giving him her warmest smile. "I just want to go over a few things."
"Have at me."
"You were very specific about the time. Do you wear a watch? Or is there a clock you can see from the desk?"
"I wear four watches, two on each wrist. Eastern, central, mountain, and western."
"Pacific."
"No, ma'am. Just the four. I don't have Tokyo time. I like things nice and even, you know, two on each wrist."
She let that pass. "So you checked eastern time, and it was ten exactly when Rock arrived. Did you check your watch the second he left, or did you get distracted? Maybe the game got exciting and you didn't write it down for a few minutes."
"Uh-huh. I'm very attentive. I take my job seriously. A lot of guys, they become security guards 'cause they can't find no other kind of work. I'm proud to be one of Miltie's Minutemen." Tess gave him a blank look. "That's who staffs the Lambrecht Building. Miltie's Minutemen. Best security force in town. No felons on our staff."
Tess was tempted to ask if this was Miltie's motto, but she didn't want Joey tearing off on another tangent. "So you're sure of the time. What about after Rock-Mr. Paxton-left? Did anyone else come in?"
"There's no one on the sheet."
"Does that mean no one else came in?"
"There's no one on the sheet," he repeated. Tess had a feeling one of Uncle Miltie's knights had a little chink in his armor. She stared into his colorless eyes, trying to muster the authority of a video camera.
"What about someone who worked there? Or someone who didn't follow the rules, who just ran by you?"
"People who work there can come in the back way with a key, go straight to the elevators. I don't even see them. But there's no one else-"
"On the sheet. I know. Look, Joey, I'm sure you're a good Minuteman. I don't want to get you in trouble with Miltie. But if someone ran by you-didn't listen to you, sneaked by when you were listening to the game-I need to know. Maybe that's the person who killed Michael Abramowitz."
He shook his head. "I do my job right."
"Could someone get by you?" she pressed. "Maybe if you walked away from the desk to see what was going on in the street? Don't you stretch out or sneak a bathroom break without anyone there to spell you?"
"I told' ja. No one got in. Everyone signs the sheet."
She sighed and gave him one of the business cards Tyner had gotten for her, a rush job from a printer who owed him a favor. The card simply said: Tess Monaghan and listed her number at the bookstore and her home number. Plain and stark, the cards had a certain dignity. They made Tess feel downright legitimate.
"Which of these is a home number?" Joey asked with great interest. Wonderful-the only thing Tess was going to get out of this was unwanted calls from a horny security guard.
"Both are business numbers. Call if you mean business." She left Joey on his unmade bed, his red robe the only color in the dim room. She hoped one of those reality shows came calling one day. He was a natural.
It was about eight miles from Joey's rundown row house to the West Baltimore home of Frank Miles, the custodian who had discovered Abramowitz's body. Statistically it was a more dangerous place-a once-middle-class neighborhood, undone by white flight, further undone by black flight. But Tess felt comfortable here. She had grown up not far away, a straight shot down Edmondson Avenue. If a place had been safe in her lifetime, she had trouble thinking of it as dangerous.
By the look of things Frank Miles was the only nonrenter left on his block. His house had metal awnings and freshly painted trim. The tiny lawn was a thick green mat, bordered with pink and white impatiens, showing surprising staying power for September. A pedestal with a shiny green gazing globe sat in the exact center of the emerald lawn. It reminded Tess of the glass globe the witch consulted in The Wizard of Oz, but all she could see in it was her own distorted face.
When she rang the bell Mr. Miles yanked the door open as if wild with impatience to see her, grabbed her arm, and hustled her past the storm door and heavy wooden door, putting the chain on behind her.
"Not a good idea to linger in open doors on this block," he said. "You don't want to be a mushroom. Would you like a glass of lemonade?"
A little dazed, she accepted it gratefully, sure she need not fear the bathroom here. The house, like the yard, was neat and orderly, although it bore the traces of a man on his own. The screen on the old television was streaky, and a fine coating of dust settled over everything, the kind of dust most men can't see. The framed photographs on the wall had been hung meticulously but were smeary with fingerprints. Mr. Miles and a woman on their wedding day, lots of children, a girl in a graduation gown. Widower, she guessed. And probably the most eligible man in his church, judging by his casserole-laden girth.
"I like my cookies," he said, and Tess jumped, wondering if he had caught her staring at his waistline. Then she realized he was carrying a tray with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of Hydroxes. Her favorite. There were mint leaves swirling in the lemonade pitcher and she knew from the taste of it-tart, perfect-that he had made it himself, probably just for her.
"I don't get much company," he said. "It's nice to fuss over someone."
"What about those fine-looking young people in those pictures? Don't your grandkids come visit?"
"No grandkids," he said with a regretful sigh. "No kids. Most of those on the wall are from a school where I worked before I retired. I got a niece, but she's just an ol' crackhead. Yeah, she'd love to come around, but she'd have this place turned into a shooting gallery in about two minutes. No, thank you."
"I know that feeling," said Tess, who didn't. She was wondering how to steer this aimless conversation into a detailed discussion about finding a corpse. Mr. Miles seemed to be having such a good time. For every Hydrox she ate, he ate four.
"But you want to know about the other night," he said, again seeming to follow her unvoiced thoughts. "About Mr. Abramowitz."
"Yes. I know you talked to the police, but I want to go over a few details. The security guard called 911 at ten thirty-five after he got your call from the office phone. Did you call him the second you found the body?"
"I doubt if more than twenty seconds passed. I couldn't help looking, you know. There's something about a body that stops you cold. And I tried to find a pulse before I called anybody."
"Do you usually clean Mr. Abramowitz's office? Did you know him very well?"
"I steered clear of him. When he stayed late it was usually for ball games. He didn't want anyone coming in to empty the trash. He told me to stay out of his office."
"So why did you go in that night?"
"The door was open. And I could see something-maybe his leg, I don't know. Something wasn't right."
"And that was what time?"
"I don't have a watch." He flashed a bare wrist at her. "You say the call to 911 was at ten something. I guess I found him no more than a few minutes before then. And I stayed until someone came."
"At ten forty-seven. That's what the EMS log says."
He shrugged. "If that's what the records say. I'll tell you, it seemed longer. It's not much fun, keeping vigil over a dead man."
"How long had you been on the eighteenth floor? Did you see anyone else around?"
"I start at the top and work down. I probably got to their floor about ten-twenty, and I'm pretty sure I had the place to myself. Their office takes up everything, so there's no other place to go."
Shit. The last thing they wanted was to narrow the window of opportunity, making it less likely someone other than Rock had killed Abramowitz. If Miles was right another killer, the real killer, had less than ten minutes to get in and out.
"How can you be so sure?" Tess asked, sliding into a harsh tone despite Tyner's warnings. "You said you don't wear a watch."