Tess did not have to dig far through her file of Abramowitz clippings to guess the identity of the twisted fucker. The "nickname" was a play on the man's real name-Tucker Fauquier. During his trial his name had become a spoonerism of sorts, with would-be wits calling him "that fuckin' queer." Times had changed. "Fucker" was more acceptable, "queer" less so. Fauquier had, wittingly perhaps, provided the alternative. In one of the clips from the newspaper file, he called himself "one twisted fucker." Actually, Tess saw, he had called himself "one twisted f____________________," but even a child could have solved that puzzle.
"I was lucky to have a lawyer like Michael Abramowitz," he had told the reporter. That was after his conviction for the one killing with a witness, after he had pleaded guilty to the other murders, receiving so many sequential life sentences he would have to top Methuselah's 900 years before he would qualify for release.
Why had his gratitude metamorphosed into rancor? Tess slumped back in her chair and tried to find an answer. Was it simply because death seemed more likely now than it had ten years ago, when it appeared Maryland would never again execute someone? Was it the result of time alone, time to think up new grievances? She studied the old photo of Fauquier, his arm slung around his lawyer's neck. It was Abramowitz who looked unhappy, staring down at his feet. Abramowitz, the man who was glad to receive mail from his other clients in prison, could not bear to be with Tucker Fauquier. Was it because he had lost the case? Or because, as a man grappling with his own sexuality, he could not bear the touch of someone who raped boys, then killed them so no one would ever know?
Fauquier had been Jonathan's source. Fauquier had been Abramowitz's client. Both men were dead. Did she dare go see him, too? She felt she had no choice. It was as if she were in a boat, a boat rushing forward of its own momentum along an unfamiliar route, with no coxswain to steer or warn her about obstacles in her path. Of course she could always stop, give up, go to the police or Tyner, tell them everything she knew. Or she could keep going.
She dialed her uncle Donald's number at work. He answered on the third ring, as he always did, hoping to seem busy.
"Tesser! Where were you last week? I had to write those damn things myself. How could you let me down like that?"
"I couldn't come back after Mom told me who was really paying my ‘salary.' I never wanted a handout, Uncle D. I don't need money that badly."
"Neither do I. And after doing this job on my own, I'm ready to double the price. Anything. Just come back to me." He sang the last line, adding: "On A Clear Day You Can See Forever. It was on cable the other night. If I sing like Yves Montand, will you take your job back?"
"No deal. I need a big favor from you. In all your state jobs, did you ever pass through the Department of Corrections? I have to get in to see a condemned inmate as quickly as possible."
"I did a DOC rotation a few years back. Deputy director of prisoner relations. You write a letter, the inmate has to give his consent, and the lawyer has to agree. It can take a long time, though. Tell you what: You write the letter and fax it to their office first thing tomorrow morning. I'll call someone I know over there and tell 'em-what will I tell 'em? Wait, there's a Monahan in Maryland who gives the governor a lot of money. Spelled without the ‘g,' but who'll notice? I'll call a guy I know, whisper in his ear you're Monahan's granddaughter, doing a sociology thesis. They'll have you in by tomorrow afternoon."
"Will that work?"
"Tesser, if they believe you're Ed Monahan's granddaughter, they'll probably let the guy leave the prison with you on a one-day pass. Ed Monahan is the daddy of a thousand redheaded Eskimos. Half the laws on the state books were written exclusively to benefit his seafood company. The governor would do anything for him."
"You're the best, Uncle D. I'd do anything for you."
"They can't take my pension away from me for spreading bad gossip. The worse they can do is transfer me again. You know, the only department they haven't stowed me in yet is Employment and Economic Development. Which is too bad, because I definitely have expertise on how to stay employed. And our arrangement showed a real flair for economic development."
Tess thought of her uncle's bare office, the clean desk, the legal pad with his mock bets scribbled on it. He had never married, never had any interests outside politics and the track. Since the fall of his onetime employer, he had been living in a kind of exile, his talents wasted.
"Is it hard, Uncle Donald, doing nothing?"
"Hey, it's a gift."
"No, seriously. I know you're grateful for the check and the pension you're going to get. But isn't it hard, filling your days?"
His answer did not come quickly. Tess knew he was not thinking about her question, only how to say out loud the truth he had hidden so long from everyone, even himself.
"It's the hardest thing I've ever done, Tess. If I had been younger maybe I could have found a different job, not a job I loved as much, but one that used a few brain cells." He sighed. "Oh, hell, I was lucky I wasn't indicted, too. Of course, if I had been indicted maybe I could've become a lobbyist. If you get indicted and beat the rap, it gives you a lot of credibility."
"True. But the best lobbyists are the ones under constant threat of indictment. They have an edge the others lack."
Donald laughed appreciatively. "You're a smart one, Tess. Maybe you should go into politics. Don't be like me. Don't let losing your first love keep you from finding a second."
She hung up, stunned he had assumed her questions had been prompted by her own situation. She had been thinking only of Abramowitz. Hadn't she?
The next morning Tess typed the letter as Donald had instructed, sending it to the Department of Corrections over Kitty's fax machine as soon as the state offices opened at 8:30. She simply stated her request, letting Donald tell his lies behind the scenes. Later, if someone found out she wasn't the right kind of Monaghan, Donald would simply say: "Who knew? I guess the grapevine had it wrong." The approval of her visit was faxed back within forty-five minutes. Theresa E. Monaghan could see Tucker Fauquier that afternoon.
Crow arrived for his shift, bearing pastries, fancy ones in a box. Napoleons, éclairs, turnovers, quite a splurge on his meager salary. In the past few days he had begun showering on Tess the attentions he had bestowed on Kitty. He gave Tess the looks she had once coveted, brought her gifts of food, tried to talk about James M. Cain, and composed little songs. But she was tired of discussing Cain and too numb to feel anything more than a dull, sisterly affection toward Crow.
Today, in addition to the pastries, he also brought her a glass of fresh lemonade from the Broadway Market. Tart, with lemon slices. She sat on the old soda fountain and drank it slowly, savoring it. Neither of them spoke, but it was a companionable silence. As Crow had once said, the light here was lovely in the morning, fresh and clean. Kitty, in cowboy boots and a fringed skirt, dreamily rubbed lemon-scented furniture polish into the library table. The Everly Brothers sang about devotion over the store's speakers. Crow took out his guitar and played along, looking at Tess when he thought she couldn't see.
A sharp rap on the glass door interrupted his song just as Tess was becoming uncomfortable with his steady gaze.
"Go away," Kitty called cheerfully. "We open at ten."
But Tess recognized the tiny figure at the door. It was Cecilia, holding a sheaf of papers to her chest.
"I need your help," she said when Tess let her in. She was getting better and better at jumping into her assertive mode, with fewer stammers and downcast glances with each encounter. "I thought I could do it by myself, but I can't. I need to know what you know."
So many possibilities flooded Tess's mind, she couldn't begin to sort through them. What special knowledge did she have? To what was Cecilia confessing: Abramowitz's death? Jonathan's hit-and-run? Why had she come back to Tess, whom she had dismissed as of no use just last week?