"Tucci's probably floating that rumor," Tyner said.
"Yeah, I thought the same thing. You know what he said? ‘We shouldn't lose sight of the fact that basketball would be good for the city under any local ownership plan.' Isn't it strange how quickly this has become the conventional wisdom, like an-apple-a-day, or early-to-bed-early-to-rise? A sports franchise will make you healthy, wealthy, and wise."
Tyner pointed a long finger at her nose. "I'm going to give you some advice-"
"Oh God, no, anything but that." Tess pretended to cower, even as she finished off her last fry.
"What did Deep Throat say in the garage? Follow the money? Well, I have much older, much more universal advice. Cherchez la femme, Tess. Cherchez la femme."
"La femme?" Tess needed a moment, then she smiled. "Good idea, Tyner. I think I'll stop by the home of Rosita Ruiz on my way home tonight."
"Giddyap," Tyner said, then made a whinnying sound so accurate that the other Roy diners looked around uneasily.
Nothing put Tess more in the mood to work than strict injunctions against it. If she had been Bluebeard's wife, she would have been in the secret room the first night. Pandora's box? Opened before it was across her doorstep. The editors had told her to conduct all interviews on-site, the union had told her to stop the interviews entirely. She was counting on Rosita, out of the newsroom for two days and on deadline for most of today, not to know either of these injunctions.
Rosita lived in a high-rise north of Johns Hopkins University 's Homewood campus. The strip of apartment buildings along University Parkway catered to every taste: struggling students, well-to-do seniors, young professionals, even those rich enough to pay $1 million for a view of Hopkins ' lacrosse field. Rosita's building fell in the lower part of the range. A stark modern tower, its dingy lobby had the feel of a graduate student dorm, while its balconies held the accessories of young adults in transition from school to career: expensive bicycles, cheap hibachis, plastic stacking chairs. There were two views: nostalgic residents could face south, toward the campus they had left so recently, while the strivers looked hopefully toward the stately homes of Baltimore 's north side.
In the foyer, the mailbox showed an R. Ruiz, on the eighteenth floor. It was almost too easy for Tess to slip through the security door, disappearing among the people lugging home groceries and take-out food. No one seemed to know anyone here, nor wanted to, judging from the way everyone stared at the elevator's ceiling as it ascended.
A pink-cheeked Rosita answered the door in bicycle pants and a T-shirt with a picture of a bare-breasted mermaid, labeled La Sirena. Her hair was slick and wet, her toes separated by wads of cotton, apparently in preparation for the bottle of polish she held in her hand, a very girly pink. Tess would have expected something darker, bloodier.
"Feeney's friend," Rosita said. "Bess."
"Tess. And I'm here as a contractual employee of the Beacon-Light, part of the paper's preliminary investigation into what is being called the unscheduled publication of the article you wrote with Kevin Feeney."
"You're the investigator they hired?" Rosita asked incredulously. She had not dropped her arm from the door, so Tess was still in the hall.
"Yes. I work for a local attorney and have a little experience in the field." Very little.
"I thought you were suppose to conduct the interviews in the office, starting with the people who were there that night."
"There are no hard-and-fast rules. I happened to be in your neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I guess I'm kind of a workaholic." She smiled at her lie, suspecting it might create a bond. "This isn't about guilt, you know. It's a fact-finding, cover-your-ass kind of thing, in case Wynkowski sues. That's all."
Rosita gave her terrible imitation of a smile. "Trust me, this is all about guilt. Luckily for me, I'm not guilty."
"So why don't we sit down and talk about this for a few minutes? Then I can put a little check by your name, and everyone will be happy." Except the editors, the union, and you, when you realize you weren't supposed to talk to me at all.
"Okay, but you can't stay long. I've got plans tonight and I just got home from work-we have an amazing story running tomorrow. It's going to blow the lid off this city."
"Blow the lid off this city?" If Tess hadn't been intent on charming Rosita, she might have reminded this newcomer that Baltimore had managed to keep its lid firmly in place through the great fire of 1904, the riots of 1968, the Orioles' 21-game losing streak in 1988, several crooked city officials, and a savings-and-loan scandal that had anticipated the national S amp;L crisis by several years.
Instead, she widened her eyes in a creditable imitation of amazement. "Wow, what's the latest?"
"A guy down in Georgia was at Montrose at the same time as Wink. He heard about our story from relatives up here and called the paper. It seems Wink liked to brag he was there because he killed a man."
"Maybe he was just a scrawny little kid trying to survive by manufacturing a tough-guy reputation."
"Maybe." Rosita smiled serenely. "You can read all about it in tomorrow's paper." She dropped her arm and let Tess into the apartment, walking on her heels to protect her pearly toe polish. Her legs were disproportionately short, with thick, curving calves. While not working twelve hours a day, she obviously found time to run or use a Stair-master. Probably with a newspaper propped in front of her and the all-news station on her Walkman.
Rosita sat on a wooden chair that needed refinishing, leaving Tess the full run of an ancient corduroy sofa that looked as if it had been stolen from a state institution. The decor, at least here in the living room, was Early Dorm: ratty furniture, an orange crate full of CDs, a portable stereo. Rosita hadn't even bothered to build bookcases out of cinderblock and boards, piling her few books on the floor. The only grace note was a poster of a pale pastel cowboy, literally disappearing into the landscape, and the view, which was toward the north and its expensive homes.
"Let's start with an obvious question. Where were you Tuesday night?"
"I thought you used to be a reporter. You should know you don't cut to the chase like that. You're suppose to lull me into a warm, expansive mood with a little nonthreatening chitchat."
"This isn't a profile," Tess said. She couldn't help sounding a little sharp. "It's report. If you don't want to talk to me, fine. I'll write that down and pass it on to your supervisors, who assured me everyone would cooperate. Let them worry why you don't want to answer the questions I ask in the order I ask them."
"Fine." Big dramatic sigh and a double eye-roll. "I was here."
"Alone? From what time on?"
"I left work at seven-thirty and stopped at the Giant for a salad, then bought some wine at the liquor store. I wasn't very happy. Remember, I thought the best story I had ever written had just been killed." Funny, Feeney had said almost the same thing-except in his case, it had been his story.
"Did you get any telephone calls? Did you make any calls or have any friends drop by?"
Rosita pressed her right hand to her forehead, as if the question required deep thought. "No. No calls at all. And no visitors."
"Then you don't really have an alibi. You have a story. I mean, you can't prove you were here. And the electronic security system at the paper was down, so it's impossible to prove you weren't there unless you can prove where you were. As a reporter, you should know one can't prove a negative."
When surprised, Rosita forgot her poses and mannerisms. Her eyebrows relaxed and she no longer held her chin so high it made Tess's neck ache to look at her. For a moment, she was as pretty as she should have been all the time. The moment passed.