Crow held her, angry not on his behalf, but on hers.
“He shouldn’t have said what he did. He’ll regret it. You were trying to do the right thing. One day he’ll understand that.”
“They could have died,” she said. “My parents could have been killed because of me.”
“Not even your father believes they were trying to kill him. Gene Fulton broke in while they were out. He wasn’t going to hurt them.”
“Not this time,” Tess said. “But what happens next? Last week it was Hilde. Tonight it was my parents’ house. Tomorrow it could be my parents. Or you. Or Jackie and Laylah. Or Whitney.” Tess realized she couldn’t begin to name all the people she loved, all the people who might be hurt in order to punish her. Such a list should have made her feel warm and happy, rich in relations. Tonight, all it made her feel was vulnerable.
“So what are you going to do, Tess?”
“The only thing I can do. Make a deal.”
chapter 30
MEYER HAMMERSMITH LIVED IN THE ONLY DETATCHED house in his block on Federal Hill. A limestone rectangle, it sat near the top of the hill that gave the neighborhood its name and it was in the Federal style, so its location could be considered doubly apt. The house was not particularly large-it was smaller, in fact, than many of the town houses arrayed in the same block-but because it stood apart, surrounded by an iron fence, it was a source of great status in Federal Hill.
Privacy, Tess thought, pressing the buzzer at the front gate, announcing her name and waiting for the lock to be released. Meyer Hammersmith is a man who values privacy.
Adam Moss opened the door. Tess expected him. She had gone through him to arrange this meeting, and he had told her Meyer would insist on this location. Dubious, she had resisted at first. Take it or leave it, Adam said. She took it. She knew she was going to have to take a lot before this was through.
“He’s waiting for you in the library,” Adam said. She wouldn’t go so far as to say he was nervous, but his manner was a shade less smooth than usual. He reached for her coat, but Tess stepped back, pulling it tighter around her, as if the house were cold. If anything, it was overheated, with the dry, crackly heat found in a run-down nursing home, the kind that ended up getting closed by the state.
“I’ll keep it with me,” she said. Her gun was in the right pocket, her cell phone in the left. She didn’t expect to use either, but she liked having them close.
“As you wish,” Adam said, and he led her up a flight of stairs.
“Library” was a misnomer. One wall was filled with books, but the other three were covered with portraits-oil paintings, watercolors, charcoal sketches. No windows, Tess noted, and only one door. Only one way in, and only one way out. She studied the artworks, each hung as a museum might display them, in ornate frames and with indirect lighting. But they were so crowded, the effect was diminished. Why not spread them throughout the house? Tess recognized a Modigliani and a Dégas, but she knew the latter only because the girl wore ballet garb. It was a bit unsettling, all these faces staring at her.
Meyer Hammersmith sat in a high-backed chair, one of only two pieces of furniture in the room. The other was a chaise longue, whose red velvet upholstery and sinuous lines gave it a decadent feel. Tess could not see herself perched on such a thing under any circumstances, but especially not for this meeting. Adam Moss also declined the chaise, standing a few feet to Tess’s right, which happened to put him between her and the door.
“Miss Monaghan?” Meyer Hammersmith did not rise, nor offer his hand. This close up, he bore a marked resemblance to a snapping turtle, with his mottled tanned skull, beaky nose, and downturned, rheumy eyes. Even the small hands that poked from the sleeve of his wool jacket were like a turtle’s stunted, wrinkled legs. Tess was reminded of an old-fashioned recipe for terrapin, once a prized delicacy in Maryland: Throw the turtle in the pot for one hour, until all dirt is cleansed from the body. Then remove the toenails and the scales-
“You are Miss Monaghan?” he repeated.
“Yes.”
“Adam said you had a favor to ask of me.”
“I’ve come to you to ask to guarantee my family’s safety. My family, my friends, my dog-if you can promise me that they’ll be safe, I’ll do whatever you want.”
Meyer held up a finger, as if to warn her. “You should be more careful. ‘Whatever’ is quite a lot to promise. After all, who knows what I want?”
Adam Moss shifted his weight from one side to the other, but said nothing.
“I’m ready to do whatever is necessary to protect the people I love,” Tess said. She reached into her pocket, made contact with her gun, withdrew her hand, feeling assured. “Or to stop doing it, to be more precise. I don’t know what I’ve done that has put them at risk, or what I’ve stepped in. But I give you my word I’m stopping. I’ll sign something, if that’s what you want, give up my investigator’s license if I have to. All I ask is that you stop.”
“Miss Monaghan, I don’t know who you are. I never heard of you before you sought this meeting, although I know your uncle, Donald Weinstein, by reputation.”
Something in his tone suggested it wasn’t a very good reputation. This hurt, but Tess knew she had to withstand such petty insults.
“Adam knows me.” Hammersmith looked at Adam, who gave the smallest of nods. “And you and Adam are the powers behind the throne, right? You’re the ones who are orchestrating Dahlgren’s congressional run. Toward what end, I can’t guess and I no longer care. Just tell me what I have to do, and I’ll do it. I’ll forget about Gwen Schiller and Henry Dembrow and Domenick’s Bar. For what it’s worth, I never did figure out how it was connected to Dahlgren, or either of you.”
But I must have been close, she wanted to say. I must have gotten real close if people had to die and houses had to burn.
In another part of her mind, she also wanted to say: I’m sorry, Gwen. I’m so sorry I have to give you up. But you’re dead, I can’t save you.
Hammersmith blinked his turtle eyes, blinked them again. “I am Senator Dahlgren’s finance chairman. My only concern is to amass a war chest so formidable that other Democrats will think twice before entering the race. Adam is on Dahlgren’s legislative staff. He has no official role in the campaign, although he does occasionally help us with opposition research.”
“Opposition research? Oh, you mean digging up dirt on potential rivals.”
“As you wish,” Hammersmith said.
“Do you limit yourself to research, or do you actively create opportunities for blackmail, by sending Nicola DeSanti’s girls to local hotels to meet lonely politicos?” She was thinking of Gene Fulton, escorting the pseudo-waitress from Domenick’s to Harbor Court Hotel.
If there was any expression to be read on Hammersmith’s face, it was boredom. “An interesting idea and I wouldn’t be surprised if such things have happened. Nicola has been very active in Democratic politics over the years. But you don’t have to fight that dirty, Miss Monaghan, when you have money and a squeaky clean candidate. Backbenchers have their advantages. They’re too unimportant to be bribed, or get into trouble. No one has anything on Kenny Dahlgren, because he hasn’t done anything. He’s never even carried a major piece of legislation.”