"Bullshit," Kitty said, breaking down and flattening the now empty boxes. "You didn't want to go to Western, my dear niece, because you came out of the womb with a taste for testosterone. You hated Western because you resented being in a flirting-free zone."

"You've got it backward. We could flirt all we wanted-out in the quad at lunch time, with the boys from Polytechnic. I wanted to argue with them, compete with them for the highest grades and see if they would still ask me out."

"Tess, you were a C-cup at age twelve. Einstein could have gotten a date with a Poly boy if he had breasts. In fact, Einstein with breasts is probably the Poly ideal to this day."

Kitty's latest boyfriend, who appeared to be twenty-five to her forty-whatever, picked this moment to enter the store, clutching an armful of irises whose ragged stems indicated they had been pilfered from someone else's garden. Will Elam. Will He Last, to Tess. A graduate student, he was a little scrawny and a lot too brainy for Kitty. The smart ones never went quietly at the end of the two, three weeks she allotted her boyfriends. They always wanted to know why, when there was no why, other than Kitty's low threshold for boredom.

"Now that you mention it, I think I know which side of the family that boy-crazy gene came down on," Tess said.

Kitty, cooing over her flowers, ignored her. Will was lost in Kitty-land, that tiny country where the flag was the color of strawberry-blond curls, the official scent was Garden Botanika freesia, and the only sound one heard was a contralto whisper.

"I'm going out," Tess announced, on the off chance someone might be paying attention to her. "Don't wait up."

At the Daily Grind, Tess insisted on paying for Martin Tull's latte and chocolate biscotti.

"I take it you want a favor," he said dryly.

"How crass. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I want to treat for once, instead of having you grab the check as if I were a charity case?"

"And maybe you want a favor."

"Maybe," she said, stirring a little sugar into her cappuccino. No reason to rush. Tull's curiosity would eventually get the better of him. He had an avid interest in her little business, in part because he had played matchmaker between her and his retired colleague, Edward Keyes. Tess suspected the switch to private detective was a change he might make himself one day, if the commissioner ever made good on his threat to rotate him to other departments. Homicide was Tull's calling. As long as he was allowed to practice his vocation, he wouldn't leave.

But he was distracted just now, his eyes sliding over to the recreation pier across the street from the coffeehouse.

"They're not there," Tess said.

"Who?" His voice was all innocence, as if he hadn't glanced at the pier several times already.

"Your alter egos. They're on hiatus. I always forget, which one is based on you? The blond one whose eyes are too close together or the bald, smoldering one?"

"He's not bald anymore and he's leaving the show, even if it gets picked up for another season."

"Thought you didn't watch."

"It's in the papers, sometimes. I read the articles to make sure the show isn't going to be a shoot in my neighborhood. They close streets and everything, it's a real hassle. They like Hamilton, I guess. There's a lot of variety in the houses up in Northeast District. Looks good on TV."

Tess smiled. Leave it to Baltimore, usually so finicky about its national image, to embrace a television program that spotlighted its murder rate. The network television show about Baltimore homicide cops was such a part of the city now that a robber had once surrendered to the actors by mistake. True, production could be something of a pain, especially here in Fells Point, where the recreation pier stood in for police headquarters. But the show got the city right, and after all those years of being force-fed Los Angeles and New York locations, it was thrilling just to hear some pretty boy say "Wilkens Avenue" and "Fort McHenry Tunnel" on national television, as if they were real places.

"But it's why we always meet here, isn't it? Because you like to sneak peeks at the actors."

"I like coffee, and I don't like bars," Tull said. "You live in Fells Point. Where else are we going to meet?"

"Another coffeehouse?"

A blonde at the next table was trying to catch Tull's eye, with no luck. He never noticed women. Well, almost never-an ex-wife lurked somewhere in his past. Then again, maybe that's why she was an ex, because he hadn't paid any attention to her. Tull was maddeningly reticent on the subject. Meanwhile, women were always heaving and sighing in his presence, practically falling at his feet, but this ace detective just couldn't crack the case of his own intriguing looks. Inside, he was forever a short, skinny kid with bad skin, not to mention those comically small hands and feet.

Tess didn't have any romantic yearnings toward him. She would remain under her self-imposed dating ban until she figured out why her judgment in these matters had been so historically wretched. Of the last three men in her life, one was dead, one was in jail, and one was in Texas. She wouldn't wish any of those fates on Tull the teetotaler.

"Do you have a drinking problem?" she asked suddenly.

"Now that would be a cliché, wouldn't it?" replied Tull. "The alcoholic cop."

"A cliché is merely a truth that's become banal through repetition."

"What if I told you I think you drink too much, so I make you meet me here, where you can't abuse anything but caffeine?"

Tess considered this. Such personal observations fascinated her, even unflattering ones. Did she drink too much, or was Tull simply trying to deflect her question? She followed H. L. Mencken's tips for responsible alcohol consumption: Never drink before sundown and never drink three days in a row. Well, she more or less followed those rules. Obviously, you weren't supposed to wait for evening once daylight savings time kicked in. And an occasional glass of wine at lunch was merely civilized.

"I'd say you were trying to change the subject on me," she said. "Besides, talk about clichés. Everyone thinks I do everything to excess. I can go cold turkey on anything, any time. Just try me."

"Like men. Which means I can't try you." He was teasing her. Tull would have run for the exits if he thought she had a romantic interest in him. Tess was suddenly aware of Nancy LaMott's voice on the sound system, rubbing against them like an affectionate cat. It was one of those uncanny moments when background music suddenly became a suitable soundtrack. "Moon River" in this case. Two drifters. Huckleberry friends, whatever the hell that meant.

"Breakfast at Tiffany's," Tull said.

"Great story, crappy movie." Tess sobbed every time she saw it.

"Did I ever tell you how George Peppard got me through insomnia? Some station was showing ‘Banacek' reruns every night. Cleared up my problem in no time."

"When was this? After your divorce?"

"I don't remember." So near, so far away. She had run smack into another one of Martin Tull's internal firewalls. He could remember the details of every homicide he had worked in the city, but he always claimed virtual amnesia when asked a personal question.

"So, I actually had clients today," she said, knowing this was a subject he would welcome.

"Yeah?"

"Two clients in one day. One very direct, slam-dunk missing persons thing. God bless Autotrack."

Tull snapped his biscotti in two with his small, very even white teeth. "A lot of that computer stuff is illegal, or should be. I don't want to know too much about how you do what you do. Puts me in a difficult position."