“Not me,” Tess said. “But a certain police officer I know will be able to get the numbers. He owes me a favor. I think.” Actually, she had lost track on who owed what in the Martin Tull-Tess Monaghan favor exchange. She might have to ask for credit.

“Cool,” Sukey said. “You know, I think I want to be a private investigator when I grow up.”

“Oh lord, Sukey. Please try to find a real job.”

“What’s a real job?”

Tess thought about this. “One with paid medical, and a lunchroom with a microwave, maybe even a cafeteria with hot food. Better yet, free long-distance phone calls and co-workers to waste time with. One with United Way drives and employee-of-the-month contests and a company newsletter and endless requests to kick in five dollars here and ten dollars there for Susie in accounting who just had a baby or a wedding or a divorce or a new filling.”

She warmed to the subject. “One with a cubicle and a desk that snags your panty hose and endless memos about the right way to dispose of recyclables. And lots and lots of petty intrigue and small-minded politics, all intended to distract you from the fact that you’re getting two percent raises from a company that’s returning twenty percent to its stockholders. That’s a real grown-up’s job, Sukey. Not what I do.”

Thank God, she thought. Thank God.

“So what are you going to do when you grow up?” Sukey smiled, pleased with herself at being able to turn that dreaded question on someone else for once.

“I’ll worry about that when the day comes.”

“Don’t be so impatient,” Crow said, rubbing the knot that had taken up residence at the base of her neck. “You can’t rush the phone company. It’s like poking a sleeping dinosaur with a twig.”

“I know, I know,” Tess said. “But I had hoped to hear from them before the weekend. Waiting is much less tolerable when no one is footing the bill for it.”

She took a sip of her eggnog, the sensible kind that was almost all brandy. They were at an open house held every year by one of the old Star columnists, who built an elaborate Christmas garden in his basement. In his version of Baltimore, it was still the 1970s, with all the old stores open for business-Read’s Drugs, Hutzler’s, Hoschild’s. He also had learned how to make it appear as if the Beacon-Light were on fire.

“The little figures, screaming in the windows?” he told Tess and Crow. “Those are all the editors who refused to hire me when the Star folded. The bastards.”

“Cool,” Crow said.

“Tull says I’ll probaby have it first thing Monday morning,” Tess said. “It’s hard to wait, though.”

“I guess it is,” Crow commiserated. “Hey, is that supposed to be the governor tied to the train tracks?”

Tess looked closely. “No, it’s the senator who blocked the gay rights legislation last session.”

Crow wrapped his arms around her from behind, rested his chin on her shoulder. “Now this is my idea of a Christmas tradition. What do you want for Christmas, anyway?”

“A neon sign that says ‘Human Hair.’ How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Funny, that’s exactly what I want.”

What I really want, Tess was thinking, is a resolution to this mess before the end of the year. She wanted to look at the log of numbers called from that pay phone on November fifth, and find-find what, exactly? Gene Fulton’s home number would work. A call to Domenick’s. Then she would feel comfortable telling her father what she knew about his co-worker. He would be outraged, shocked, surprised.

That was what she really wanted for Christmas. She wanted her father to be shocked, truly shocked that there had been gambling in Casablanca.

The list came crawling off her office fax machine the next day. Tull had wanted to bring it by in person-“The numbers are so small, you might not be able to read them from a fax”-but Tess had told him her eyesight was still pretty good.

A day in the life of a city pay phone was more interesting than she would have guessed. There were dozens of outgoing calls, and most were made with some sort of calling card. Tess focused on the local ones first, checking each number against the bound crisscross directory, then using a reverse directory on the Internet if that failed to turn up the number. She ended up calling most of them anyway, just to be sure. It was slow, tedious work, and she found herself wishing that Sukey could see her now. Heigh-ho, the glamorous life.

She concentrated on the local calls, the 410 ones, ignoring the 301s, 202s, 302s, and 215s scattered among the listings. Gene Fulton’s number was not among those she checked. Neither was Domenick’s. Nor was Eric Collins one of the listings she checked. If there was another name, another number, that Tess thought she might find, she didn’t admit it, not even to herself. At any rate, if that number came up, she wouldn’t need a directory to identify it.

But so many of the numbers fell outside the listings. She called blind, using different stories to cajole names from the skeptical, harried women who snatched up the phones on the fifth or sixth ring. It was slow going, but by midday, she had hit most of the local numbers on the list.

And she had nothing. Except for a reddened left ear.

She moved on to the 301 numbers, which covered the Washington suburbs and the western part of the state. The Schillers lived in that area code. More nothing. She had not contemplated this much nothingness since she tried taking a philosophy course in her freshman year at Washington College, and discovered it made her head hurt. All these numbers, all these codes, all these calls. How could so much life emanate from three pay phones in Locust Point? Drug dealers preferred the illegal pay phones around the city, which actually outnumbered the legal ones. The calls made here were probably much more mundane. Car trouble, what was the name of that guy, again, and I’m stopping at the market, do you need anything? All those calls and one of them, just one of them, was Gwen Schiller’s call for help.

A call for help.

Damn, she was stupid sometimes. Why would Gwen, alone and scared, reach out to the very people she presumably was running from? Why would she call Gene Fulton, or Domenick’s, or anyone in the DeSanti family? Tess had been so intent on finding a link that she had not thought this through properly. Gwen was waiting for someone, someone who had to come to her and find her in a very public, accessible place, Fort McHenry, a place that any out-of-towner could find, a place where no one could sneak up on you. She checked the long distance calls again: There were seven to the D.C. suburbs, four to 202, which was D.C. proper. Two to Delaware, 302. And one to 215, which was Philadelphia.

Philadelphia. Where, as Tess knew, Gwen did have a contact. A contact who said she hadn’t heard from her since leaving Persephone’s Place.

Tess dialed the number. It rang five times before Devon Whittaker’s cool, dry voice assured her that she was so sorry she had missed her call, but please leave a message and she would get right back to you.

Tess wondered if Gwen Schiller had listened to the same message, a little over a year ago.

It was not a day for trains, to bend her schedule to anyone else’s. Tess was in her car within five minutes, stopping only to drop Esskay at Kitty’s store.

“Do you think this is what it would be like if we had a baby?” Crow wondered. “You handing it off to me in a Snugli, while you strap on your gun and head out into the world?”

“I’m not strapping on my gun,” she said. “I’m just carrying it in my knapsack. And don’t talk about babies, okay? One day at a time.”

“As long as there’s a tomorrow,” Crow said, watching Esskay as she climbed into one of the store’s easy chairs and made herself at home. Tess was already out the door, her mind racing ahead of her as she sped across Eastern Avenue and then up I-95.