Tess let the last remark go. Feeney needed to get his shots in.

"OK, I'll admit it, I'm calling for a favor. Did one judge handle most of the asbestos cases before consolidation? I'm trying to track down a plaintiff, but all I know is how much he was awarded and that he's still pretty feisty for someone who's dying."

"Those cases go from judge to judge. It's a real dog assignment. And I can't see any plaintiff standing out from the crowd. They're just a bunch of sick old men."

"That's the thing: This old man was healthy enough to chase someone around with a Louisville Slugger not long ago."

Feeney laughed. "Well, unless he chased the judge, he's not going to have made much of an impression. But drop by some day-not today, because I have a hearing in fifteen minutes-and we'll play with the Beacon-Light's library, see what it can kick out for us."

"Thanks, KVF."

"See ya, Tess."

She hung up and left the library the way she had come in, and headed to Tyner's office, ready for a day of photocopying and answering phones. Tyner had started sneaking all sorts of work on her plate, things that had nothing to do with Rock's case. The secret tasks, the ones she assigned herself, made those dull jobs tolerable. In fact she loved sitting in Tyner's office, knowing she had done an end run around him.

At dinner that night, Tess had Kitty to herself, a rare thing. She adored Kitty, but even thirty years after junior high her aunt still threw herself into her affairlets with a single-minded vigor that left everyone else behind. Tess missed Kitty when she was in love, and she was almost always in love.

Kitty topped off their wineglasses. "You've got the Monaghan constitution, Tesser, despite that unhealthy obsession with exercise. I'm not sure it's such a blessing, though. For one thing, it costs more to get a buzz on."

"I don't know. I think my high tolerance for all things comes from both sides. The Weinsteins probably were all addicts, back when they had the drugstore. I bet Poppa had pharmaceutical cocaine and the Weinstein women scarfed down speed to keep their weight down."

"Cocaine wasn't Poppa Weinstein's vice," Kitty said, then clapped her hand over her mouth as if she had given something away.

"What? What? What are you talking about?"

Kitty shook her head, her hand still cupped over her mouth, her green eyes wide, little tears of laughter at the corners.

"Tell me. We never have secrets." It was a lie, for Tess had always hoarded a few, but the lie worked. Kitty left the room and came back with a wooden box stamped TUXEDO SHOE POLISH.

"As you know this place was the Weinstein Drugs flagship. Well, I found this in the third-story storage room, the one that became your apartment, when I bought the place," she said, flipping up the lid and revealing a blinding flash of cleavage. The box was filled with skin magazines. Blondes, brunettes, redheads, in nightgowns and bathing suits and nothing at all. But the overwhelming impression was of breasts, in hues ranging from creamy white to coffee brown.

On closer inspection, which Kitty and Tess were glad to make, the twenty-year-old magazines seemed almost wholesome by today's standards. No S and M, no single-theme issues dedicated to big rear ends or freakish chests. Just lots and lots of naked women. Oh, Poppa Weinstein, Tess thought, and we assumed all you cared about was real estate and competing with Rite Aid.

"Are you sure they were his?"

Kitty shrugged. "It was pretty well hidden near an old safe. I don't think they belonged to Rachel." That would be Momma Weinstein, whose only known passion was for her beloved springer spaniels. If Tess had been married to Rachel Weinstein, she might have had a similar stash.

"Why did you keep them?"

"I thought I could use them for a censorship display one day, or one on pornography. They're so retro it's almost innocent. No AIDS, no condoms, and the pill was still a godsend. I was in my twenties when these magazines came out. I could have been in one of these magazines."

Kitty and Tess drifted into their discrete musings. Kitty appeared to be thinking about her glory days, which Tess doubted were one-tenth as glorious as her current life as Fells Point's resident goddess-merchant. Tess was mulling over Poppa Weinstein, her dirty old grandpa. At first she felt the way one does after making the connection between one's conception and one's parents. But after the initial queasiness subsided, Tess decided it was sweet. Well, not sweet, but OK. At least he wasn't luring little girls behind the soda fountain, just curling up with the very magazines he refused to sell.

She hoped.

The phone rang in Kitty's office, a narrow room between the kitchen and the bookstore proper. "That should be Thaddeus." She floated to the phone, ever the teenage girl, but was back in a few seconds.

"The thrill is gone?" Tess asked.

"No, it's for you. Since when do you give the store number out?"

"Tyner put it on my ‘business' cards because he knows I don't always answer upstairs. Sorry-it didn't occur to me anyone was going to use it."

In the office Tess picked up the sleek, modern phone on Kitty's desk. A deep voice, hesitant and sweet, spoke softly into her right ear. "Miss Monaghan? It's Frank Miles, the custodian from the Lambrecht Building."

"Mr. Miles." She imagined him, girth squeezed into his easy chair, scarfing down a whole bag of Hydroxes. A black Santa Claus on his throne. No beard, though. "What can I do for you?"

"I was thinking-I have so much time to myself, to sit here and think-and I remembered something. There was a man, Miss Monaghan. An angry man."

"Where, Mr. Miles? At the office?"

"Yes. He came to see Mr. Abramowitz a few months ago and said horrible things, ugly things. It was after hours, so I heard them. He wanted money. He said he would kill Mr. Abramowitz if he didn't get his money."

"Was it a man with a baseball bat? The man written up in the paper? Do you remember what month this was?"

"No-maybe spring, maybe summer."

"With a baseball bat?"

"A baseball bat? I think there was. Or maybe I just heard about it later."

"Did you catch his name, Mr. Miles? Did you see him?"

A long, sad sigh. "No. No. I'm sorry." He sounded hurt and defensive, as if he regretted disappointing her.

Tess wanted to sigh, too, with frustration. He hadn't told her anything she didn't know. But he had kept her card. He had called. Maybe he would remember something worthwhile.

"I am going to check into it, Mr. Miles," she reassured him. "It's a good tip, a really good tip. I bet there's something there."

That cheered him up. "He was an angry man, Miss Monaghan. Angry over money. Isn't that a shame? He was mad because they hadn't paid him for dying, the way they promised. Who needs money for dying?"

"It's a good tip," Tess repeated. "And I think I know who it was." I just don't know his name.

"You're good at your job, Miss Monaghan. You're very conscientious, a good, hard worker. I noticed that right off. Good night, Miss Monaghan."

Conscientious. Good at her job. When had Tess heard that last? She couldn't remember. The words almost made her want to weep, to thank Mr. Miles profusely, to make her parents proud of her, to get an MBA or go to law school.

But all she said was, "Good night, Mr. Miles."