At twenty-nine Tess had made peace with her face and body. She wasn't beautiful, but her looks served her well. She kept things simple: long brown hair in a single plait down her back, no makeup on her pale face or hazel eyes, clothes designed for comfort and speed. One thing was certain, she had the wardrobe to be a spy-drawers full of old, baggy things in dark colors. She knew how to be invisible.

Ava lived in Eden, in Eden 's Landing, a mid-rise condominium of pink marble and glass bricks near the National Aquarium. Ahistorical and asymmetrical, it was modeled after the Pyramid of the Sun in Tenochtitlán and would have looked perfect anywhere between San Diego and Malibu. On the Baltimore waterfront the building seemed to shrink away from its neighbors, folding its terraces into itself. Eden 's Landing gave the impression it was horrified to find itself in Baltimore. On Tess's part, the horror was mutual.

She had stationed herself at a bus stop on Pratt Street, figuring she would see Ava's Mazda Miata pull out of the garage. According to Rock's tip sheet, she left for work at 7:15. At precisely 7:20 Ava appeared on foot. The first surprise of the day, Tess thought. It actually made it easier for Tess, as she had parked her Toyota in a lot across President Street, planning to follow by bicycle, which was far more practical in downtown. She stowed the bike in her trunk and hurried back to Pratt Street.

Luckily Ava was moving slowly, sauntering along Pratt. The street was congested, but it was still early for many people to be walking. Tess stopped and started her way along Pratt, trying to measure her stride against Ava's more leisurely progress. Her hair still damp from a quick shower at the boat house, she felt particularly conspicuous on the almost empty sidewalk.

Ava wasn't the type to wear running shoes and white socks beneath her trim little suit. She glided along on suede pumps with three-inch heels and ankle straps, looking straight ahead, oblivious to the bright morning, the breathtaking view of the harbor to her left, the dark hulk of the USS Constellation. Tess could have trailed her on a tricycle, ringing a metal bell, and Ava would not have noticed. She spared glances only for expensive cars and well-dressed men. Her head would turn, just barely, when she saw one with the other, giving Tess a glimpse of a familiar profile. Half the women in Baltimore had the same profile, thanks to a certain surgeon.

Despite her perfect nose Ava did not look like a real lawyer to Tess, but like a fashion magazine's idea of a lawyer, an important distinction. Her glossy black hair was curly and loose, unbound by a headband or tortoiseshell clips. Her pearl gray skirt was short and snug, her crimson blouse silk and low cut. Her pumps, which matched the blouse, would have been at home just four blocks north along the strip of nude bars and porno stores known as the Block. And Ava's briefcase, shiny black leather that looked softer than Tess's pillow, swung too loosely in her hand, as if it held nothing more than a mascara wand and lipstick.

Doubtful, Tess reminded herself. As a young associate at O'Neal, O'Connor and O'Neill, Ava would be loaded down with work, paper-intensive, nonglamorous work. But who needed glamour when you started at $80,000 a year? Nice work if you can get it, Tess hummed as Ava disappeared into the Lambrecht Building, the mirrored skyscraper that housed the Triple O. Its reflective surface made entering the building look like a magic trick: Now you see her, now you don't. Tess waited a few seconds, then circled the block, noting the building's rear exit along the alley. It also had a coffee shop with a separate entrance. There was no spot from which she could clearly see all the doors. And if Ava left in someone's car from the underground garage on the east side of the building, Tess would be clueless.

How could she be otherwise? Tess had never followed anyone in her life. She had not been that kind of reporter. As a general assignments writer she had written about people more likely to stalk her, so desperate were they for publicity. She had written about street corner evangelists, precocious premed students, even LBJ's podiatrist, now retired to Arbutus. ("Hard-working feet, but more delicate looking than you might think," the podiatrist had told her.)

She walked back to the front of the building and found a bench affording an unobstructed view of the front door and the intersection of Pratt and Howard. A homeless woman eyed her suspiciously.

"Do you know the power of the mind?" the toothless woman asked Tess.

"Yes," Tess replied, pulling a well-worn copy of Love's Lonely Counterfeit out of her battered leather knapsack, then rummaging for her Walkman.

The woman scooted a little closer to her. It was almost eighty degrees and, although the morning haze was beginning to burn off, Tess could tell it was going to be another sticky day. Yet the woman wore a gray wool cardigan over a gingham-checked housedress, thick crew socks, and heavy hiking shoes. She smelled of cigarettes, sweat, and cheap wine. Beneath it all Tess picked up a fainter, familiar scent. Lily of the valley perfume. Her grandmother, Momma Weinstein, wore it.

"Do I scare you?" the old woman asked hopefully.

"No. No, not at all."

"Could I have a quarter, then?" Tess fished in her pocket and handed her a crumpled dollar bill. She had little sentiment for panhandlers and none for her grandmother, considered a harridan by those closest to her. But a dollar should buy her a morning of silence.

The woman tucked the bill into the voluminous folds of her dress and rocked happily, singing to herself. Tess sighed and turned on her Walkman. Ella Fitzgerald, The Johnny Mercer Songbook.

She and her new friend sat on the bench for four hours without exchanging another word. Johnny Mercer gave way to Jerome Kern. "All the Things You Are." "You Couldn't Be Cuter." "I'll Be Hard to Handle." Good theme song for Ava. Tess finished her book and started over again. Obviously too short for surveillance work.

She was about to start the book for a third time when Ava appeared a few minutes past noon. She walked briskly east, briefcase in hand, looking every inch the important lawyer on her way to an important trial. A lawyer, Tess thought, who felt coolly confident because she had used the right deodorant that morning. Catty, she chided herself. I'm just jealous because her suit costs more than I make in a week. It fit perfectly, too, Tess noted. She had never been so polished. Tess considered herself well dressed if her hose didn't run and her blouse didn't pull out of her waistband.

Today, of course, Tess had dressed to disappear. Jeans, a white T-shirt hanging loose, basketball sneakers. She didn't worry about Ava remembering her face, but she had tucked her braid under a black wig, one of the Gabor sisters' creations. The wig belonged to Kitty, who wore it one memorable Halloween, playing a fortyish Cleopatra to a twenty-one-year-old Julius Caesar, an anachronism she said Shakespeare would have loved. Tess liked her raven tresses, but she wasn't sure she had achieved the low-key look she wanted. She had a feeling the ropy black strands made her look more like a would-be Rastafarian, or Crow, with his green and black dreadlocks.

She had assumed Ava would walk east, then head north on St. Paul toward the courthouse. But Ava kept going, bearing down on the Gallery like a homing pigeon. The Gallery was a four-story mall topped by the Renaissance Harborplace Hotel and filled with the same stores found in every mall in America. Tess would have thought it a little common for Ava, but Ava almost cooed with pleasure as she walked through its glass doors, throwing out her arms as if to embrace all the potential purchases waiting there.