Product. Colleen Reganhart had definitely gone over to the other side. When you were a reporter, it was a story, an article, your life's blood on the page. The higher you went in the organization, the more it resembled canned ham.

"Of course, if you called the FBI, or even the Baltimore police, you couldn't control what happened to the information they uncovered," Tess said innocently, as if thinking out loud. "If it got out the story ran by mistake-excuse me, that the story ran early-and there are any in accuracies in the story, Wink Wynkowski may be able to prove actual malice, which is essential to a public figure who wants to bring a libel suit. Certainly it would be an interesting test case, probably the first of its kind."

Reganhart raised her eyebrows, dark, straight lines that made her look as if she were constantly frowning. "Perhaps. Our lawyers tell us he could prove negligence in our security system. But that's all. We stand by our story. In fact, we're quite proud of having exposed this fucking charlatan." With her raven black hair, bright blue suit, and salty tongue, she brought to mind the infamous mynah bird who had been removed from the Baltimore zoo for cursing out visitors.

"So why did you hold such a hot story to begin with?" Tess asked. "I know you don't have any real competition, but I think you would want to run this story before Wynkowski signed a letter of intent with an out-of-town basketball team. It would have been heartbreaking to report that the city was getting a team, then announce the owner was never going to survive the NBA's scrutiny. And what if the city had gone ahead and started on the new arena, only to find out Wink was already entertaining offers for his team?"

Mabry seemed to come into focus for a second, like an autistic child enjoying a moment of clarity. "News judgment is not a science, Miss Monaghan. Interests must be balanced. Men do outrun their pasts. It was not our role to judge Mr. Wynkowski's fitness as an NBA owner, or to shape the decision the league will make. We do not wish to be ‘players' in that sense. We had to ask ourselves, what is relevant? What is fair? Is it really necessary to reveal Mr. Wynkowski's unpleasant but largely trivial past? In the event we do so, shouldn't he have the right to know who his accusers are? That, most of all, was the real issue here. It is still the issue that concerns me."

His piece said, Mabry retreated back into his private world. Pfieffer hadn't spoken since his opening remarks, but he was paying careful attention, watching the interplay among his top editors with great interest. Colleen glared at Lionel, while Jack Sterling doodled on a legal pad before him.

"So the story is fine and everyone lives happily after-except, obviously, Wink. What am I supposed to do?"

Again, Colleen Reganhart and Jack Sterling began speaking at the same time. Again she cut him off.

"Tomorrow, our assistant managing editors, Marvin Hailey and Guy Whitman, will walk you through the normal procedures here and give you a list of people to interview. We don't expect you to find the person responsible, but we assume you can eliminate the majority of the people who were in the building at the time."

"Can't your security system at least narrow down who had left for the night?"

"Unfortunately, we put in a new security system last fall, after the old system was, um, breached. The new one breaks down all the time, and has been down for two weeks now, forcing us to prop open the doors with trash cans. But I'm sure you'll find most of our employees were home with their families the night this happened." Reganhart made "families" sound more profane than any of the expletives she had used. "All we ask is that you interview all relevant newsroom employees, tape the conversations, then turn the tapes and transcripts over to us. Anything you discover is the property of the Beacon-Light. Your contract also will have a confidentiality clause, forbidding you to discuss this matter with other news organizations-or anyone else. Your information belongs to us."

Tess wanted to ask about the movie rights, but thought better of it. "Do you want me to work out of this building, or my office in Mount Vernon?"

"We prefer you do everything on site," Jack Sterling said, finally beating Colleen Reganhart to the punch. "You'll have a cubicle on the third floor, where the old presses used to be. For the duration of your contract, you'll also have a security card and a temporary ID, so you can come and go as you please."

"What about the union? Won't it keep the employees from cooperating with me?

Colleen Reganhart stood. "Let us worry about the union."

Pfieffer jumped to his feet, hands on his hips as if ready to lead a cheer-make that a yell-while Sterling stretched, audibly cracking his lower back. Only Lionel Mabry continued to sit, staring out the window at a brown-breasted pigeon on the ledge. Even by a pigeon's standards, it was a mangy thing, vicious and cruel looking.

"What a pretty, pretty bird," Lionel cooed with pleasure. "Spring's first robin."

Sour and disoriented, Tess left the Beacon-Light feeling as if she had spent an hour trapped with a querulous family in some run-down boardwalk fun house. She made her way carefully down Saratoga Street, her usually quick stride slowed by the unfamiliar high heels.

"S' cuse me, miss. You know the way to the hospital?"

An old car had pulled alongside her, a bright blue AMC Hornet that had to be at least twenty years old, one of those lumpy little seventies cars like the Pacer, which had seemed good ideas at the time. The man calling out to her was in the passenger seat. Burly and bearded, he wore dark glasses that hid most of his face, despite the overcast skies.

"There's more than one," she said, taking care to make sure she wasn't within grabbing distance, a street-smart practice drilled into her years ago by a paranoid mother. "Is it an emergency, or are you looking for a particular one?"

The man twisted his head to confer with someone in the backseat, someone Tess couldn't see, then turned back to her.

"It's a Catholic one," he said. "That help?"

"You must mean Mercy. Go straight and you'll see it in about four blocks."

Again, a hushed conference with the backseat. "Naw, that's not it. The one we want is named for some lady. Agatha, Annie, somethin' like that."

"St. Agnes?"

"Yeah. We got a friend there. Got beat up real bad. Word is, he might not make it."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Tess said, taking a step back and casing the street quickly. There were a couple of stores along this strip and a one-way alley she could dart down. She'd kick her shoes off if she had to, make a run for it in her stocking feet.

"Yeah, poor old Joe is at death's door, the doctors say." Then why was he grinning so broadly?

"Joe?"

"Joe Johnson. Real good guy. You know him? Small world and all, like they say."

"No, but I can help you find St. Agnes. It's way out in the suburbs. Take the next right, go up about two blocks, and then make a left on Franklin, taking it out to the Beltway, then take the Beltway to I-95 South and get off at Jessup." If they followed her directions, they'd go wildly out of their way and end up either at the State Police barracks or one of the state prisons. She had a feeling either destination would be appropriate.

"Thanks. Hey, can we drop you off wherever you're going?" The back door opened, but not wide enough for Tess to see anyone in the backseat.

"No! I mean-I wouldn't want to take you out of your way. I'm sure you're anxious to see…Joe."

"Oh yeah, we're real anxious." The man smiled at her, and the car roared off. She watched them head north as she had instructed, then made her way to the closest pay phone. Spike was in intensive care, the nurse reminded her. No one but family was allowed to visit, and no one but Kitty and her parents had tried.