The Sugar House

“If I could have your attention for a moment, ladies and gentlemen.” Between her vowel sounds and golden hair, she had it immediately. “This fund-raiser was to have been a joyful event, celebrating the fact that the campaign has already passed the $1 million mark in contributions. But I’m afraid it has been overshadowed by a tragedy, the apparent death of Senator Dahlgren’s legislative aide, Adam Moss.”

The crowd dutifully murmured in shock, although Tess sensed they were merely being polite. If anything, the party-goers seemed a little a

“State police found Adam’s car this morning in Sandy Point Park, along with a note, indicating he pla

Herman Peters unsheathed his notebook with one hand, and began dialing his cell phone with the other. Tess put a hand on the notebook. “Not yet,” she whispered. “There’s more.”

Dahlgren walked up on the stage now, his face arranged in a suitably somber expression.

“The fact is,” Whitney took two sheets of paper from one of her skirt’s deep pockets, “Adam cared so much about the senator that his note details how Meyer Hammersmith has tainted the campaign by making illegal contributions. Apparently, Hammersmith tried to skirt the federal limits by using dead people and the employees of a Southwest Baltimore bar owner, Nicola DeSanti, to pour his own money into the campaign.”

This earned the gasps and scandalized whispers that Adam Moss’s mere suicide had failed to incite. Dahlgren stopped and stared at Whitney, forgetting to close his mouth. Tess could imagine her father saying: Once a backbencher, always a backbencher. Thinking about her father still stung. They had not spoken since the fire.

“Adam indicates in his letter that Hammersmith’s betrayal of the senator may have been the result of a love triangle. It appears the two men had quarreled over someone. Who, it’s not clear, but Adam seems to take personal responsibility for the rift. He asks the State Police not to prosecute Dahlgren, whom he describes as a man of integrity”-Whitney squinted at the letter as if reading it for the first time-“the only man I ever…Hmm. Well, Adam probably didn’t want that part read out loud.”

Tess had kept an eye on Hammersmith while Whitney was speaking. He had been backing up steadily along one wall of the banquet hall, until he was at the rear. She watched him slip away now, through the kitchen doors. Herman Peters saw it, too, and started after him, but Tess held his arm.

“The story’s here. Don’t run after him for a ‘no comment.’ You can get as much by phone later. I have his number.”

Dahlgren, a pale man to begin with, looked ghastly now, his broad forehead sweating, his eyes taking on that Dan-Quayle-in-the-headlights glaze. He tried to nudge Whitney away from the podium, but she didn’t yield. He pushed her more overtly. She held her ground, smiling sweetly. In desperation, Dahlgren yanked the mike from the stand and stepped around her, trying to get the crowd’s attention back.

“It’s Christmas time, a joyful time of year for all of us,” he said. “And Hanukkah time, too, of course, as well as Kwanzaa for many of our friends here tonight. But it’s not April Fool’s Day, a fact my staffers seem to have forgotten. I’m sorry for this ill-advised practical joke. It’s not at all fu

“No, it’s not fu

At this point, Dahlgren bolted from the stage, looking as if he were going to be sick. Det. Martin Tull was waiting for him at the stage’s edge.

“Senator, I’m arresting you for withholding evidence about a homicide in the city of Baltimore, a felony crime.” A friendly state’s attorney had agreed to let Tull take Dahlgren in, knowing the charge would never stand. The real case against Dahlgren was in the campaign records, and the only punishment the state would ever exact was the end of his political career. But Tess had been adamant-she wanted a public perp walk for this very public perp. She had even called the television stations she hated so much, and instructed them to wait outside Martin’s West. “Good visuals?” the weekend assignment editors had all chirped. “Superb visuals,” she had promised.

“Now you’ve got your story,” she told Herman Peters, who wore a rapt expression, like a little boy regarding his first bicycle on Christmas Day. The end of his homicide streak was clearly forgotten now.

“Do you think she’d give me her copy of the suicide note?” He was nodding toward Whitney, who still held center stage.

“Take mine,” Tess said. “I’ve got a photocopy she gave me when I came in. It’s very complete, it explains how everything fits together-Hammersmith, Dahlgren, the death of Gwen Schiller. But grab Whitney now if you have any questions. We’re meeting my boyfriend for a late supper at the Brass Elephant bar.”

In the end, Herman Peters never got that comment from Meyer Hammersmith. No one did. Meyer went home that night, lay down on his chaise longue, and slit his wrists. He didn’t leave a note, but the velvet-lined box of tattoo implements that police found next to him told Tess everything she needed to know. That was Peters’s second page-one story, leading the paper on Monday.

The third one explained how Whitney had infiltrated the campaign at Tess’s behest, and how she had already been on the trail of the illegal contributions when Adam killed himself, distraught over Dahlgren’s cynical reaction to Gwen Schiller’s murder. Then the state police revealed the trunk of Adam Moss’s car contained all the documents the state attorney general and the feds needed to proceed with an inquiry into the Dahlgren campaign’s fund-raising. That was page-one story number four.

But now it was Christmas Eve, and the Dahlgren saga had petered out. Or maybe it was just on hiatus, while the Blight fell back on the old newspaper trick of ru

She sat in her office, reconciling her books for the end of the year, trying to prepare her state taxes before she took a friend to the train station. She was determined to take the last week of the year off, whatever happened. She had earned it. She sorted through receipts, pondered whether she should try to bill Ruthie for the work she had done when she was pretending not to work. Probably not. Ruthie had hung up on her the last time they spoke. She was furious at the deal Tess had cut, letting Nicola DeSanti off the hook for Henry’s death in return for giving up her own grandson and great-grandson. Ruthie wanted more. She would always want more, Tess now realized. If Nicola DeSanti went to jail, Ruthie would just focus all her anger and grief on the inmate who had carried out the contract. Henry’s death had left her perpetually unfinished and dissatisfied.

Tess also couldn’t decide where to file her copy of Adam Moss’s suicide note. It didn’t seem to belong in her Gwen Schiller file. Adam didn’t seem to belong anywhere. She had an image of his body coming to rest on some far shore of the Bay, a ravaged, waterlogged John Doe, impossible to identify. Those were pearls that were his eyes.