The Last Place

The island left them alone, as much as they could leave anyone alone. For the first time in his life he envied mainland kids, with their absent parents and abundance of roads to cruise. You could do things in a car you couldn’t do in a boat. He and Becca had nowhere to go, and hardly any time to go there. And they had both wanted to go, she as much as he, maybe more. She was urgent for it, and he realized she had done it before, but that just made her longing for him sweeter. She wasn’t settling. She knew what was what, and she still wanted him. “Again,” she would say, when they finally found a place. “Again.” It was as if she was saving it up, so she would have enough to hold her until the next time. “Again.”

One afternoon, they took his boat out to a small piece of land, too small to appear on any map. Certainly, no one had ever lived there-no person, no bird, maybe not even mosquitoes. They did it again and again and again, until he was sore and they were out of protection. Still, she wanted more, and he never said no to her.

He has reached the outskirts of Virginia Beach. He checks his directions beneath the dome light, realizes he missed his turn a few miles up. The job is in a bad neighborhood. His jobs were almost always in bad neighborhoods, or at least ended up there. If people knew-but they didn’t, not unless something went wrong. That’s why he got as much work as he did. So no one would discover the secrets hidden in plain sight. He made things disappear. He could make anything, anyone, disappear.

CHAPTER 5

Five files, five dead women. No-one was a man, it turned out. How shrewdly egalitarian of the board members to throw in this case as a sop to the mostly male General Assembly. How happy Judge Halsey would be to see a male vic among the females. See, we know men can be affected by domestic violence too; women can be aggressors. Now give us some money, you assholes.

It was the day after Tess’s lunch with Whitney, who had wasted no time in providing these files. In fact, she had them in the backseat of her Suburban. She knew Tess that well and knew herself better: As recent events had proven, she could talk Tess into almost anything. Tess sat on the floor of her office, spreading the files around her, trying to figure out the most logical and efficient way to proceed. I’m not procrastinating, she told herself, I’m thinking. There really was a difference.

Her office had a quiet shabbiness that was conducive to deep thoughts. Or maybe it was the not-quite-vanquished fumes from its past lives, which included a stint as the Butchers Hill dry cleaners. Since she had bought a house in North Baltimore a year ago, this East Baltimore location no longer made much sense, but the rent was low, the paint was fresh, and it was convenient to several major bus lines. The customers of Keyes Investigations Inc. as it was known on its tax forms, tended to travel by bus. Besides, it amused her to think about how the Monaghan-Weinstein family had come full circle in just one century. She was back in the very neighborhood that both families had escaped before World War II.

Tess looked at the slender manila folders fa

Or Tess could start at the begi

She wished she had real case files, not just these sad little folders of newspaper clippings and crude computer printouts, assembled by what was clearly an amateur researcher. Ah, well, these boards had to rely on volunteers. Tess had been spoiled in recent years, getting contraband copies of files through her source in Baltimore PD. She could go to the state medical examiner’s office, where all five cases would have been autopsied, and get those reports. But cause of death was not an issue here. The point was to make sure that each case had been investigated properly, that these homicides did not remain open because of raging incompetence or a police department’s myopia about domestic violence.

Three of the victims, all young women in their twenties, were gunshot victims-two in the chest, one in the head. The fourth woman, whose DOB placed her age at forty-eight at the time of her death, had died in a suspicious fire. The man had been struck by a car while jogging, but it wasn’t clear if the case was a hit-and-run or merely an accident. Fu

But the women had died quietly, or as quietly as victims of violence ever die. They had generated a few stories in their hometown papers and the kind of obituaries that funeral homes pay for, one line at a time. Among these death notices, the only detail that caught Tess’s eye was from the older woman’s, who had not a single survivor listed to her credit, not even the generic “host of friends and relatives.” The funeral home had asked that donations be sent to the Chesapeake Bay Trust in lieu of flowers. The youngest victim, and the most recent, didn’t even have an obit. All Tess had for her was a typewritten piece of paper providing her name, address, date of birth, and the cause of death. She was the one who had been shot in the head.

Tess scribbled town names on the five thin folders and placed them around her, as if she were Baltimore and the bare wooden floor of her office was Maryland. The state was much wider than it was tall. It was typical of her luck that the cases, once arranged, made a ragged line from west to east.

The oldest case was 60 miles to the west, on the outskirts of Frederick; that was gunshot victim number one, Tiffani Gunts. A little less farther west was the arson, in Sharpsburg, a town on the Potomac River. Hazel Ligetti. Then came the young woman with the skimpiest file, in the far northwestern reaches of Baltimore County, near Pretty-boy Reservoir. Julie Carter. That case had happened just this year, but Tess didn’t recall it. She supposed she should be shocked that a local woman could get shot to death and not make the newspaper, but she was inured by now to the Beacon-Light’s failings.

The line shot up abruptly from there, a long diagonal, almost all the way to Delaware and the headwaters of the bay. This woman had died in a town where a singular lack of imagination must have overcome its founders, for it was known merely as North East. The victim’s parents had suffered no such lack; they had named their daughter Lucy Carmengia Fancher. Impossible to tell from the short newspaper articles about her death whether it was Carmenjia or a mangling of the old VW convertible, Karma

Finally, there was the male doctor, Michael Shaw, killed on Route 100, an east-west highway between Baltimore and A

One thing was clear: The board was going to owe her dearly for mileage. No matter how she plotted her course across the state, her old Toyota would rack up a lot of miles.