doing that and I think two things,” Sandy said. “One is that, one day, I’m going to have to give you the Heimlich.”
“And the second thing?”
“I never want to borrow a pen from you.”
“I feel like there’s a third thing you want to tell me.”
Sandy grabbed the handle above his seat. He claimed Tess’s driving made him nervous. “Unfinished business here. She didn’t hire you because you’re the best of the best of the best. Sorry—but you said it first, security isn’t our bailiwick .” He was clearly proud of himself for remembering that word. “So what do you want to do?”
She wanted to finish the work as contracted and be free from Melisandre Harris Dawes. But visions of sugarplums—food, clothing, braces, college tuition—danced in her head. A visit to the Four Seasons meant more billable hours.
“Is it okay if I drop you at the hotel and let you approach management alone? This is going to be delicate and you still have your cop gravitas. You’ll probably get further than I ever would.”
“Sure. What are you going to do?”
“I thought I’d go to the boathouse. I need to think, and I think best on the water.”
“Fine with me. But I thought you said you couldn’t go back on the water until April, that it was too cold to row yet.”
“All the serious rowers get back on the water by March. I’m just not serious anymore.”
*
Tess retrieved her shell from the rack at the boathouse. Rowing technology had come a ways since her time as a mediocre college rower, and she now had a shell that was extremely light, yet hadn’t killed her bank account. Workout clothes were different, too, concocted of magic fibers that wicked moisture away and kept warmth in or, depending on the weather, wicked moisture away and let the warmth out. The magic of Under Armour. Like a lot of native Baltimoreans, Tess was amazed when anything from her hometown became a national phenomenon. Yet there was Under Armour’s headquarters on her rowing route, a thriving hive of activity where Procter & Gamble had turned out Ivory, Tide, Dawn, and Cascade. Locust Point, a working-class neighborhood once, was making a move on hip and trendy. It was even the site of a couple of swank condo developments, including 13 Stories, Melisandre’s new home.
But for everything that had changed about Tess’s rowing routine, one thing remained constant. Tess went to the water to think. Or, more precisely, not to think, which was when solutions came to her. Today, her body was a little stiff from winter; she never worked out as much as she intended to over the cold-weather months, not since Carla Scout’s arrival. Ah, well, she wasn’t even forty. She could return to her peak shape with a little effort, not that her peak was that formidable. More like a Maryland mountain, certainly nothing you’d find out west. Not that Tess had ever been out west. She had barely left her home state. She had never traveled abroad. She could probably count on her fingers the number of times she had been on an airplane.
How had this happened? No one planned to be a boring stick-in-the-mud. But in her twenties, working as a reporter, Tess had had almost no money and very little vacation time. And then she had had all the time in the world—and zero money, because she had been laid off. Circumstances had thrown her into her PI gig, and she was good at it, even if the local newspaper, the Beacon-Light , had hung that stupid moniker, the Accidental Detective, on her. Crow had said that article was practically a blueprint for stalking.
Then she became an accidental mom. Soon, Tess supposed, she would be an accidental spouse, assuming she and Crow ever found time to get the license, go to the courthouse. But there was never time.
Money. Time. The first was theoretically infinite. Tess had always embraced the wisdom of Mr. Bernstein in Citizen Kane : It’s not hard to make a lot of money, if all you want to do is make a lot of money. But the
“And the second thing?”
“I never want to borrow a pen from you.”
“I feel like there’s a third thing you want to tell me.”
Sandy grabbed the handle above his seat. He claimed Tess’s driving made him nervous. “Unfinished business here. She didn’t hire you because you’re the best of the best of the best. Sorry—but you said it first, security isn’t our bailiwick .” He was clearly proud of himself for remembering that word. “So what do you want to do?”
She wanted to finish the work as contracted and be free from Melisandre Harris Dawes. But visions of sugarplums—food, clothing, braces, college tuition—danced in her head. A visit to the Four Seasons meant more billable hours.
“Is it okay if I drop you at the hotel and let you approach management alone? This is going to be delicate and you still have your cop gravitas. You’ll probably get further than I ever would.”
“Sure. What are you going to do?”
“I thought I’d go to the boathouse. I need to think, and I think best on the water.”
“Fine with me. But I thought you said you couldn’t go back on the water until April, that it was too cold to row yet.”
“All the serious rowers get back on the water by March. I’m just not serious anymore.”
*
Tess retrieved her shell from the rack at the boathouse. Rowing technology had come a ways since her time as a mediocre college rower, and she now had a shell that was extremely light, yet hadn’t killed her bank account. Workout clothes were different, too, concocted of magic fibers that wicked moisture away and kept warmth in or, depending on the weather, wicked moisture away and let the warmth out. The magic of Under Armour. Like a lot of native Baltimoreans, Tess was amazed when anything from her hometown became a national phenomenon. Yet there was Under Armour’s headquarters on her rowing route, a thriving hive of activity where Procter & Gamble had turned out Ivory, Tide, Dawn, and Cascade. Locust Point, a working-class neighborhood once, was making a move on hip and trendy. It was even the site of a couple of swank condo developments, including 13 Stories, Melisandre’s new home.
But for everything that had changed about Tess’s rowing routine, one thing remained constant. Tess went to the water to think. Or, more precisely, not to think, which was when solutions came to her. Today, her body was a little stiff from winter; she never worked out as much as she intended to over the cold-weather months, not since Carla Scout’s arrival. Ah, well, she wasn’t even forty. She could return to her peak shape with a little effort, not that her peak was that formidable. More like a Maryland mountain, certainly nothing you’d find out west. Not that Tess had ever been out west. She had barely left her home state. She had never traveled abroad. She could probably count on her fingers the number of times she had been on an airplane.
How had this happened? No one planned to be a boring stick-in-the-mud. But in her twenties, working as a reporter, Tess had had almost no money and very little vacation time. And then she had had all the time in the world—and zero money, because she had been laid off. Circumstances had thrown her into her PI gig, and she was good at it, even if the local newspaper, the Beacon-Light , had hung that stupid moniker, the Accidental Detective, on her. Crow had said that article was practically a blueprint for stalking.
Then she became an accidental mom. Soon, Tess supposed, she would be an accidental spouse, assuming she and Crow ever found time to get the license, go to the courthouse. But there was never time.
Money. Time. The first was theoretically infinite. Tess had always embraced the wisdom of Mr. Bernstein in Citizen Kane : It’s not hard to make a lot of money, if all you want to do is make a lot of money. But the
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