drink beer. They not good. Not good. They do things to girls who go with them. Chris Marrou said .”
Although Tess didn’t know this local oracle, Mrs. Nguyen’s warning made her feel cozy and cared for. She headed up Broadway, in order to get her bearings before trying the park. The neighborhood around La Casita wasn’t seedy, but it had a jumbled look to it, as if it wasn’t quite sure what it was, or what it wanted to be. There were inexpensive ethnic restaurants, the familiar fast-food chains, some upscale antiques stores, a secondhand book store, and the clothing store opened by Selena, the young Mexican-American singer killed by her own fan club president a few years back. Maybe Tess would go back to Baltimore with a sequined halter.
Within a few blocks, she came to a large museum set back from the street. The Witte Natural History Museum, according to its sign. She and Esskay walked around this and found themselves in a shadowy lane parallel to Broadway, on the park’s edge. The zoo must be nearby—she had been able to hear a lion’s roar last night. At least, she hoped it was a lion. Where was the river, though? If it were like Austin’s Town Lake, maybe she could rent a scull somewhere. She missed rowing, her day felt unfinished without it.
But the San Antonio River proved to be a narrow, sluggish channel, smaller and shallower than the streams back home. “I thought everything was supposed to be bigger in Texas,” she scoffed to Esskay. She’d be running and jumping rope for exercise as long as she was in San Antonio. She scouted a route and found a long, steep hill that ran above an amphitheater and past a Japanese-style garden.
Funny—she was worrying about running for exercise, when she should be worried about the fact that she was on the run. She would have to call Kitty, or Kitty’s machine, and leave a detailed message about what to say if a certain sheriff called. Keith would play his part perfectly, for he truly believed she was heading back to Baltimore.
At the foot of the park, on a street called Mulberry, she stopped at a convenience store and bought breakfast—a large cup of coffee, a pint of orange juice, and a bag of Fig Newtons—and some dry dog food, dog treats, and a spiral-bound map book. It occurred to her she had gone almost five days without a bagel, and this single fact made her feel truly dislocated.
Back in the gloom of La Casita, she and Esskay stretched across the synthetic flowery spread and nibbled on Fig Newtons together as Tess paged through the phone book, which was thicker than she had expected. Even so, she found what she was looking for easily enough. Marianna Barrett Conyers lived on a street named for a sock, Argyle. There was no husband’s name twinned with hers, and no coy initials to disguise the fact of a woman alone. Tess liked that in a woman, but only because it made a private investigator’s job easier. She wouldn’t have her own home number in the phone book for anything. Like most people who made their livings invading the privacy of others, she had become intensely protective of her own.
“Don’t people know how easy it is to find them?” she asked Esskay. The dog appeared to think about this for a moment, then nudged Tess with her nose, demanding another cookie. Tess gave her a liver treat instead.
“Most people,” Tess amended. “Everybody but the one person we want to find.”
As it happened, Marianna Barrett Conyers wasn’t quite that easy to find. According to the map, her house sat somewhere among a curving grid of streets in a place known as Alamo Heights, but Tess kept ending up on a long, narrow road below a flood plain, which took her away from the neighborhood and into another, similar-looking one on the wrong side of the highway. Finally, after she had crossed back for the third time, she found the right house.
It looked shy, if a house could be called that. The stucco exterior had been painted a soft olive green, the
Although Tess didn’t know this local oracle, Mrs. Nguyen’s warning made her feel cozy and cared for. She headed up Broadway, in order to get her bearings before trying the park. The neighborhood around La Casita wasn’t seedy, but it had a jumbled look to it, as if it wasn’t quite sure what it was, or what it wanted to be. There were inexpensive ethnic restaurants, the familiar fast-food chains, some upscale antiques stores, a secondhand book store, and the clothing store opened by Selena, the young Mexican-American singer killed by her own fan club president a few years back. Maybe Tess would go back to Baltimore with a sequined halter.
Within a few blocks, she came to a large museum set back from the street. The Witte Natural History Museum, according to its sign. She and Esskay walked around this and found themselves in a shadowy lane parallel to Broadway, on the park’s edge. The zoo must be nearby—she had been able to hear a lion’s roar last night. At least, she hoped it was a lion. Where was the river, though? If it were like Austin’s Town Lake, maybe she could rent a scull somewhere. She missed rowing, her day felt unfinished without it.
But the San Antonio River proved to be a narrow, sluggish channel, smaller and shallower than the streams back home. “I thought everything was supposed to be bigger in Texas,” she scoffed to Esskay. She’d be running and jumping rope for exercise as long as she was in San Antonio. She scouted a route and found a long, steep hill that ran above an amphitheater and past a Japanese-style garden.
Funny—she was worrying about running for exercise, when she should be worried about the fact that she was on the run. She would have to call Kitty, or Kitty’s machine, and leave a detailed message about what to say if a certain sheriff called. Keith would play his part perfectly, for he truly believed she was heading back to Baltimore.
At the foot of the park, on a street called Mulberry, she stopped at a convenience store and bought breakfast—a large cup of coffee, a pint of orange juice, and a bag of Fig Newtons—and some dry dog food, dog treats, and a spiral-bound map book. It occurred to her she had gone almost five days without a bagel, and this single fact made her feel truly dislocated.
Back in the gloom of La Casita, she and Esskay stretched across the synthetic flowery spread and nibbled on Fig Newtons together as Tess paged through the phone book, which was thicker than she had expected. Even so, she found what she was looking for easily enough. Marianna Barrett Conyers lived on a street named for a sock, Argyle. There was no husband’s name twinned with hers, and no coy initials to disguise the fact of a woman alone. Tess liked that in a woman, but only because it made a private investigator’s job easier. She wouldn’t have her own home number in the phone book for anything. Like most people who made their livings invading the privacy of others, she had become intensely protective of her own.
“Don’t people know how easy it is to find them?” she asked Esskay. The dog appeared to think about this for a moment, then nudged Tess with her nose, demanding another cookie. Tess gave her a liver treat instead.
“Most people,” Tess amended. “Everybody but the one person we want to find.”
As it happened, Marianna Barrett Conyers wasn’t quite that easy to find. According to the map, her house sat somewhere among a curving grid of streets in a place known as Alamo Heights, but Tess kept ending up on a long, narrow road below a flood plain, which took her away from the neighborhood and into another, similar-looking one on the wrong side of the highway. Finally, after she had crossed back for the third time, she found the right house.
It looked shy, if a house could be called that. The stucco exterior had been painted a soft olive green, the
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