By Laura Lippman
Until eventually her paper, the Baltimore big name, crashed and burned, Tess Monaghan was once a rattling solid reporter who knew her place of birth in detail -- from historical fortress McHenry to the crumbling tasks of Cherry Hill. Now gainfully unemployed at twenty-nine, she's keen to take any freelance task to pay the lease -- together with a bit unorthodox snooping for her rowing blood brother, Darryl "Rock" Paxton. In a urban the place anyone is murdered nearly daily, legal professional Michael Abramowitz's demise can be simply one other statistic. however the slain lawyer's notoriety -- and his noontime trysts with Rock's fiancee -- make the case entrance web page news...and issues to Rock because the most likely assassin. yet attempting to turn out her friend's innocence couls turn out expensive to Tess -- and upload her identify to that notorious ever-growing record.
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Extra info for Baltimore Blues (Tess Monaghan Mysteries)
But Kitty was dubious. “It sounds like meddling for a fee. ” “I can’t afford ethics. ” She stared Tess down, a feat she could manage only because she was seated on the old fountain and Tess was slumped over it. “But you don’t really like this woman. So how can you be objective? If you see something ambigu-ous you might draw false conclusions because you want to catch her. ” “Well, you might see her kissing someone on the street, for example, and assume it’s her lover. ” “I don’t know, Tesser. ” Kitty smiled and tugged the slippery silk kimono back over her left shoulder.
The photograph was crudely cropped into an oval shape, a man’s clumsy handiwork. It had probably been in a frame at Rock’s bedside, or on his desk. A picture from a spring regatta, with Ava standing next to Rock. He wore a red T-shirt and black Lycra rowing shorts. She had on a crisp, navy 21 striped T-shirt that looked as if it cost more than Tess’s best dress. Her right hand could not even span Rock’s wrist, yet she seemed to have a firm grasp on him. Her hair was a dark cloud around her face, a face so perfect it was easy to understand why her parents had dared to give her a sex goddess’s name.
Baltimore was on pace to set an unprecedented murder rate, breaking the once-thought-unbreakable record of 1993, which had broken some previously impossible record. Every day there was a little death, the kind of murder that rated no more than four paragraphs deep inside the Beacon-Light. Yet no one seemed to notice or care—except those playing the homicide tally in the Pick 3. the mayor still called it the City That Reads, but others had long ago twisted that civic motto. “The city that bleeds, hon,” Tess called out to the unimpressed seagull.