Free Charm City by Laura Lippman Page B

as
Midwestern as it gets. How'd you figure that out? I like to
think I've acquired some East Coast polish over the last few
years."
    Tess smiled noncommittally. Whitney had
given her thumbnail sketches of everyone she would meet today, but she
saw no reason to divulge her inside information. "Baltimore
isn't the best place to come if you're looking for
polish. In fact, if you're not careful, your nice, bland
accent will start adding Rs to words like water and wash."
    Jack Sterling leaned toward her. His eyes
were even bluer than the stripe in his shirt. "Then what is Baltimore the best place for?" Before she could think of a
clever reply, the other editors began filing into the room. A little
guiltily, as if he had been caught consorting with the enemy, Sterling
took his place among them.
    They looked more alike than they knew, this
quartet. All white. No one younger than 35, nor older than 60. Two
suits—gray pinstripes on the shortest man, obviously the
publisher, Randall Pfieffer IV, and a flashy turquoise one on the sole
woman, managing editor Colleen Reganhart, who had the kind of dark
hair-fair skin-light eyes combination that the Monaghan side of
Tess's family would call black Irish.
    The last man was dressed as Sterling was,
but his blue-striped shirt was just a little better made, his red tie
heavier and silkier.
    "Lionel C. Mabry," he
said, offering a limp hand to Tess. The hair, of course. How could she
miss the hair? It was thinner than Tess had imagined, and Whitney had
been uncharacteristically tactful in describing it as blond, but it was
definitely a mane. Mabry's hair was a dull gray-yellow, the
color of diluted piss. Otherwise, he was well preserved, with a vaguely
patrician air. But then, everything about him was vague—the
mumbled greeting, the clouded brown eyes, the limp-wristed handshake.
    "Take a seat, Lionel,"
Colleen Reganhart ordered. She gave his name an extra syllable and
feminine lilt. Li-o-nelle .
He smiled at her, as if thankful for direction, and slipped into one of
the large leather chairs alongside the table, Colleen to his left and
Jack to his right. That left Tess and the publisher at either end,
creating a strangely lopsided table.
    Pfieffer's chair, she noticed, was
hiked up slightly higher than the others, perhaps to give him an
advantage he didn't have on dry land. Behind his back,
Randall Pfieffer IV was known as Five-Four by his employees. The
nickname, while not affectionate, was generous, granting the publisher
two inches above what nature had given him, maybe three. But the
thronelike chair was a miscalculation: his feet swung above the floor,
drawing attention to his diminutive stature. Fortunately, his high,
hoarse voice had no problem filling a room. He had been a cheerleader
at Dartmouth, according to Whitney's dossier. ("If
it comes up, say yell leader.")
    He began the meeting. "Miss
Monaghan, we have asked you here today because we have a job that
requires discretion, tact, and a certain sophistication about our
business. We've been assured you have all these
qualities."
    Whitney had really laid
it on thick . "I'd like to
think so, Mr. Pfieffer."
    "I want to stress to you that as
far as we're concerned, no crime has been committed here, no
errors of fact have been made. We're distressed because we
planned to run the Wynkowski piece on Sunday.
The…unscheduled publication has forced us to scramble for
another page one story on that date. It concerns us our procedures have
been…bypassed, creating this dilemma."
    Thirty seconds into the discussion, and the
first lie had already clocked in. "Of course," Tess
agreed, adding from sheer perversity, "Isn't
computer tampering a federal crime? If you really want to find out who
did this, I think the FBI is better equipped to solve your
mystery."
    The editors exchanged glances. Jack Sterling
began to speak, only to be cut off by Reganhart.
    "As Randy said, we stand by the
story, although we won't be surprised if that