Lippman Charm City

Main
ISBN: 978-0-571-31995-4
Verlag: Faber & Faber
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 2, 304 Seiten

Reihe: Tess Monaghan

'Both entertaining and unexpectedly touching. More Please.' Baltimore Sun 'A natural storyteller at the height of her powers.' LEE CHILD A TESS MONAGHAN MYSTERY As a practised reporter until her newspaper went to that great pressroom in the sky, PI Tess Monaghan knows and loves every inch of her native Baltimore. It's a quirky city where baseball reigns, but lately homicide seems to be the second most popular local sport. Business tycoon 'Wink' Wynkowski is trying to change all that by bringing pro basketball back to town, and everybody's rooting for him - until a devastating exposé of his lurid past appears on the front page of the Baltimore Beacon-Light It's a surprise even to the newspaper's editors, who thought they'd killed the piece. Instead, the piece killed Wink, who's found in his garage with the car running. Tess is hired to find the unknown computer hacker who planted the lethal story - but it doesn't take long for her to discover deeper, darker secrets. . . 'Exciting and complex. I read it in one day because I just couldn't stop.' 5* reader review 'I thoroughly enjoy Lippman's writing style. . . it was a fun, wonderful time' 5* reader review 'Fun and suspense-filled. . . I highly enjoyed it!' 5* reader review PRAISE FOR THE TESS MONAGHAN SERIES 'Tess is a heroine with a nose for what she is not being told, and she is never content with half the story. These Baltimore novels are effective thrillers, because they are stories about wanting to know what happens next.' Times Literary Supplement 'Whip smart female protagonist, gritty Baltimore setting. Loved Tess!' 5* reader review 'Readers won't be able to resist Tess, who, like one of Baltimore's famous crabs, sports a tough shell that hides a sweet centre.' BOOKLIST 'Digestible, fun, tense' NPR 'In this series, Lippman has developed sturdy tales, wry humour, and snappy dialogue wrapped around an insider's view of Baltimore.' SUN-SENTINEL 'Tess, is a ballsy, free-spirited woman who thinks on her feet and has a commanding physical presence. . . Highly recommend' 5* reader review 'What fun! I discovered a new (to me) mystery series. Tess Monaghan is a terrific main character.' 5* reader review 'I really have fallen in love with Tess Monaghan. These mystery novels well deserve the awards Lippman has won.' 5* reader review

Laura Lippman's novels have won many crime fiction prizes, including the Edgar, Anthony, Agatha and eDunnit Awards. Her more recent works include Sunburn, a Waterstones Thriller of the Month in 2018, Dream Girl, which was shortlisted for the 2022 CWA Ian Fleming Steel Dagger and Lady in the Lake, adapted by Apple TV+ in 2024. In 2025 she was named a Grand Master by the Mystery Writers of America.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Lippman, Laura

Leseproben

1

Nothing wet was falling out of the sky. No snow, no ice, no hail, no rain changing to sleet, no sleet changing to rain. And that was reason enough, Tess Monaghan decided, to feel celebratory. She would walk home from work instead of taking her usual bus, maybe stop at Bertha’s and squinch up her nose at the tourists eating mussels, or nurse something warm and alcoholic at Henniger’s. A March Monday night in Baltimore would never be Mardi Gras, or even Lundi Gras, but it could have its moments, for savvy natives inclined to seek them out. Tess was inclined. For the first time in more than two years, she had a full-time job and a full-time boyfriend. Her life might not have the party-all-the-time euphoria of a beer commercial, but it was definitely edging into International Coffee territory.

The first few blocks of her walk home were deserted. Downtown tended to empty out early. But as Tess approached the Inner Harbor, she suddenly found herself in the thick of a jazzed-up, happy crowd. Tess might have left newspaper reporting behind, but her instincts could still be juiced. Besides, she had caught a whiff of food—hot dogs, popcorn, pretzels, something sweet and scorched. Cotton candy, one of those seductive foods that smelled so much better than it tasted.

“It’s all free, hon,” a vendor said, holding out a hot dog slathered with mustard and relish. “Courtesy of the Keys.” Tess had no idea what he was talking about, but she took the hot dog anyway.

What would draw so many people to the harbor on a usually dead Monday evening, she wondered, finishing off the free dog in three bites. Businessmen types, coming from work. Young men in athletic gear and polished-looking women in gabardine raincoats, high heels striking sidewalks only recently liberated from the last ice storm. Then there were the suburban moms, in leggings, oversize sweaters, and fluffy jackets, holding tight to the hands of small children, who held even tighter to small black-and-violet flags.

Carried along by the crowd and its feverish anticipation, Tess found herself at the small outdoor amphitheater between Harborplace’s two pavilions. Hundreds of people were already there, massed in front of the small stage. A man with a bullhorn, a local television anchor, was leading a chant. It took Tess a moment to understand the blurred, electronically amplified words.

“”

Other men filed out, a ragtag basketball team in black-and-violet warm-up outfits. Some wore shorts, their legs all purple gooseflesh in the brisk evening. Who would be crazy enough to come out like that on a night like this? Tess recognized the governor. That figured; he had never met a costume he didn’t like. But the mayor, not known for his sense of whimsy, was there as well in a black warm-up suit, his trademark Kente cloth tie peeking over the zipper. Tess spotted another television type, two state senators, and a few pituitary cases from the old Baltimore Bullets, now the Washington Wizards, renamed in deference to that city’s homicide rate. Surprisingly, the name change hadn’t done much to quell the capital’s violence.

“”

Beneath the crowd’s chant, Tess picked out a tinny recording, the city’s onetime public service jingle, which had encouraged people to keep the streets clean by playing “trash ball.” She remembered it vaguely. The city’s orange-and-white wastebaskets had been decorated with slogans such as or Then they’d ended the campaign and collectors of Baltimorebilia had stolen the trash cans before they could be taken off the streets and repainted.

Another man limped out on stage, an aging athlete whose cane gave his garish warm-up suit a strangely aristocratic look. “Toooooooooooch. Toooooooooooch,” men yodeled and a few women actually screamed when he acknowledged the cheer with a thumb’s-up. Yes, Paul Tucci still had his Loyola boy good looks and the build of the star athlete he had once been, although he was fleshier since his much-publicized knee replacement surgery earlier in the winter. Tess suspected the women were swooning not for the Tucci physique, but for the Tucci fortune, which had started in olive oil, then oozed into virtually every aspect of Baltimore life, from food importing to waste disposal. “The Tuccis get you coming and going,” it was commonly said.

The music on the P.A. system changed to the sprightly, whistling version of “Sweet Georgia Brown” associated with the Harlem Globetrotters. The governor, inexpertly dribbling a basketball, broke from the group, jigged forward, then passed the ball to the mayor, throwing it over his head. They had never worked together very well. The mayor recovered nicely, retrieving the ball and passing it beneath his legs to a state delegate with a quite new, quite bad hair transplant. The crowd roared its approval. Tess wondered. Tucci caught the ball and spun it on the tip of his cane, prompting a few more female screams. Then the real basketball players came forward, upstaging the pols with their perfunctorily perfect passes and moves.

After a few minutes, the television anchor—, Tess noted—seized the floor again.

“Hellooooo, Baltimore.” The crowd caroled the greeting back. “As you know, the city has been without basketball since 1972 and has only recently seen the return of football, despite the initial reluctance of the National Football League—”

“Kill the commissioner!” screamed one frenzied fan, straight into Tess’s right eardrum. “Kill Tagliabue! Damn Bob Irsay! Fuck the rotting corpse of Bob Irsay!” Irsay had taken the Baltimore Colts away on a snowy night in 1984, and although the city had a new football team and Irsay was dead, he was still anathema. Baltimore sometimes forgot, but it never forgave.

The television anchor continued smoothly over the outburst. “But one man never said die. And now that man is going to bring basketball back to Baltimore. Within days, he expects to sign a letter of intent with a pro franchise that wants to relocate to Charm City. In return, the city has agreed to build a beautiful new facility, and you fans turned out tonight to show the NBA we can support a team here. Now, that’s teamwork!”

, Tess thought sourly. Then again, the state had already done the same for the Orioles and the Ravens. If ever a city needed a self-help book, it was Baltimore: .

“So please welcome the team captain, the guy who’s brought us this far, the guy who ‘winked’ at everyone who told him it couldn’t be done, our very own Gerard ‘Wink’ Wynkowski.”

A slender, not quite tall man bounded onstage. He had bypassed the warm-ups in favor of a violet polo shirt, black jeans, and a black leather bikers’ jacket. Gray-and-white cowboy boots of some exotic and politically dubious skin—ostrich, maybe snake—added a few inches to his height, so he appeared lanky alongside the governor and mayor. Shrewdly, he kept his distance from the former pros, who would have dwarfed him.

“Are you ready for some basketball?” he drawled, in an unmistakably Baltimore accent.

His face, angular and sharp, was deeply tanned, his brown curls worn in a white boy’s Afro. Tess recalled a caricature of that sharp face and wild hair as the logo for one of his businesses, but which one? In the past decade, Wink’s company, Montrose Enterprises, had created a half-dozen businesses, each more successful than the last.

“Wink! Wink! Wink! Wink!” the crowd yelled to their sports savior, much as they had yelled it on high school basketball courts twenty-five years ago, when the idea of a 5'11" Polish kid going on to a pro career had not seemed quite so ridiculous. His last name had provided the nickname, of course—his last name and, it was rumored, a tendency to hoodwink anyone he could.

“You guys are the greatest,” he told the crowd. “You came out on a night like this, not even knowing which team I’m negotiating with. Imagine how many people will be here in a week’s time, when I expect to make an official announcement about our new team, the Baltimore Keys.”

The crowd chanted back eagerly: “”

Tess moved forward through the cheering crowd, curious enough to want a better look at this local hero. Wink’s life story was straight out of some old thirties movie: a fatherless young hood who was actually rehabilitated in the system after a string of petty crimes had landed him in the infamous Montrose facility for juveniles. She had known he was rich, but hadn’t realized his restaurants and health clubs had made him enough money to consider buying a sports team.

When the crowd became too dense to let her advance through the center, she cut left, zigzagging until she was down front, but far to the side. This close up, Wink’s flat blue eyes were not the merry or dancing lights she would have expected above such a broad grin. Large and grave in his small face, they took everything in and gave nothing back.

Suddenly, someone shoved Tess roughly from behind, with the sense of entitlement found only in popes, royalty, and television news crews. Given that the Pope wasn’t expected back for a while, and native daughter Wallis Warfield Simpson was the...