By a Spider's Thread: A Tess Monaghan Novel Read Online Free Page B

sign a letter of agreement and pay the equivalent of…eighty hours up front, as my retainer.”
    Tess had an unofficial sliding scale for her work. She didn’t gouge anyone, but a man like Rubin could subsidize some of the less prosperous clients who found their way to the detective agency officially known as Keyes Investigations. She had been having a run of such clients lately, down-on-their-luck types and flat-out dead-beats. After making a quick calculation, she tossed off a figure that seemed fair to her, only to watch in amazement as Rubin pulled out a wallet and paid in cash.
    “Maybe I’ll remember more, or come up with some other leads for you,” he said, counting off the ATM-crisp bills. “I’m still a little…numb. My only comfort is knowing that Natalie is a good mother. She’s a good wife, too. I don’t know why she decided to stop being one. If I failed her — if I worked too hard or was too inflexible in my ways — I’m willing to change. But I have to find them first, right? Without my family I’m nothing, just a man who sells coats.”
    Tess didn’t have the heart to tell him that the best she could do was find his family. In a case like this, Tess was all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, picking up the broken pieces at the foot of the castle wall.
    Mark Rubin stood, then reached for Tess almost as if to tuck a loose strand of hair behind one ear. She recoiled instinctively, nervous about allowing any strange man too close to her, confused at how Rubin could attempt this kind of contact when he had made such a point about refusing her hand. But his hand quickly retreated, holding a quarter he had pretended to pluck from behind her ear.
    “I used to do this for my oldest son,” he said. “You see, I’m actually a funny guy. I make people laugh. I was a joyous man — it’s one of the tenets of Hasidism I happen to embrace as a Modern Orthodox, the idea that one honors God by being full of joy. But you’ll just have to take my word for that for now.”

2
     
    T ess found a toehold on a metal handle jutting from the side of the Dumpster, scrambled to the top, and swung her legs so she was perched on the lip. She was now staring down into, if not the abyss, a reasonable and pungent facsimile. Even in hip waders and the decontamination suit she had acquired from a friend in city Homicide, she was less than eager to take the plunge.
    “
Baruch ata Adenoid,
Mark Rubin,” she said, pronouncing the blessing as she had misheard it in her childhood, when she believed her Aunt Sylvie was offering a prayer to cure her cousin Deborah of her allergies. “If working for you means no more Dumpsters for a while, I won’t complain about what a deluded tight-ass you are.”
    Meanwhile, a girl had to eat, although at this exact moment it seemed unlikely that food would ever interest Tess again. The Dumpster was one of three behind a popular Fell’s Point bar, and it smelled strongly of stale beer, processed cheese, and rancid meat. As a bonus there were bright yellow and blue newspaper wrappers tucked among the dark green garbage bags, knotted in a way that any responsible dog owner would recognize.
    Feeling only mildly ridiculous, Tess secured a surgical mask over her face and scooted down the interior wall in her best Spider-woman fashion, landing as softly as possible. The garbage bags were packed closely, and the effect was not unlike a Moonwalk ride at a small-time carnival, albeit one with occasional crunchy sounds underfoot that she tried not to ponder. Bottles? Crack vials? She took small, tentative steps, hoping to feel something relatively solid beneath her. She walked the perimeter, circling toward the center. No, her quarry was definitely not here.
    On to the next Dumpster, which smelled more like secondhand margaritas under the late-afternoon sun.
    “Divorce,” Tess said, speaking out loud to keep herself company, “makes people do some weird shit. Or hire those who will do