She nodded. "That’s what mothers are for."
I closed the door, and she took off down the street. I watched until she turned onto Chapel before I approached my car.
It had been searched. Tom had warned me about that as he escorted my mother and me out to the street. Tom also told me I would need to vacuum the car. No shit. While it was still gleaming silver on the outside, as I got closer, I saw the fingerprint dust around the door handles. He’d explained patiently, despite my many outbursts, that they confiscated the gun for evidence, because he—to his credit—was unwilling to believe that I’d actually shot Ralph in the street. It would be tested to see if ballistics could match it with the shell casings found near the body.
My mother told me I could admit it was my gun, and I did so. But she also told me not to say anything else. I didn’t.
I opened the car door and wished I owned a Dust-Buster.
However, I knew someone who did.
I reached into the glove box and pulled out my cell phone. At least the cops hadn’t taken it and had locked up the car when they were done, so nothing was stolen. I punched in a number and waited as it rang and rang. I didn’t even get voice mail. Where the hell was Vinny?
I closed the phone, leaned against the car, and wished I were like Samantha on Bewitched so I could just twitch my nose and my car would be clean. I regretted the black shirt and capris; I could feel them getting clammy as the sun blasted heat against me. It was another three-shower day, cold showers at that.
"Did you beat the rap?"
The voice startled me, and I jumped as Jack Hammer came around the side of the building.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.
He held up a black duffel bag. "Left it here last night. We’ve got another show tonight, up in Hartford."
There was a place in Hartford that had male strip shows? The Berlin Turnpike, sure, but Hartford? New Haven had it all over the capital city for nightlife, restaurants, and theater. I’d been to Hartford after nine p.m., and the streets were hardly bustling. Even the Starbucks closed early.
He held out his hand. "We were never properly introduced last night. John Decker."
I frowned, and he grinned. "You didn’t think ’Jack Hammer’ was my real name, did you?"
Somehow that moniker fit him better than "John Decker." "John Decker" could be a next-door neighbor, a teacher, one of those "Friends" on MySpace. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t be making any assumptions.
I shook his hand. "Annie Seymour."
"Yeah, I know," he said, holding my hand just a second too long. "Ralphie—"
"I don’t really want to talk about him right now," I interrupted. "I have to get home."
He nodded and held up the bag. "Gotta get going, too." But he didn’t move. Instead, he said, "You might want to talk to Felicia."
"Felicia?" I asked.
"She works here sometimes. She and Ralphie had a thing."
"Why should I talk to her?"
Jack gave me a lopsided grin. "You never know."
Cryptic asshole.
"I really don’t give a shit about Ralph’s girlfriend," I said. "Ralph and I were a long time ago."
"Were you?" he asked.
It was the way he said it that made me take pause. He’d said that Ralph talked about me to him. Maybe he’d talked about me to this Felicia, too. My natural curiosity bubbled up, and I couldn’t help myself.
"Do you know how to find her?"
Jack shrugged. "She works at bars all over town. Someone probably knows how to reach her."
Weird. I thought a second. "What about you? Do you have a number where I can reach you if I have any questions about this?"
Jack winked. "Don’t worry about that. I’ll be around." And he disappeared around the corner.
I tried not to think about him as I opened the trunk. I’d done a sweep of my closet and stuck a bag of clothes in there to take to Goodwill. They were strewn all over the place, but I couldn’t tell if it was because the cops had gone through them or if they’d just ended up that way after a few quick turns.
I grabbed an old T-shirt, shook it out, closed the trunk, went around the car, and laid it across the front seat. I maneuvered myself on it carefully, trying not to get too dirty, and started the engine.
Before I could pull out of the lot, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it off the center console, where I’d dropped it, and glanced at the number. Vinny.
"Hey there," I said.
"You out?"
"Beat the rap," I said, realizing that’s what Jack Hammer had said. "I’m in my car, on my way home."
"Really?"
"Don’t sound so fucking surprised," I said.
I heard him chuckle. "I’m just curious, Annie, why they let you go. It seems like there was some evidence to keep you there, even charge you."
I thought back an hour and remembered the look on Tom’s face when he told me.
"Ralph wasn’t shot to death," I said flatly. "It looks like he just died of a heart attack. That’s why there wasn’t any blood."
Chapter 6
Silence for a second, then, "You’re kidding."
"No, apparently he had been shot at, but whoever shot at him missed him. He died of natural causes. Just collapsed on the goddamn sidewalk."
Tom hadn’t been happy that I’d taken my gun out for a ride last night. And he really wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t tell him any more than that. My mother just kept saying that I had a carry permit, and I was allowed to keep the gun in the car. There was still no proof my gun had expelled those bullets, so she told Tom and Ronald Berger that if they wanted to keep me there any longer, they’d need an arrest warrant.
I couldn’t fault Tom for pushing the issue. He and I might no longer be dating, but we had a bond—one that Vinny was all too aware of even if he really didn’t have anything to worry about.
So Tom let me go.
I didn’t know how long that ballistics test would take, and he wasn’t forthcoming with any time frame.
As I replayed the high points of the night to Vinny, my body suddenly felt like I’d taken three Valium, wake me up in the morning.
"I have to get home," I said. "Will I see you later?"
"Definitely," he said. "Glad it worked out okay."
I said good-bye and managed to get to my brownstone on Wooster Square before my eyes started drooping. The red light on my answering machine was winking at me again. I reached out to play the message, then pulled my hand back. I didn’t want to do this now, so I ignored it.
The air-conditioning unit in the living room would normally have cooled off the entire small apartment if it were working properly. It was hotter than a fucking furnace, maybe even more so than outside. I stripped off the T-shirt, the capris, and my bra, leaving on only my underpants, and collapsed on top of the bedcovers, wishing for the first time I had an icy water bed. Despite the heat, I drifted off.
When I woke up, the clock read ten a.m. Four hours of sleep. Time to get up. It was Friday, after all, and a workday. I didn’t think it would look too good if I called Marty Thompson, the city editor, and said I couldn’t come in because I was exhausted from my nightlong interrogation by the police. Especially since now there had been no murder after all.
I didn’t bother with a robe as I padded into the kitchen and put on a pot of water to boil. As I reached for the freezer door to get the coffee, I saw the note taped there.
Stopped in, but you were passed out cold. I’m checking on some things. I’ll see you later.
Love, Vinny.
We’d been dating almost three months. There were the four months before that when we didn’t see each other at all because I was an idiot, and there were three weeks before that when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And then there were all those years since high school that I didn’t even know he was alive until we stumbled across a dead Yalie about the same time and I realized even geeks can turn out pretty sexy.
Vinny had
his own private-investigation business these days, after a few years as a marine scientist studying whales. He claimed that being a private eye was like doing his research, only it was on dry land watching people instead. That said, he still liked to be out there on the water; however, our kayaking expedition a month ago proved that it wasn’t going to be one of the top ten things we’d do as a couple—a rather harrowing experience in April seemed to do some damage to my previous water-loving psyche.
I pulled my eyes away from the word and focused on the others he’d written. "Checking on some things" could be code for "I’m checking on what happened last night with Ralph," or worse yet, it could mean he was checking with my mother. Vinny did occasional investigative work for her law firm, and they could be talking about me right this very minute.
I pulled the kettle off the stove, measured four table-spoons of coffee into my French press, and poured the boiling water on it, absently noting the time so I could press in four minutes.
I had enough time to go down and get the paper. I threw on my light cotton Japanese yukata and wrapped it around myself, tying it tight.
Just my luck, I ran into my upstairs neighbor, Walter, as he was heading out.
"You know, your boyfriend should pay rent here, he’s here so much," Walter said grumpily. Walter was always grumpy. At least with me.
I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. But then I got a little worried. If Walter felt compelled to tell the landlord about Vinny, maybe he would have an issue with it. And since Vinny and I couldn’t even say the word "love" to each other, cohabiting was definitely not an option.
"You really shouldn’t let him come in when you’re not home."
Walter was still talking to me, even though I had picked up the paper and had my hand on the doorknob. His words made me turn back.
"What?"
"Yesterday. Morning. Said he’d forgotten something. He is a friendly guy, I’ll give you that, but it’s probably better if he’s only here when you are." And with that, Walter made his way down the steps. I watched him, his arms bowing out around his big torso—sort of like that kid in the Christmas Story movie who couldn’t put his arms down flat—before I stuck the newspaper under my arm and headed back upstairs to my coffee.
Damn. Six minutes instead of four. I pushed the press down and poured myself a cup, opened up the paper, and looked at the front page.
Ralph was above the fold but under a banner story about electric rates going up. I scanned the story; Dick Whitfield had done the best he could with the scant information Tom had given him.
The manager of the Rouge Lounge was shot and killed in front of the nightclub on State Street late Thursday night.
Nightclub workers identified the manager as Ralph Seymour, 40. He had worked there only a month. No one could provide an address or any other information about him.
At press time, a suspect had been taken into custody.
Someone other than Tom had spilled the beans, given Dick Ralph’s name, and even told him they were questioning someone. Thank God whoever talked to him didn’t know the "suspect" was me.
How the hell was I going to keep this from leaking? I was going to have to talk to Marty. I had to tell him before someone else did. My biggest saving grace was that Ralph had died of a heart attack, so we could just run a few graphs updating the story and that should be the end of it.
Unfortunately, Dick was going to stay on the story; I knew Marty wouldn’t let me get within a mile of this one.
The phone rang just as I got out of the shower. I hesitated, not sure if I should answer it, but finally decided it might be Vinny, so I picked up the handset.
"You okay today, Annie?" It was Tom. I took a deep breath, relieved to hear a familiar voice, even if it wasn’t Vinny’s.
"Yeah."
"I’m sorry about last night, but you know why I had to take you in."
"I know."
"Why didn’t you just tell me right away that you had your gun in the car? When you asked me to get your flip-flops." Now that my mother wasn’t hovering over me, he was going to do his best to get something out of me. I had to give him an A for effort.
When I didn’t respond, he continued. "And when we were at your apartment, you let me look in the drawer for it. You still didn’t say anything. Should I be worried about what those ballistics tests will turn up?"
He didn’t mention my clothes, the ones I’d last seen in that plastic garbage bag. Probably hadn’t gotten to them yet.
I weighed my options about what I would say. "Until I knew Ralph had died of a heart attack, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I mean, he was my ex-husband, and we did not have the most amicable divorce."
"You never said much about him," Tom said thoughtfully.
"What was there to say?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light. "We were young, we were stupid. It was the best thing to split up."
"That’s all you’ve ever said."
I had to change the subject. "Do you think Ralph’s heart attack was prompted by him being shot at?"
Tom chuckled. "No, Annie, I don’t think that. Let’s just say that Ralph has heard the sound of gunshots before, and I don’t think it would’ve killed him."
I could hear something in his tone; now he wasn’t telling me everything. "What was up with Ralph? What do you know about him? I know he was arrested once but got off with community service. Too many pot plants."
"Well, he’s stayed out of prison," Tom offered, but it wasn’t enough.
"That’s no answer. What’s he been up to?"
"No good."
Everyone’s a smart-ass.
"Not a surprise." I thought about what Jack Hammer had said that morning. "What about his girlfriend, Felicia?"
"Do you know her?" I could hear surprise in his voice.
"Not directly." Not at all, but I wasn’t going to admit that.
"Well, if you happen to come across her, I’d love to talk to her."
"Why?" My curiosity was more than piqued.
"Let’s just say unfinished business."
"What sort of unfinished business?"
"As long as you didn’t shoot at him, you have nothing to worry about."
"But someone does, right?" Something was definitely up.
Before I could press it further, Tom said, "So tell me why you felt it necessary to bring your gun out to a bar last night." He was a goddamn broken record. "When was the last time you even went to the shooting range?"
I could still feel the weight of the gun in my hands, the pressure of the earmuffs as I leaned to the left slightly to avoid getting hit in the head with a shell casing. It had been a long time, way overdue—even I knew that. But I wasn’t beholden to Tom in any way, and my mother had said to say nothing more.
So I turned back to the only thing that could keep me grounded: the possibility of a story. Because instinct told me there was a story, even if I wasn’t getting any answers at the moment.
"So, what’s up with Ralph? What’s he been into?" I asked again. "Why do you need to talk to his girlfriend? I heard she works at bars all over town." As I said it, I wondered about her line of work. Maybe she was a real "working girl." "What is it she does, anyway? Do you know?"
Silence. Then, "She’s a shot girl."
Chapter 7
I arrived at the newspaper half an hour later. My hair was still a little damp, but it didn’t matter. The humidity and heat these last couple of days had created a sort of bird’s nest out of it, and at least while it was wet, it looked normal.
I didn’t want to, but I’d finally checked my answering machine after I got dressed, and it turned out to be my friend Priscilla—who’d loaned me that dreadful outfit the night before. I wondered just how to tell her that Tom had confiscated her clothes. She’d heard about Ralph from Ned Winters, head of the journalism department at Southern Connecticut State University, an old classmate of ours who’d risen to the level of his incompetence. Ned had probably seen the story in the pap
er. I knew he kept up with both Priscilla and Ralph, but even though we were both in the same city, I hadn’t seen Ned since Ralph and I split. A thought crossed my mind: Ned must have known Ralph was back here.
I dropped my bag on my desk and booted up my computer. Renee’s chair was empty; the wedding was tomorrow and she was busy with bride shit. Again I wondered why I’d been invited to the bachelorette party but not the wedding. I’d had to buy a present—Priscilla had told me it would be bad form if I didn’t bring anything—and I spent as little as I could on some massage lotions I’d found at Bath & Body Works. I guess it was okay I wasn’t going to the wedding, because then I’d have to spend more money and I don’t like doing that for people I have only a peripheral relationship with.
Dick Whitfield was tapping away on his keyboard three desks away, alternately briefly glancing up at me and then deliberately looking back to his computer.
He must have heard.
Marty had, too, because he was beckoning me to follow him into Charlie Simmons’ office. Charlie had come on board as editor in chief only a few months ago, and I’d had some interaction with him then, but I’d tried to keep it to a minimum since. He wasn’t going to like this.
I didn’t even wait for anyone to ask me to sit. I plopped down in the chair in front of Charlie’s desk, stared him straight in the eye, and said, "Yes, I spent the night at the police station."
Charlie, who managed to keep his resemblance to an Elvis impersonator intact by poofing up his black hair in such a way that we almost expected to see him in sequins and blue suede shoes at some point, leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his fingers knit tightly together.
"What is the connection between you and the dead man?" His voice was low, and I knew I had to tread gently with this one.
"Ex-husband." I looked over at Marty, who had taken off his glasses and was twirling them around nervously. "He died of a heart attack. He wasn’t shot. That’s why they let me go."
"Why did they find it necessary to bring you in, in the first place?" Charlie asked.
Shot Girl Page 4
