"What did she say?"
Vinny shrugged. "Said something about how unless I was willing to pay for a little more than a shot, she was going to catch shit with Reggie." He snickered. "It was pretty obvious what ’a little more’ meant." When I didn’t respond, he frowned. "What? What’s going on?"
"It may have nothing to do with anything—it may just be a coincidence," I said slowly, "but Reverend Shaw’s first name is Reggie."
Chapter 20
The minute I said it, it sounded ridiculous. But Vinny wasn’t laughing.
"There has got to be more than one Reggie in this city," I said, trying to convince myself that it was stupid to even make the connection. I had been trying to find something ugly on Shaw ever since he came into town. This would be too easy.
But I didn’t have time to ponder it further, because the guy who’d tackled Michael was being escorted our way. He and the cop stopped at a woman holding a little girl who may have been around two or three, her hand on the handle of a stroller that was built like a fucking Hummer. I took a couple of quick strides.
"You’re the guy who tackled the shooter, right?" I asked the man, ignoring the cop.
The guy looked at me. He was big, bigger up close than I’d thought, with a thick neck and large shoulders. He smiled shyly, but the twinkle in his eye told me he was enjoying this.
His wife, however, was not.
"Can we get going now?" she asked him, ignoring both me and the cop.
As a good husband should, he addressed her first. "They said they’ve got some more questions for me." I was taking notes as he spoke. "Can you take Isabella home? They said they’ll take me home after."
She didn’t want to do it, but nodded, allowed him to kiss her cheek.
"Can I get your name?" I interrupted.
She glared at me, Isabella picked her nose, and he nodded. "Joe Minotti."
"You’re kidding." Vinny’s voice came from behind me, and he held out his hand. "It’s really good to meet you." Vinny turned to me. "This guy was all-American for Notre Dame High School in 1994."
A football player. Great. But I saw the potential for the story. Former high school football star tackles shooter. Fantastic headline.
"What happened?" I asked.
The cop tried to move between us, but I shook my head. "Listen, this’ll just take a few minutes. Detective Berger said it was okay." I crossed my fingers under my notebook. Ronald was too busy to keep track of me, and by the time he found out I lied about this, I’d be long gone and the story already filed, probably.
Joe Minotti took off his Yankees ball cap and ran a hand through sweat-soaked dark hair. I could see tufts peeking up over the collar of his T-shirt. "We were just sitting on the blanket, waiting for the concert. We got here late, Isabella was acting up, and we had to sit way back here." He paused, looking at his wife, who was still standing there but wasn’t interrupting. He took that as the okay to continue. "I saw them arguing. He was shouting." He leaned closer to me, cupping his mouth, and said, "He told her she was a fucking whore." After a second, he added, "Sorry."
I never understood why it was okay for guys to use the word "fuck" with one another, but they had to get a conscience with a woman. I shook my head. "It’s okay. Go on." Vinny was trying not to laugh.
"I saw him pull the gun out from under his T-shirt and take a couple of shots. I had a straight shot—he wasn’t standing behind the bus-stop enclosure, just off to the side of it. I was pretty fast in high school, and I haven’t slowed too much, despite a few pounds." He patted his stomach, which looked pretty flat to me. I bet he still did a hundred crunches a day. "So I went after him, got him to the ground, and took the gun. It was adrenaline, mostly. Like when I played, you know." He looked at Vinny like Vinny knew what it was like to play football. He didn’t know Vinny was a chess geek.
But Vinny was nodding in that male-solidarity shit that happens when two guys are telling their war stories.
"Did you hear what she said to him when she crossed the street?" I asked.
"Last thing I remember, she told him to fuck off. Sorry."
"Listen," the cop interrupted. "The detective still needs to talk to him."
I nodded. "Sure." I had more than enough. "Can I talk to Ashley?" I pointed over at the girl who’d prompted the shooting. She had Ronald Berger’s ear pretty good.
The cop shrugged.
With Vinny on my heels, I tried to get past the crime-scene tape, but I couldn’t get the uniforms standing sentry to let me go farther. I watched Berger talking to Ashley; he was taking notes, and she was casually braiding her hair at the back of her head like this sort of thing happened every day. All the cops were watching her; the shorts were short, and the legs were long. Too bad she didn’t have any of those test-tube shots on her—she’d make a killing with this crowd.
I sighed. "Can’t get her now," I said more to myself than to Vinny, who was still beside me.
I scanned the crowd and spotted some people who had not fled because the curiosity factor was too strong. I spent the next fifteen minutes talking to them, getting more color for the story. When I was done, I turned to Vinny.
"I have to go write this up. Are you following me?"
"To your car. You’ll be okay at the paper, right? I have some things to take care of."
I nodded reluctantly, wishing my expression had given away that I wanted him to stick by me. The specter of Ralph’s pictures hung over me, and the thought of leaving the security of a crowd was giving me heart palpitations. Realistically I knew Vinny couldn’t be with me 24-7, and I had to get over it. I told myself that whoever was calling might not have been taking the pictures. The latter had to have been Ralph, and he was dead. End of story. The phone call last night could’ve been a wrong number.
I had to believe that or I was screwed.
"I’ll meet you back at your place tonight at eight, okay?" Vinny said.
As we walked back to my car, I hoped tonight would turn out a lot better than last night did. And if he was with me, at least I wouldn’t get another phone call.
That wasn’t the caller’s MO.
I tried to call Berger to see if I could get to Ashley somehow, but no dice. On a whim, I dialed Tom’s cell number but the voice mail picked up right away, indicating his phone was off. It was odd, not seeing him at the scene or being able to reach him. I wondered where he was, since he’d been to see me in the morning.
There was no listing for an Ashley Ellis in the phone book. I wondered if Shaw would admit it if I asked him whether he knew her. The comment about "Reggie" still stuck with me.
Ronald had the press release faxed over, and Michael’s last name was Jackson. How unfortunate for him. He was charged with attempted murder and illegal possession of a firearm. Bail was set at a quarter of a million dollars, arraignment scheduled for Monday morning.
It was a pretty straightforward story, but Jane wanted more background on Minotti, so she got one of the sports boys to pull something together. I had to weave it into my story, and since most other writers aren’t as fast as I am, it was almost eight o’clock by the time Jane gave me the okay to go home.
"You don’t think Simmons will have a problem with this?" I asked her.
Jane sighed. "He called. While you were out there. Wanted to know what we were doing. He seemed okay about it, especially when I told him we really didn’t have a choice because no one else was here but you."
If I was lucky, this could mean that they wouldn’t schedule me on weekend shifts for a while, since having only one or two reporters meant I had to actually cover shit.
But I usually wasn’t that lucky.
"He did want me to call Dick," Jane was saying.
"What?"
"I couldn’t reach him."
Too bad. He and TV reporter Cindy Purcell were probably away for the weekend or something. I had seen the Channel 9 van at the scene, but I hadn’t seen her.
When I stepped outside, it was still bright. Th
e sky over Yale’s Harkness Tower hadn’t faded yet into pinks or oranges, and I reveled in it. Despite the heat of the last couple of days, I liked summer best of all the seasons because of the light. My usual crankiness settled into a more harmonious mood as the days stretched out like big elastic bands before snapping back into a cold, dark autumn.
Once in my Civic, I turned up Mick Jagger and started singing as I made my way toward Wooster Square, my brownstone, and Vinny.
My cell phone interrupted me, and I pulled over, put on my hazard lights, and glanced at the number on the front screen. I didn’t recognize it. A small panic seized me, and I flipped the cover. "Hello?"
"Anne Seymour?" It was a soft voice, a woman, with sort of a Marilyn Monroe thing going on.
"Who’s asking?"
"Felicia Kowalski."
Not whom I expected, but I didn’t know what to expect. "Yes?" I asked.
"Heard you’re asking about me."
Jamond and his friends must have gotten her the message.
"That’s right," I admitted. "We had a mutual acquaintance."
"I told him I didn’t want to do it," she said, her voice suddenly stronger.
"Not do what?"
"Listen, it’s not my fault. None of it’s my fault. Just tell the cops that, okay?"
What the hell was she babbling on about? "Why don’t we meet at the paper in the morning?" I suggested. "Jane Ferraro’s been trying to reach you anyway, wants to know why you blew off that chamber breakfast yesterday."
"I can’t do that shit now." Her voice had turned hysterical. It was sort of like trying to deal with that kid in The Exorcist. Who the hell knew what would come out of her next?
"What can’t you do?" I prodded. "Talk to Jane? I’m sure she’d understand, you know, with Ralph—"
"You know, you’re not innocent in this, either." Her voice was tight, accusing now. "So don’t pretend you are. I know about you."
"What—"
"Just tell the cops it’s not my fault." And she ended the call.
I stared at the small phone in my hand, flipping the cover closed. What did she do? And what wasn’t her fault?
The clock on the dashboard told me it was getting closer to eight thirty than eight o’clock now; the sky was shimmering like it does just before dusk starts to fall. I thought about Vinny waiting at my apartment. I wanted to talk to Paula, my FBI friend, alone, without anyone listening, even Vinny. But I also didn’t want to talk to her while I was sitting by the side of the road.
Maybe I could get Vinny to pick up some cannoli at Libby’s for dessert. That’s right. He’d do that, he’d take the walk, and I could call Paula. I turned off the hazards and started to pull out.
The phone interrupted me again.
This time I recognized the number.
"I’m on my way," I told Vinny.
"Something came up. I’m going to be pretty late," he said.
Even though I wanted him to leave me alone, I wanted it to be only for a little while, not indefinitely. "What’s happened?"
"Felicia Kowalski’s parents filed a missing-persons report on her a few hours ago."
Chapter 21
"Jesus, Vin, I was just talking to her."
"What?"
"She called me. She said I should tell the cops it wasn’t her fault. I’m not sure what that meant."
"She called you? How?"
"On my cell." I wondered for a second how she got the number. From the paper, maybe, or more likely from Jamond. I’d given him my card earlier, and it had my cell number on it. He knew I wanted to talk to her. And obviously he did know where she was.
But something else nudged my memory. Jack Hammer had given me back the card with my phone numbers on it. Ralph had had the numbers, and she had been with Ralph. . . .
Vinny interrupted my thoughts. "Your mother told me about those pictures," he said. "Why didn’t you? We were together this afternoon."
"Yeah, and I was covering a fucking story," I said. "It wasn’t about me then. I had a job to do."
He chuckled. "Shit, Annie, don’t get your panties in a bunch. I know that, and I’m sorry, okay?"
We were apologizing to each other a lot these last couple of days, and I didn’t like that.
"Can you give me the number that Felicia called you from?" Vinny was asking.
I punched a couple of buttons on my phone and got the number as the last call received and recited it to him.
"Thanks."
"So, where are you?" I asked.
"I’m going to meet with Felicia’s parents. Your mother thinks her disappearance has something to do with Ralph, and Ira wants me to talk to them."
"But the cops are involved now, right? Why you?"
Silence indicated he wasn’t going to tell me anything. I left it alone. "Okay. Call me or come by if you’re done early."
"Definitely." Another second of silence, then, "Listen, later, when I get there, I want to know everything you know about those pictures. I also want you to be very careful. Go straight home, lock the doors. I’ll be there when I can. Don’t let anyone in but me, okay?"
"Yeah, sure," I said, trying to sound unconcerned, but his worry was infectious.
"Want me to get you a replacement gun? For the time being?"
"Jesus, Vin, if Tom found out I was carrying again, he’d have my ass."
He chuckled. "Yeah, you’re right. But does he have to know?"
"It’s not necessary," I said, trying to convince myself as much as him.
"We’ll talk about it later," Vinny said. "Be careful."
We ended the call. I found myself back on the road, the sun most definitely setting now. Darkness was moving in quickly, and I had to turn my headlights on.
I thought about Ralph and Felicia, Ralph’s death and Felicia’s disappearance. I wondered about the connection. How much did Felicia know about Ralph’s scheme? As I drove home, Mick Jagger in the background, I started getting really pissed about Ralph and his photographs of me. What the hell had he been up to?
It was easier to deal with anger than with fear.
My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t had dinner. Vinny had told me to go straight home, but I was hungry. Where to get something quick?
Thai food was always good, and a whole crop of Thai places had opened up on Chapel Street just beyond York. My favorite was Bangkok Gardens, on the corner. A glance at the clock on the dashboard told me it was enough past the usual dinnertime that I could probably get a seat without waiting.
I parked just down Chapel and walked back up, past the Clare Jones boutique, into which I’d mistakenly wandered at one point and found myself being dressed in some sort of shirt that had to be wrapped every which way by the very effervescent Clare. I knew that without help it would just end up making me look like I was wearing a goddamn straitjacket and I’d be the brunt of too many jokes to actually buy the thing. I ended up with a pair of dangly earrings that were still waiting for their first date.
The waiter led me to a small table in the front corner of the restaurant, and I immediately ordered the pad Thai and a Thai iced tea. As I’d walked up, I’d concocted a plan for after dinner that I’d need to be alert for, and while I wanted a beer, it wasn’t a good idea. Vinny wouldn’t be happy, but it shouldn’t take too long. It was something I needed to do, had to do.
While I waited, I watched the other diners, looked out the window at people walking along the sidewalks. Someone familiar caught my eye; he was waiting at the corner for the light to change.
Ned Winters.
Weird that after all these years in the city together, I never ran into him anywhere, never saw him anywhere. And suddenly here he was, standing at the corner of York and Chapel, just a day after I’d seen him for the first time since Ralph and I split.
A young woman came up to him; his arm circled her waist and he kissed her on the lips. She pulled away from him abruptly. The streetlight illuminated her face, but I didn’t recognize her. She was
young, thin, streaks of red through short, unevenly cropped dark hair, a white tank top hugging high, pert breasts, a longish, swishy beige skirt leaving little to the imagination, and ballerina flats that kept her at Ned’s height. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was a student of his.
They crossed the street just as the waiter brought me my food, and I forgot about Ned Winters as I dug my fork into a luscious shrimp, savoring its texture against the crushed peanuts.
I sipped the last of my iced tea, slurping a little, causing the elderly woman at the next table to glare at me. I didn’t have the energy to glare back. I was too busy trying to convince myself that what I was about to do was justified. But then, not a lot of what happened recently had been the right thing. Ralph had only himself to blame, though, for what had gone wrong.
We didn’t have a big wedding. My mother still hadn’t forgiven me for that. Instead, we flew to Vegas and eloped. Part of the reason why my mother never forgave me was that my father stood up with us at the Elvis wedding chapel. Ralph and I both wore jeans and T-SHIRTS. My father wore a frown.
I’d made him promise not to call my mother, and he didn’t like Ralph much more than she did. But he did get us a suite at the Tropicana, where he was working at the time.
I had just graduated, and Ralph was already working at the midsized daily near the Catskills in New York State. I’d applied for a reporter position there, and I found out the day after we got married that I’d gotten the job. We would live in Ralph’s one-bedroom apartment, and we’d stay there for a couple of years before we could get onto a bigger paper, like the Times. We both wanted to work for the New York Times.
Maybe I would’ve made it. Maybe I would’ve been there now, if I hadn’t run home to Westville, to my mother, to where I felt safe.
Staying had become a habit I couldn’t break.
I shook off those thoughts as I drove up Whalley Avenue. Instead of turning to my left, which would’ve brought me into my mother’s neighborhood, I turned up Fitch, toward Southern Connecticut State University. This stretch of Fitch changed from looking like a cute little suburb with one-family houses—but with some crime issues—to apartment buildings and college dorms. I drove under the walkway and continued past campus down to Arch Street, where I turned right.
Shot Girl Page 12
