Annie Seymour 01-Sacred Cows

by Karen E. Olson

  “The one at Saybrook?”

  She nodded.

  “Weren’t you going?”

  Sarah bit her fingernail. “I don’t like parties. I don’t drink or smoke or do anything like that.”

  Sounded pretty boring, but the hangover was still occasionally crashing against my brain, reminding me that I should take it easy, too.

  “Do you know how she ended up at University Towers if she was just going to that party?”

  “She had a late date, after the party. Maybe whoever it was took her there.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I took the message.”

  “What message?” I wanted to start writing this down, but was afraid the notebook would spook her.

  “From the agency.”

  She was being far too cryptic. “What agency?”

  Sarah’s mouth curved into a small, sinister smile. “Everyone thought she was so wonderful, you know? Smart, pretty, but she did have a secret life no one knew about.”

  I waited.

  She shrugged. “She worked for an escort service. Her parents thought she was spending too much money and stopped sending any except a monthly allowance. Melissa didn’t think it was enough, so she answered one of those ads. You know, in the paper.”

  A million thoughts were running through my head, slamming against the hangover, pushing it out of the way. “Did you tell the cops this?”

  Sarah smiled again, wider this time. “I told them she had a late date, but I said I didn’t know who with. They didn’t ask any more questions about that.” She paused for a minute. “Are you going to put this in the newspaper?”

  She was a sneaky one. She wanted this in the paper, wanted Melissa’s name smeared publicly, to show everyone what her roommate was really like. I wasn’t born yesterday.

  Sarah’s eyes were dancing. I could see she knew how much I wanted this story and that I wouldn’t walk away until I had it.

  “What agency was it?” I asked, taking the bait. Screw it. No need to pretend with this girl.

  Sarah dug into the backpack slung over her chair and pulled out a business card, handing it to me: Come Together. Clever.

  “She gave this to me, like a joke or something.” I could see Sarah wasn’t amused. “You know, she could’ve had anyone she wanted. She really was a bitch.” Her voice was tight, the anger oozing into her words.

  I’d had enough of her.

  “If you think of anything else that might help, can you call me?” I handed her one of my cards.

  She nodded. “Sure.”

  I got up.

  “Have you talked to David Best, her ex-boyfriend?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “He’s a head case. After she dumped him, he found out about the escort thing and was really pissed. He started following her around, even once when she was so-called working.”

  “She told you that?”

  Sarah laughed, a small sound from the bottom of her throat. “He told me. He thought I could talk her out of it. Yeah, right. Like anyone could ever talk Melissa out of anything.”

  Yalies fucking with their lives and the lives of those around them. This would become one helluva made-for-TV movie. I said goodbye and got out of there.

  CHAPTER 3

  The newsroom was quiet. Marty was sipping coffee at his desk, the other day editors savoring the calm before the storm.

  Henry Owens didn’t even notice me as he scanned eBay in his unending search for rare coins. Peter Martone briefly looked up from the New York Post, then resumed reading, and Jim Wingate was having a heated discussion with his wife on the phone.

  Not a whole lot happened until stories started coming in about four in the afternoon, except if there was breaking news. The day editors did the brunt of their work in about three hours, spending the rest of their time in meetings and on the phone with the reporters in the bureaus, even though I wasn’t sure anyone really talked to anyone about anything. Two reporters ended up doing the same stories on occasion because someone “forgot” to tell someone what he was working on.

  Watergate and Woodward and Bernstein had lured me into this business. But the industry wasn’t like that anymore, no one took the risks. Melissa Peabody was definitely a risk, a dead Yalie on the front page.

  “Whatchagot?” Marty put his coffee down on top of the weekend rotation schedule. He was too tall for his desk and complained bitterly about neck pain, popping Advils all day. His glasses balanced precariously on the end of his nose. I always fought the urge to stick my finger on the center and push them up.

  Marty Thompson came from the competition in Bridgeport about a year after I’d started at the paper. In those days, we stole their people and they stole ours, always for more money, and the people were always quality. From the first day he arrived, we had a good relationship. He respected me professionally, and after a required grace period, I respected him. His news judgment was solid, his editing good enough so I never knew where my words left off and his began. But it was starting to wear on him, too, the corporate mentality that profits were more important than anything, even the news. Unfortunately for him, he was just past that age where places would look at him as a viable candidate.

  I ran through the interviews with the kids at Atticus, purposely leaving Sarah until the end. Marty’s eyes grew wider when I told him about Come Together.

  “Shiiiiiit,” he drawled. “Can we confirm that?”

  “The roommate told me.”

  “We’re going to need more.”

  I hated it when he sat on stuff just because he didn’t think the publisher would like it. “The roommate confirmed it,” I tried again.

  “No, we need another source.”

  “Why?”

  His blue eyes got darker. “Think about it, Annie.”

  I hated this shit. “I’ll get on the phone.”

  “Good. Dick’s gone to the press conference.”

  “What press conference?”

  “The one the cops are having as we speak.”

  I took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Because Dick was here and you weren’t. I figured you had a good reason not to be.”

  I counted to ten. The editors all thought we were out screwing around if we weren’t in the office. I constantly argued that I couldn’t get a story while sitting at my desk, but it fell on deaf ears. Dick somehow managed to be in more than he was out and still get stories. Dumb luck. I could see the byline now. “By Dick Whitfield and Anne Seymour.” Was this worth the aggravation?

  “Okay,” I conceded and made my way to my desk. I booted up my computer and zoned out for the few minutes it took to log on. Clicking on the Internet icon, I waited again, until I got the page with the message that the server couldn’t be found.

  “What’s up with the Internet?” I called over to Marty.

  He shook his head. “Tech guys are working on it.”

  This wasn’t new. I’d have to go the old-fashioned route to find Come Together.

  A 1999 phone book was holding up my press release basket, and I pulled it out. No Come Together in 1999. I got up and wandered the newsroom, glancing at all of the outdated phone books. Finally I found one for 2002 under someone’s computer monitor. It was the closest I could get. I just hoped Come Together had been in business then. I yanked it out, the monitor teetering, then steadying. If we had proper workstations, but don’t get me started.

  Come Together had a display ad in the Yellow Pages. “The Most Beautiful Girls in the World Good Conversation A Lot of Fun.” No street address, just a phone number. Seemed harmless enough until you read between the lines. I picked up the phone.

  “Come Together.” The woman’s voice was breathless, seductive. It was too much.

  “I’d like to set up a date.” Seemed like a good idea at the moment. How else was I going to infiltrate their world?

  “Oh, well, okay.” The breathless voice suddenly came up for air.

  “Is
there a problem?”

  “Well, we only have female escorts.”

  Oh, great. Now I had to be a lesbian. There was no other way. “I prefer that.”

  A moment of silence, then, “We do have one girl who might fit your needs. What type of function will you be attending?”

  I ignored the question and moved in for the kill. “Actually, I’d heard about someone from a friend. Is it possible to ask for someone specifically?” This was way too weird. I was giving myself the creeps.

  “Who was that?”

  “Melissa Peabody.”

  “She’s not the one I was thinking of. Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Perhaps there’s someone in charge I can speak to.” It was time to stop the charade, I had my answer.

  “I’m sorry, but all appointments are made through me.”

  “Then are you in charge?”

  A small, nervous laugh assured me she wasn’t. “I don’t know what the problem is.”

  “The problem is that Melissa Peabody is dead.”

  I thought I detected a silent scream, but I could be wrong. “Who is this?”

  “My name is Anne Seymour, with the Herald. Is there someone I can talk to there about Melissa Peabody? I’m writing a story about her. She died early this morning. Apparently she had an appointment with one of your clients last night, and he may have been the last person to see her alive.” I didn’t say he could’ve pushed her off that balcony, but that was the general idea.

  “I’ll have to have someone call you back.”

  I gave her my number at the paper as well as my cell number. “You know, if no one calls me, I’ll keep calling. You won’t get rid of me.” It was a good threat, and not an empty one.

  “You’ll hear from us,” she promised before she hung up.

  I glanced over at Marty and saw him looking at me. I gave him the thumbs-up. “I think we got it.”

  He nodded, a pained expression crossing his face. I was glad I didn’t have his job.

  The phone rang.

  “Anne Seymour.”

  “Ms. Seymour, this is Hickey Watson of Come Together.” The voice matched the name perfectly, a little twangy, a little whiny, a lot nervous.

  “Thank you for getting back to me so quickly. I need some information about Melissa Peabody.”

  “I can’t divulge clients’ names, I’ll say that right off.”

  “Even if it means it would screw up a police investigation?”

  “Especially then.”

  It was worth a try. “Okay. But you can confirm that Miss Peabody had an appointment with one of your clients last night?”

  “Uh, well, yes, I guess I can.”

  “What is your exact title at the company?”

  “I run the place.”

  “So I can say you’re the owner?”

  “My name’s going to be in the paper?” He was more nervous now, and I prayed he wouldn’t say the words every reporter dreaded. “Can this be off the record?” He did it, he said them.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but what you said about Melissa Peabody being an employee was on the record. Anything you say now will be off the record, I assure you.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “I give you my word.” I waited, hoping he’d say more, not sure if the conversation was over.

  “The cops’ll want that client’s name, won’t they?” he asked.

  “When they find out she had a date last night, yes. They’ll probably get a court order to make you tell them.” I wanted to scare him into telling me first. “And it could be made public, so everyone would know. Especially if they make an arrest.”

  Dick waltzed past my desk with a big shit-eating grin on his face. I scowled at him, sensing I was losing Hickey Watson.

  “They can just try,” he spit in my ear and hung up, the dial tone reverberating through my brain. The good news was that it seemed my hangover was finally gone.

  Dick was bending Marty’s ear but good, and I couldn’t pretend nonchalance. I strolled over to Marty’s desk.

  “The apartment is rented by the McGee Corporation,” Dick was saying.

  “What the hell is that?” I asked. Marty glared at me.

  “I don’t know,” Dick said, “but I’m going to find out.” He couldn’t find his way out of a paper bag, but I held my tongue.

  “Do the cops know anything more about what happened last night?” Even though I missed the press conference, I could answer that question myself. If they knew something, they certainly wouldn’t tell anyone yet.

  Dick was shaking his head. “They’re still investigating.”

  The pat answer when the cops wanted to keep us at bay. I wondered if this mysterious client of Hickey Watson’s was some muckety-muck at this mysterious McGee Corporation.

  “What’s our next step?” Dick was asking Marty, who looked from him to me and back again. I wasn’t sure I liked what I saw in his eyes.

  “Annie’s found out that Melissa Peabody worked for an escort service,” he told Dick.

  “No shit!”

  “I think we need to find out as much as we can about this McGee company, since she fell from their balcony.”

  I held up a finger. “She had a late appointment last night.”

  “All the more reason to check out McGee.” Marty looked at the floor, and I knew he was thinking. When he looked back up at me, his eyes were apologetic. “Dick should get on this McGee thing. Annie, we’re going to need this stuff written up. Dick can type his notes into the system before he checks out McGee, and you can start putting this together.”

  My head was telling me that I got this particular assignment because I could actually write, unlike Dick, whose sentences were atrocities lamented every night by the copy editors. But my gut felt like I’d been hit with a brick. “Okay,” I said quietly.

  Dick bounced off to his desk like the puppy he was, and I sighed so loud Marty chuckled. “Don’t be a prima donna, Annie. I know you’re the better reporter, but you have to admit you can’t be in two places at once and this is too big for just one reporter.”

  “I know.” I did know it, I just didn’t like it.

  “You know, you might want to call Tom, touch base, see if you can find out anything, even off the record, we could work with.”

  I didn’t like it that he suggested what I’d been thinking. We’d worked together too long, we could almost read each other’s minds. Almost.

  Dick typed his notes in pretty quickly, so I was able to throw something together in no time. I didn’t want to call Tom: he wouldn’t get the message or he wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone. I had to go back to the scene. I knew I’d find him there.

  THE TV VANS WERE GONE, and the cops had dispersed, leaving bits of yellow tape on the street. Forensics had gotten all they could, and now passersby could come and go freely. Even with a high-profile crime, the cops had to clear out as soon as they could on a city street. As I pulled the door to the apartment building open, I saw movement out of the corner of my eye, something that made me turn.

  It was the coffee guy, the one I’d seen in Atticus, the Frank Sinatra look-alike. He was coming toward me, his face unreadable. For a moment I thought he was going to stop and say something, but he sped up and moved past without a word, or a wink this time.

  I made my way up in the elevator again; I didn’t run into anyone I would have to mislead. The door to the apartment was ajar, and I pushed it open.

  Tom was rubbing his forehead. He had a headache, on top of getting no sleep. I moved closer.

  “You doing okay?” I asked quietly.

  He jumped, his eyebrows coming together in a frown. “Dammit, Annie, you scared the shit out of me.”

  I shrugged. I had that effect on a lot of people.

  “How’s it going?”

  He shook his head. “Who the hell knows. This one’s got everyone stumped.”

  “I might have some information you’ll be interested in,” I said, not w
anting to beat around the bush, hoping if I told him about Come Together and Hickey Watson that he’d reciprocate and tell me what wasn’t said at the press conference.

  When I was done, Tom sighed. “Oh, shit,” he said quietly.

  “My sentiments exactly,” I said.

  “You’re not going to print that, are you?”

  I stared at him. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “It could really screw things up for us.”

  “It’s a good story. And I got it without any effort.”

  “What about the ex-boyfriend? David what’s-his-name, Best? Did you talk to him yet?”

  I didn’t even know how to find the guy, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “No. Not yet. He’s next on my list.” Something in Tom’s face made me stop. “Hey, you did, didn’t you?”

  “He’s been questioned, yes.” I hated it when he got evasive.

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  I should never have slept with a cop. Even though I consciously didn’t do it to get information, as many of my colleagues believed, there may have been that tiny part of my brain that thought I would, maybe, get a tiny bit more information than the average reporter. But cops are always cops, on the street and in bed. This one did have a way with his hands that made me wild, made me forget momentarily we were on opposite sides of the story even though ultimately we both were after the truth.

  “Is he a suspect?” I had to spell it out for him.

  Tom’s eyes narrowed, and I could see the wheels in his head churning: Do I tell her, do I not tell her? Finally, “He can be considered a suspect, yes, but this new information could change things.”

  “That’s not off the record, is it?”

  “Oh, Christ, Annie, do what you want with it. But I just hope that if you keep finding out stuff you’ll let us know so we can put a lid on this one. There’s way too much heat from the school, from the mayor’s office. And now, with this escort service shit, well, let’s just say you’ve made my job that much harder.”

  I wanted to put my arms around him, but he looked so damn sexy, his tie askew, his collar open enough to reveal a tiny tuft of chest hair, that I had to keep my distance. This certainly wasn’t the time or the place.