Annie Seymour 01-Sacred Cows

by Karen E. Olson

  Who happened to own a pizza place on Wooster Street, I remembered now. That could explain why he was peering in Sally’s window at me the other night. But it didn’t explain the other times.

  “So what is it you do exactly?” I pushed.

  “Private investigation.”

  I stared at him. “You’re a private detective?”

  He nodded. “A few years with a friend of my father’s, and I decided to go out on my own. It’s fairly lucrative.” He paused. “What about you? I heard you got married.”

  I didn’t want to get into that. I’d gotten married right out of college, it was a huge mistake, we were way too young, and fortunately I got out of it before there was a house or, God forbid, kids. The only thing it did for me was give me a new last name that didn’t link me to my mother or my father. In my job, that was a big plus.

  I had to change the subject. “So you’ve been following me? Why?” I tried to keep my voice low, but I didn’t like the idea of this guy hired to follow me by who knew who.

  “I haven’t actually been following you.”

  “You’d better explain that.”

  “You just happen to be in the places I’ve been lately.” He moved closer to me, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “I’m working on something for your mother’s firm.”

  Which explained why he was at the party. My mother loved to invite her underlings to parties, to make them feel as if they were equals, even though they obviously weren’t. But then it struck me. The lawsuit. It had to be why he was in all the same places I was, he was investigating the same thing.

  “So you think you’ve figured it out,” he was saying.

  I blinked a couple of times. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve figured out what I’m working on.”

  “How am I supposed to know?”

  “You’re a reporter, you know a lot about your mother’s client list. And I could see what you were thinking.”

  He was clairvoyant to boot. Go figure. But I was intrigued with this little game; it was far more interesting and diverting than having to make conversation with Bill Bennett.

  “Do you think David Best killed her?” His question was simple, but loaded.

  “The police think he did.”

  “I didn’t ask you what the police think, although you obviously would know more than anyone else what they’re thinking.”

  “I am sick and tired of people thinking I know more about this than I do just because of Tom.” It came out more harshly than I intended, and I could see he was startled.

  “Never mind about him,” he said. “Do you think David Best did it?”

  I wasn’t sure why he was pushing me, but I thought for a minute.

  “No, I didn’t mean you should intellectually think about it,” he said. “What does your gut tell you, without taking any time to think?”

  “No, he didn’t do it.” I couldn’t believe my ears. What the hell was I doing? I avoided telling Richard Wells what I thought, and he and I were on the same side, allegedly.

  “I don’t think so, either.”

  “Why not?”

  He smiled, a slow smile that made me catch my breath. “I really can’t discuss it with you.”

  I wanted to punch him in the stomach, but he was saved by my mother’s announcement that dinner was served.

  I barely ate a bite. My skirt was a little tight as it was, and I wasn’t about to expand my stomach further. Fortunately, I didn’t have to sit next to either Bill Bennett or Vinny DeLucia, although I kept my eye on both of them as some slick young lawyer tried to make time with me.

  I wondered what Vinny had that made him feel so sure that David Best didn’t kill Melissa. I remembered I was supposed to find out if anyone had any knowledge of McGee. I turned to the lawyer next to me.

  “I don’t suppose you know Mark Torrey.” It was a shot in the dark.

  His eyebrows rose about an inch. “You know Mark?”

  “I haven’t seen him in a while,” I lied easily, trying not to show my surprise. “But I heard he’s working for the city as well as for McGee.”

  “The city thing’s just to tide him over until the money comes in from McGee.”

  “So he’s really just getting started with McGee.” I paused to pretend to eat. “Establishing a client base?”

  “Yeah. Interested?”

  I smiled, a genuine smile because he just made my job so much easier. “I’ve got some money I need to put somewhere. Do you think he could help?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Do you happen to know how I can contact him? I tried the other day at City Hall, but they said he was out of town.”

  He laughed. “He’s never there.” He pulled a pen out of his breast pocket and grabbed the cocktail napkin under his glass. “Try this number. Leave a message and he’ll get back to you,” he said as he wrote.

  Even though McGee had a phony New York address, this had the familiar Connecticut area code and New Haven exchange. “Thanks.” I was now indebted to this man and found myself nibbling more and more as he told me about his yacht in Essex. No, I don’t sail, I told him. No, I really don’t have time. I work a lot of weekends. Practically every weekend. No, I get seasick sometimes. Dramamine really doesn’t help.

  Why didn’t this guy get a clue?

  I saw Vinny watching me from the other end of the table. He winked. I’m always attracted to men I shouldn’t be attracted to. Vinny had everything going against him, except that he’d grown into an incredibly good-looking person. I didn’t want to be reminded of St. Anthony’s High School, it wasn’t the best time of my life, and seeing Vinny brought back some embarrassing moments. Besides, I was seeing Tom, even though our “understanding” left the future wide open for both of us. I mentally slapped myself and took a sip of my wine. There was just no question that I would leave this party alone. Maybe I’d even stop at Tom’s on my way home.

  CHAPTER 8

  You know what they say: best laid plans . . . yadda, yadda, yadda.

  How was I supposed to know he’d follow me? After an excruciating three hours, I managed to squeeze my way out my mother’s door, trying not to show my disgust at her taste in men and to slip out before Vinny saw me. But he is a private detective, and I am remarkably bad at being able to tell my mother I want to go home instead of just leaving. He was next to me on the sidewalk as I unlocked my car door.

  “Would you like to go get a drink somewhere?”

  He startled me, and I dropped my keys.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “I want to pick your brain.”

  How romantic. “No, it’s not a good idea. I’m tired, and I need to go home and get some sleep.”

  “But you’re not going to sleep.”

  I picked up the keys and turned to him. Damn, if he really didn’t look like Frank Sinatra. It was too tempting. I had to be strong. “How do you know?”

  “Because you’re going to be thinking about all of this. It’s getting to you.”

  “What is?”

  “Melissa Peabody. David Best’s arrest. Mark Torrey and McGee. And you have to wait for Torrey to call you.”

  I feigned ignorance. “What?”

  “I heard you talking to that lawyer about Torrey. I saw him give you a number. And I know you sneaked into the bathroom and left a message on his machine.”

  “Are you sure my mother didn’t hire you to watch me?” He was pissing me off, despite the sexy smile. This was not attractive.

  “I don’t think you should do it,” he said.

  “Do what?”

  “Meet Torrey.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s not what you think. He’s worse.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Just take my word for it, okay?” Vinny rubbed the back of his neck. He looked tired. But I still didn’t trust him.

  After several seconds during which it became obvious I wasn’t going to acquiesce, V
inny finally sighed. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone. But be careful.” He started to walk up the driveway, but then stopped and turned. “Do you have a gun?” he asked quietly.

  My father bought me the .22 that I kept in the drawer next to my bed. He’d taught me how to use it a long time ago. I’d never even told Tom I had it there, two feet from where he slept.

  “Might not be a bad idea to keep it handy,” Vinny said before he disappeared into the darkness.

  How the hell did he know?

  Vinny sufficiently scared me, even though I would never admit it to anyone. In the middle of the night, anything is creepy, and I kept thinking the cars behind me were following me. It was stupid, but I have a vivid imagination. I must have looked around me a million times, walking from my car to my apartment, my keys gripped between my fingers as I’d learned in a high school self-defense class, ready to stab into some perpetrator’s jugular. Since I’d never had cause to use this strategy, I wasn’t certain it would work, but it felt better to at least feel like I would try.

  My apartment was dark, quiet as a cemetery, so to speak. The answering machine was blinking its red eye rapidly at me. I hit the button at the same time I turned on the light.

  “Annie, it’s Tom. Oh, yeah, you’ve got that thing at your mother’s. I forgot. Thought you might like to get a drink somewhere.” The case was closed, so he had a little time. I glanced at the clock. It was only a little before midnight. I was about to pick up the phone when the second message began.

  “Anne Seymour, this is Mark Torrey.” I’d left my cell phone number on his machine, not my home number, which was unlisted. A chill ran laps up and down my spine. “I would be happy to meet with you. I’m free at nine o’clock tomorrow night. Come to my office at 543 Orange Street, third floor.” The machine clicked off and I sat down on the couch, still clutching my keys. How the hell had he gotten my phone number? And did I really want to meet him somewhere that wasn’t public and at night? I had to shake this off. I’d let Vinny spook me too much.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the familiar number.

  “Could you come over?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.

  “Typical mother party?”

  “Oh, God, it was worse than that. She’s seeing Bill Bennett, the publisher. They seem to be very cozy. Which sucks, big-time, for me.”

  Tom chuckled. “Maybe she can get you a raise, a promotion.”

  “I doubt it.” I thought for a minute. “Hey, do you know a private investigator named Vinny DeLucia?”

  “I’ve run across him. Why?”

  “He’s the guy, the one who I thought was following me.”

  “Thought?”

  “Yeah, seems he’s just working on a case and happened to be in the same places as me at times. His parents own DeLucia’s, you know, on Wooster Street.”

  “Really? They’ve got pretty good pies. I’m glad you’re not really being followed, I was a little worried about you.”

  I smiled involuntarily. I would’ve hit anyone else who said that. “So are you coming over?”

  “Give me twenty minutes.”

  Needless to say, I didn’t need a few beers to enjoy myself as thoroughly as the last time we’d seen each other on our own time.

  BECAUSE IT WAS SUNDAY, we slept in, had some coffee, lounged a little more in bed, then I made one of my famous ham and cheese omelets. I almost forgot about Mark Torrey as we sifted through the Times.

  Tom’s cell phone went off at the same time my phone rang.

  “Annie, we got another one.” Marty’s voice was gruff, and I wondered if it hadn’t been his turn to be out partying the night before.

  Tom’s mouth tightened as he listened to his caller, and he moved into the bedroom, out of view.

  “Another one what?” I asked Marty.

  “Another body.”

  I froze. “Where?”

  “In a parking lot near Ninth Square. That’s all I know. Turn on your scanner, that’s where I’m hearing it from.”

  My scanner was somewhere in the pile of newspapers on the back seat of my car. “Is it a girl?”

  “Yeah. But, like I said, that’s all I know.”

  “Which parking lot?”

  “The one across from that Chinese place, you know, Royal Palace.”

  I knew the place. They had a great crispy whole fish with spicy Hunan sauce and amazing sautéed green beans, not to mention delicious scallion pancakes. The owner talked me into trying jellyfish one night, but that was less than stellar.

  “Okay, I’ll call you when I know something.”

  I hung up just as Tom was emerging from the bedroom, fully dressed. He was one step ahead of me.

  “I’m heading over there,” he said. “I guess I’ll see you.” He slammed the door behind him without kissing me goodbye. I picked up a pair of jeans off the floor and pulled them on.

  The street was blocked off, and I had to park near the Coliseum and walk over to the scene. A uniform held his arm out to keep me from ducking under the yellow police tape.

  “I’m Annie Seymour, with the Herald,” I tried.

  “Sorry, I know who you are. I have orders to keep you as far away as possible.”

  That stopped me. Orders? “From who?”

  “Detective in charge. Tom Behr.”

  The rage bubbled up into my chest and settled in my throat. I saw Tom on the other side of the parking lot, amid the crowd. Asshole. And I shared my last glass of orange juice with him. I made him an omelet. He couldn’t do this to me. I walked around the edge of the chain-link fence and around to the back, to try to get a closer look. And maybe punch out the cop in charge.

  He spotted me hovering.

  “Get out of here, Annie.”

  It was then that I saw the blood. A lot of it, more blood than I had ever seen in one place.

  “Is this all from her?” I asked.

  “You can’t come in here.”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to. “Jesus, what happened?”

  “Stabbed. More times than I can count at the moment.”

  “ID?”

  “Not until next of kin.” He walked away again, his shoulders sagging. But it didn’t mean I wasn’t still mad at him.

  TV crews were arriving, and I thought I saw Richard Wells close behind. I maneuvered around a little and stooped down to see if I could see anything between the rows of legs.

  Nothing. The cops had the whole place blocked off. I ran around to the other side of the parking lot, but still couldn’t get a good look.

  I looked up at the crowd across the way and saw no one was getting anywhere, I was glad I wasn’t the only one. Uh-oh, there was Richard Wells turning the corner, waving a genial hello to the cops, making his way under the yellow tape . . . hey, wait a minute. Who gave him permission?

  I skipped back to where I’d started, keeping an eye on Wells, who was talking to Tom. Maybe he could go home with Wells instead of me. This was way too much. I started to go under the tape, just as Wells had done, but a TV camera got in my way. I elbowed the reporter, who stuck her bony finger in my side.

  “Move over,” I growled. She moved close enough so my nose stuck into her fancy hairdo, and I almost fell over because of the noxious fumes from her hair spray. I caught Tom’s eye as I got closer, and he shook his head, his forehead furrowed, his eyes meaning business.

  Okay, so maybe I didn’t really want to see the stabbing victim. Maybe the thought of all that blood made me sick to my stomach. But he let Richard Wells in, goddammit, and I was not about to be pushed away.

  I’ve seen Trauma: Life in the ER on the Learning Channel. That’s the show where they bring in the stabbing victims and proceed to stick their fingers into the wounds to see how deep they are. But this was worse. A hundred times worse.

  Because it was Allison.

  Whoever had done this had not touched her face, and I could still see it as I drank my margarita and wanted to yell at her like her mother.

 
; I’d seen enough, and I backed off, nodding at Tom, turning toward the sidewalk to join the rest of the vultures. But I’d lost my appetite, even when Richard Wells smirked at me.

  That’s when I remembered I didn’t even know her last name.

  “Hey, Annie, wait up!” It was an all-too-familiar voice following me to my car. Seeing that girl like that and then hearing Dick Whitfield’s voice made me stoop down and vomit onto the curb. So much for the omelet.

  I managed to stand with as much dignity as I could, since Dick was still standing there like the moron he is.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  I snorted, not a pleasant sound. “Do I look okay, Dick? Give me a fucking break.”

  “Did you get anything?” He pointed toward the scene.

  “Yeah.” I got into my car. I had to go home and change and brush my teeth. I couldn’t think straight at the moment.

  “What’d you get? Should I stick around?”

  “Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Be my guest.” I started to pull away.

  “But what’s going on? Can you at least fill me in?”

  I stopped the car and stared at him. “There’s a body. She’s stabbed, many times. The cops aren’t saying a fucking thing. Now I have to go home and put myself together and I’ll be back.” I tried to keep the exasperation out of my voice, but honestly. He’s a reporter, too. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to do this job, even though so many have tried and failed. I really was getting too old for this crap. Not to mention I was extremely embarrassed at losing my breakfast all over the tires of my car.

  I took a long, hot shower. They’d all still be there when I got back, although the body might be gone. But that would be a good thing. The body. Allison. Maybe it had nothing to do with anything except a serial killer was after girls who worked for Hickey. Maybe Melissa and Allison were going to break out on their own and Hickey was mad. Maybe he did it. It couldn’t be David Best, not this time, since he was “being detained” as the lawyers put it.

  I shut off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around me. The face in the mirror stared back at me, and I picked up the tweezers and started pulling out the hairs between my eyebrows. If I didn’t do that periodically, I would look like the Neanderthal man, which would be a complete turnoff to any man, with the possible exception of Dick Whitfield, who probably hadn’t gotten laid since, well, since ever. I tried to think of Dick with the layers of green peeled off and decided to stop thinking about it because I’d probably vomit again.