by Clea Simon
‘No, no, I’m on it.’ Tara stops her, embarrassed by her lack of judgment. ‘You’re right, of course. I’m calling them right now.’
‘Good.’ The woman’s voice emphatic. ‘And, honey? All our tow drivers carry AAA ID. You make sure he shows you his before you get in any truck with anyone, OK?’
The cops, when they show, are less dramatic.
‘At what time did you park the car?’ The older one, with an accent from south of the city, is going over her report again. ‘And you didn’t check it, like when you went out for lunch or anything?’
‘No.’ She shakes her head before stopping to think. ‘No, I walked to the T. Took the T to lunch.’ It could have been a year ago. ‘I was meeting a friend who works downtown.’
‘The driver’s ready to go,’ says the other cop. He’s been talking to the tow driver. Tara assumes he’s done all the identity checking that’s necessary. ‘He can take it to police impound, if you want.’
They look at her. ‘No, please.’ She raises a hand as if to block the idea. ‘I mean, it’s not like you’re going to dust it for fingerprints, right?’
‘Not likely.’ The older cop breaks into the faintest smile. ‘A car in an open lot like this? Left here all day? I bet half your co-workers probably passed by. Maybe your boss, too.’
‘Oh, lord, no.’ She hides her face in her hand, as if Rudy could see her. Could see this mess. Feels the headache starting. Hunger. The long day. ‘Can’t I just have it towed to the garage near my house?’
The two cops exchange glances. ‘Suit yourself,’ says the older. ‘We’ll have the report on file, if you need it for insurance.’
Insurance. She nods. She’ll need new tires. At least she has the money.
‘And you can’t think of anyone who has a grudge against you?’ The younger cop sounds concerned, or maybe he’s tired too. ‘You haven’t made any enemies?’
‘I work in corporate communications, writing quarterly reports.’ It sounds dull, even to her. ‘I’m amicably divorced. My ex and I get along great. I don’t …’ She stops. Considers, and then rejects the sliver of an idea. ‘No, no enemies.’
‘Maybe it was kids, then.’ The older cop is looking at her like he sees something. She stays silent. ‘Or they got the wrong car. If you think of anything, you let us know.’
‘I will.’ She nods. It’s an effort to talk at all. ‘Thank you.’
Another glance between the two policemen. ‘That’s all then.’ The older one smacks the flatbed’s hood twice. ‘Hoist her up!’
She calls Peter, almost by reflex, the moment she gets in the door.
‘Wait, what?’ He interrupts before she can finish. Before she can explain why she was working late, why she drove at all. ‘You walked from Iggy’s?’
She closes her eyes. Breathes. The whole point of having her car towed to the local garage is that it is local – three blocks from her apartment. They know her there. Know her car. ‘Of course.’ She’s trying to hold her voice steady. Hears the tremor, the slight breathlessness. She ran, after all, more spooked than she cares to admit. ‘I mean, I’m home now.’
‘Tara, someone slashed your tires. Someone targeted you.’
‘It may have been random.’ She tries to remember what the older cop said. ‘Besides, that was over by the waterfront. Not here.’
‘I’m coming over.’ She can hear him moving about. Imagines him grabbing a jacket. Looking for his keys. ‘Lock the door, will you?’
‘It’s locked, Peter.’ She hears the peevishness that has crept into her voice. Can’t believe she called him; can’t believe she was afraid. But since she did … ‘Hey, one thing?’
He grunts. She can tell that mentally he’s already out the door.
‘Would you stop by Emma’s? I’m starving and it’s too late to have them deliver.’
She’s on her second slice before he can start with the questions. The first one, she inhales, only vaguely aware of him talking. Ranting, really, about corporate responsibility. About Zeron’s culpability for what he is calling ‘the attack’. He’s been frightened. She knows that. Knows he doesn’t like feeling helpless. Doesn’t like that he wasn’t there, and so she lets him vent, knowing he’ll settle down faster if she doesn’t interrupt. Besides, by the time he shows up, the adrenaline has worn off, leaving her shaky and weak. She’s starving, and the smell of the pizza hits her like a drug.
‘It’s this stupid article.’ He’s eating, despite his anger. He could always eat. ‘Not that I expect the cops to get anything. Who’d you speak with? I used to know a few guys at that precinct. Timilty, or no—’
He’s reaching for his jacket. For his phone, when Tara realizes she has to speak up.
‘I didn’t.’ Her mouth is full. She pauses. Chews. Swallows, all the while the horrified comprehension dawns on Peter. ‘I mean, I did talk to the cops.’ She pauses to take a drink. At least she had beer in the fridge. Wipes her mouth. ‘I just didn’t tell them about the article. They asked if I had any enemies, and it didn’t seem relevant.’
She shrugs and goes back to her pizza, which seems to upset Peter more.
‘Tara, what the fuck?’ He’s got a focus for his anger now. ‘I told you they were investigating Frank Turcotte’s death.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not what I’m writing about.’ Years ago, his tone would have riled her up. Would have her oscillating between anxiety and rage. Kind of like he is now, she realizes. ‘I’m writing about the past. About the scene.’
He ignores her. ‘Who have you interviewed for this piece? Who did you speak to last?’
She finishes the slice, chewing slowly to give herself time to think.
‘Come on, Tara. Someone wanted to scare you, at the very least.’
Peter is like a dog with a bone, she knows that. Plus, he did come over when she called. Min would call it capitulation. Min was never married.
‘I’ve spoken with a few people. Most of them really quite happy to talk.’
Peter snorts in disbelief.
‘No, really. It was nice to reconnect with Katie and with Onie.’ Tara is warmed by the recollection, but Peter knows her too. He can see when her smile falters.
‘What?’ He questions her almost before she realizes what has changed. Fear – the idea of scaring her. Fear made her call him, after all.
Could Peter have done it? No, he wouldn’t. Not after Saturday night.
‘Well, Greg Burdick was kind of a jerk.’ She gives him that, to buy herself time. ‘But he just didn’t want to talk.’
‘Who else?’ That doggedness. His years as a reporter. She knows he hasn’t moved on, simply noted one name and is waiting for the others. ‘Come on, Tara,’ he says, when she doesn’t respond immediately. ‘Maybe it was random, but maybe not. Maybe someone wanted to scare you – or maybe someone wanted you stranded out there. Alone. Who else did you talk to?’
He’s grilling her like a husband. She thinks of Nick.
‘Tara?’
‘Nick Linbert.’ She turns away. Doesn’t want him to read her face.
‘Nick who?’ He sees something.
‘You don’t know him.’ She shakes it off. ‘He was a bar back. Someone I knew.’
‘A bar back where?’ He’s leaning in. ‘What club?’
‘Peter, about Saturday …’ She’s not a kid anymore. She needs to talk this out.
‘Look, I get it.’ He bites down on the words. ‘That was a stupid idea, but I’m not talking about us anymore. I’m talking about you – about your safety. About what you might have blundered into.’
He’s jealous, and he doesn’t even realize it. She feels – sympathy. Annoyance, and, above all, fatigue. This has been an exhausting day.
‘Peter, look.’ Suddenly she can barely keep her eyes open. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing. Really. And coming over with the pizza—’
‘Tara!’ He’s practically shouting. ‘Will you listen to me? This is serious. This isn’t some punk kid getting piss
ed off because you ragged on his band. I don’t know who you got to or what nerve you touched, but you’ve got to stop it. You can’t just blunder blithely into two open investigations for some feature story.’
‘Wait.’ She puts a hand up. A confused crossing guard desperate to counter the oncoming traffic. ‘Two?’ He knows about Nick, she thinks. He has no rights over her, and so he’s projecting. Confused. ‘You mean one. Frank Turcotte’s the—’
‘I mean two.’ He’s almost spitting. ‘That rocker. The skinny guy – what was his stupid name? Chris Crank?’
‘Chris Crack?’ She’s lost. Awake but lost. ‘You didn’t – you barely knew about him. Don’t tell me you’re one of the people who thinks he killed himself?’
‘Suicide?’ He stares at her, mouth agape. ‘No, I mean he was murdered.’
‘Don’t you remember?’ He’s looking at her as if she were a child or, no, a disappointment. An ex-wife who has forgotten the past. ‘That was my story. My lede. That’s how we got together.’
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ She nods. The story had been insignificant, at least in terms of everything else that had been going down.
It was late February. Must have been. She remembers shrinking into herself from the cold. That her first big splurge was those warm boots.
‘Nice boots.’ Scott had noticed them right away. Had he known what they meant?
‘Thanks.’ She’d looked down, discomfited by his words. Not praise – not exactly. The boots weren’t pretty. Big and thick, years before Uggs would become a fashion statement, they were waterproof and lined. And for the first time that winter, her feet had been neither damp nor cold. Even if they did look gigantic.
It wasn’t his implied criticism of her stylistic choices that made her flinch, though. And after several minutes of working quietly, side by side, he finally broke.
‘So you got it.’ He wasn’t looking at her boots. Wasn’t looking at her, at all. ‘The job.’
‘Yeah.’ Tara reached over. Took the straightedge and lined up the photo. When she reached for the X-Acto knife, he barked out a short, choked laugh.
‘What, you think I’m going to hurt myself?’ He’d turned as if to take her in, all five-eight of her in her leather jacket and fancy new boots.
‘You know Raspberry is a stickler.’ She didn’t look at him, either. She was focused on the flat before her, giving the record store ad more attention than it needed, finicky customer or no.
‘Yeah.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how I’m going to get this rag out without you, Tara.’
She paused to look at him, realized she was blinking back tears. ‘I could still help out.’
‘And steal all our scoops?’ He turned away, back to the flat, his own voice suspiciously hoarse. ‘Besides, the Dot is a sweatshop. They’ll be running you ragged.’
She already had an assignment – an assignment and an impossible deadline. She hadn’t wanted to tell him. Hadn’t wanted to not show up, to help paste up one last issue. Instead, she finished the ad. Collected herself.
‘I wanted to thank you,’ she said, as soon as she could trust herself to speak. ‘If you hadn’t pushed me – made me write. Made me apply …’
‘Bullshit.’ He sounded like himself again. ‘You were always a writer. I was just smart enough to get you to work for free before you figured it out.’
The next day, she started work. Not paste up – not anymore – but as a staff writer, with a desk and everything. The everything including, apparently, Peter.
‘May I help you?’ She came back from orientation – forty minutes of form-filling with HR – to find him at her cubicle, head bent over – yes – her review.
‘Tara Winton, right?’ He looked up with a grin. Tall and surprisingly boyish looking, he dressed so square she had trouble seeing him as a colleague. Khakis and button-down shirts were the province of an older generation, or so she had thought. But he was her age, or maybe only a little older. And he knew her name.
‘Yeah?’ She thought back to those forms. Had HR said someone from management would be speaking to her? He was cute, in a straight way. ‘I mean, may I help you?’
‘I hope so.’ He brushed back those bangs in a move that would soon become familiar. ‘I’m hoping you can take me out. Introduce me around the rock clubs.’ Her surprise must have registered on her face. ‘I’m Peter.’ He held out a hand. ‘Peter Corwin. News. I’m working on a piece about drugs in the clubs, and I’m told you’re our new girl on the music beat. That you can hook me up.’
NINETEEN
Things were moving so swiftly, it all jumbles together in retrospect. Some things she knows for sure. She took Peter out that night. The Exiles were playing and she wanted to go anyway. To celebrate her first day on the job. She’d told him to meet her at ten. That she’d be at the upstairs bar. She hadn’t said anything about his clothes. She didn’t know him well enough. And besides, surely he’d figure it out.
She remembers Min laughing. Pulling her aside. ‘Your date’s here,’ she’d said, the words slurring.
‘He’s not—’ Her protests only made it worse. Peter had changed the khakis for jeans, the button down for a worn-out sweatshirt, the logo faded to indecipherability against a blue-grey background. Still, he looked too preppy – too clean – for the scene. ‘Look, he’s a reporter. He’s on a story.’
‘That’s what he’s calling it?’ Min’s voice had an edge, an archness that made Tara squirm. The night of the knife had been a week before, maybe two. They didn’t speak of it, not since then, but Tara could feel the change in her friend. A new hardness. As cold as the winter. ‘My, these creative types sure are … creative.’
The drugs, the booze. Tara didn’t want to argue.
‘He wants to meet some regulars. You know, musicians. The folks on the scene.’ She remembers Min’s eyes, unnaturally bright. Piercing. ‘You want to talk to him?’
She offered her new colleague up like a sacrifice.
‘Me? No way.’ Min laughed, the demon appeased. ‘He’s all yours, my friend. He’s just your type.’
It wasn’t just the drugs. That laugh. ‘You seeing Frank again?’ Tara worked to keep her voice light. Min hadn’t mentioned Neela since that night. Hadn’t mentioned Frank or a pregnancy either.
Min’s smile, her shrug confirmed it – confirmed something, anyway. ‘We’re talking about you, Tara. Hey, your future husband is waiting.’
She remembers that. The way he peered over the heads of everyone at the bar. Looking for her. It made her feel connected. Important, maybe. Responsible, at least.
‘Don’t book,’ she’d said to Min. ‘I want to introduce you. You and Frank.’
‘Right.’ She’d laughed. ‘Anyway, Frank’s working. The Cash Bar’s giving him some shifts.’
It might have been that night. It’s hard to remember now. She’d taken Peter out a few times that week, a few the next. She had a beat now, an editor who expected a story a week. Min had ducked out that first night, she was pretty sure. But before long, she had introduced Peter around, and he’d managed to get some of the regulars to talk. Brian, who’d left Oakie’s by that point for the Casbah but who still came around on his nights off. Katie, who’d been hanging with Phil.
It was Katie who first made her realize that Min was right. That she at least wanted this clean-cut reporter to notice her.
‘Your friend knows a lot about the clubs.’ They’d been at the Rat, at the upstairs bar. Peter just back from going off with Katie to talk, the blonde taking him downstairs to someplace quieter for a good half hour. Not that Tara was timing them.
‘Katie? Yeah.’ She watched as the blonde climbed the rickety stairs, rejoining Phil, who now stared over at Peter. ‘She’s been with Phil for ages.’
‘She has some ideas about what’s going on.’ Tara kept her eyes on the other couple. Didn’t want Peter to see her face. ‘About the drugs.’
‘What?’ At that she turned. ‘What drugs?’
He
looked at her as if she were a child. ‘The heroin. Don’t tell me you didn’t know.’
‘Don’t be silly.’ She raised her hand in protest. Shook her head. Suddenly, it seemed important that he not view her as naïve. ‘I know – there’s a lot of smack floating around. More than there used to be.’
‘Damn right.’ Peter leaned in. ‘No one knows who’s bringing it in. Or no one who will speak to me anyway, and I’ve got my connections.’ His voice dropped lower, and he leaned in so close that Tara could feel the warmth of his breath. ‘There’s some scuttlebutt that someone’s going to talk. Going to give up the connect, but I don’t want to wait. I want the story before the bust.’
‘There’s going to be a bust?’ Tara swallowed. Min only used at parties. If someone was holding. Someone always was these days.
‘So I hear.’ Peter’s eyes glittered. His breath yeasty from beer. ‘Somebody didn’t get paid or had a beef. That’s usually what happens,’ he said. ‘Someone on the scene.That’s why I wanted to go out with you.’ He stopped, as if hearing his own words. ‘I mean, one of the reasons. The initial reason, Tara. I mean, besides spending time with you.’
Was that a week after Min’s breakdown at the party? A month? Yes, it had to be. February dragging on, and Min acting foul, secretive and unhappy. But maybe she’d sensed something going on. Seen how Tara was changing, even before Tara herself knew it. That night, Tara invited Peter up to her apartment, after he’d driven her home. What he’d said – the way she’d felt when she’d seen him with Katie – outweighing any scruples she had about a workplace romance.
‘Fuck it,’ she’d said, when she’d called Min at home the next day. ‘It’s not like it means anything.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Her friend knew better. Sounded better, too. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve got some news of my own.’
‘Oh?’ Tara looked around. Thursday morning, and the arts department was empty. She’d only gotten up this early because Peter had. ‘Frank?’
