Dead of the Day (2007)

by Karen E. Olson

  I'd heard through the grapevine that there was some problem with scrap metal theft, but since I couldn't confirm it, Marty didn't want to know about it.

  On a whim, I'd driven over there once but couldn't get past the fences.

  ''Interesting,'' I heard behind me.

  Wesley Bell was tucking his camera into his bag.

  ''What's interesting?'' I asked.

  He looked up from the bag at me. ''The dead guy. Wasn't in the water too long, from the looks of it.''

  Thank God. Wesley would have pictures of the body; none of them would be in the paper, but we'd all stare at them, our grisly senses of humor would spew forth, and there would be a lot of floater jokes tonight.

  ''See anything else?'' I asked.

  Wesley nodded. ''Yeah. And I only noticed it because of my cousin.'' He paused. ''He got stung last summer in the backyard. My wife put some baking soda on it and the swelling went down, but he said it hurt like a son of a bitch.''

  I frowned, trying to put two and two together.

  Wesley was staring off at the floater on the pier. ''Bee stings,'' he said. ''On his stomach.''

  Chapter 2

  Bee stings? I stared at Wesley. ''How can you tell? How do you know it's from a bee?''

  Wesley's eyebrows moved into his forehead and he shrugged. ''Looks just like my cousin's sting last summer,'' he said again, swinging his camera strap over his shoulder and walking toward the street. ''See you back at the paper.''

  I tried to remember that Wesley had powers mere mortals didn't have. But this still seemed far-fetched.

  I sidled around the crime scene tape, tiptoeing along the pier between the tape and the edge. I couldn't see a damn thing between all those forensics guys and the coroner bent over the body.

  ''What do you think you're doing?''

  Caught. I looked up into Tom's face and smiled. ''My job?'' I asked innocently.

  I saw his mouth twitch, like he wanted to smile back, but then he bit his lip to keep it at bay.

  ''Wesley said he saw something,'' I said. ''Something on the body. Like bee stings.''

  A shadow crossed his face, and I began to think it wasn't so stupid to have asked.

  ''It'll be in the medical examiner's report if there's anything,'' Tom said. ''You can't come any closer.''

  ''Is there anything else you can tell me? Do you

  know how long he was in the water? Where did he come from?''

  ''I don't have any answers for you yet,'' Tom said, turning away.

  Someone jostled me. A couple of cops managed to get in between me and Tom, and I turned around and made my way back down the pier. No one else would tell me anything, either. I knew that, so I wasn't even going to try. The specter of the police chief profile was still hanging over my head.

  Shit. I didn't have a life, so why did I care that I was going to have to work late?

  But instead of going back to my car, I walked in the opposite direction on the sidewalk along Long Wharf. My eyes found the lighthouse on the other side of the harbor and scanned the shoreline. Maybe the body floated across the water. Or maybe he fell in somewhere on this side and just washed up during low tide. I had no idea about currents in this water.

  Vinny would. Vinny used to be a marine biologist and he spent a lot of time kayaking along the Connecticut shoreline. Since we'd gotten together in late November and broke up a mere month later, he hadn't gotten the chance to teach me how to kayak like we'd planned.

  I wondered if he was out there now, while I was trying to figure out how this floater got into the water.

  I took a deep breath and turned around, starting back for my car. I had to exorcise Vinny from my head. I doubted I could raise that relationship from the dead. It was over. I had to get over it.

  I thought again about the bee stings. Weird. Especially this time of year. Those bees were supposed to still be in their hives, weren't they? I didn't remember seeing any bees until around Memorial Day, when they crashed the picnics. But as far as I knew, the bees could be out in the harbor on some little bee cruise.

  Damn. I'd have to find a bee expert somewhere if I told Marty about it. I made a pact with myself that I wasn't going to say anything until I got something official from Tom or the coroner's office.

  Dick Whitfield was climbing out of his car as I reached the parking lot.

  ''What are you doing here?'' I asked.

  ''Marty sent me over, said you need to get back and finish that profile about the new chief.'' Dick had gotten more relaxed around me lately; he wasn't cowering with fear like he had just a few months ago. I blamed it on his girlfriend, TV reporter Cindy Purcell, who, with her large breasts and big hair, had managed to infuse a sort of cocky confidence that hadn't been there before. Bitch.

  I hate change.

  ''Well, there's nothing more to report,'' I told him, happy to burst his bubble. ''I've got it all.'' I tapped my notebook. ''So you can go back and do whatever it was you were doing before Marty made you come out here.''

  Dick shifted uncomfortably.

  ''What?'' I asked.

  ''It was me,'' he said softly.

  ''What was you?''

  ''I'm the one who got the wrong Warren Black picture for the dead of the day. There's another Warren Black. How the hell was I supposed to know?'' His voice had gotten higher as he spoke, and now he sounded like some sort of odd bird.

  ''So Marty sent you out here to punish you?'' I asked.

  Dick shrugged. ''I think he thought you'd yell at me and that was supposed to make me feel like shit.''

  I laughed. But when I saw him blinking too fast, like he was going to cry, my mirth disappeared. I actually felt sorry for the guy. Go figure.

  ''Listen, Dick,'' I said. ''We've all fucked up. God knows you've fucked up before. Warren Black will have a funny story to tell his kids about how the paper screwed up and put his picture with a story about a dead guy. People like to see the paper make mistakes. It makes them feel superior.''

  ''Really?''

  He wasn't that green anymore; he should know this shit by now. I felt like Kevin Costner in Bull Durham, trying to explain things to Tim Robbins. ''Yeah,'' I said. ''Listen, I'm going back. Maybe you could get coffee or something for Marty. It'll put him in a better mood.''

  Dick's face lit up like a goddamn chandelier.

  ''And you could get me a latte while you're at it, no sugar,'' I added.

  He didn't even bat an eye. ''Okay, sure.'' And he bounced off toward his car, which I noticed was one of those hybrid Toyotas. As I went back to my own

  1993 Honda Accord with rust around the edges, I wondered just how much Dick was getting paid these days.

  It had been dark for three hours by the time I headed back to my apartment on Wooster Square. The floater story was a piece of cake; I didn't have enough for more than a few graphs. But the profile was eluding me—maybe I needed a vacation like Marty was always suggesting. I glanced down at the seat next to me, at the manila folders and notebooks that contained everything I needed for the story that I just couldn't make come alive. The Sunday editor wasn't happy, but I had promised I'd e-mail it by morning.

  The windows were dark in my brownstone when I pulled up in front and parked. I live in the middle apartment. Walter something-or-other lives upstairs. A young married couple moved into the apartment below me a couple of months ago; I'm not much for socializing with neighbors, so I don't even know their names.

  I sat in the car until Mick Jagger finished singing ''Beast of Burden,'' then scooped up the folders, got out, and locked the doors before making my way up the sidewalk.

  Something moved in the shadows. I caught my breath and I stopped, clutching my keys, wondering if they really could be useful as a weapon. My eyes searched the darkness. I took a step forward.

  A figure moved into my path.

  The dim glow from the streetlamp caught on his leather jacket and dark hair. There was something familiar about his shape, and instinctively I glanced over
at Vinny's apartment house across the square.

  He moved closer, and I found myself relaxing against my will.

  But when he stepped into the light, I saw it wasn't Vinny, even though he looked remarkably like him.

  ''Annie?'' His voice was deeper than Vinny's, and as he came a little closer I saw that he was shorter. Who the hell was this guy?

  ''What can I do for you?'' I asked loudly in my best curt reporter voice, the one I save for people like Warren Black.

  He held out his hand. ''Rocco DeLucia.''

  Shit. Vinny's brother. I let out the breath I'd been holding. ''You scared the crap out of me.''

  ''Sorry.'' He smiled then, and the resemblance to his older brother was even more pronounced. Damn. Two brothers who looked like a young, thin Frank Sinatra.

  ''What do you want?'' I asked, more sharply than I intended because he'd thrown me for a loop.

  But it didn't seem to bother him. ''You don't remember me, do you?''

  I had not met Vinny's brother. Rocco was a bestselling crime novelist, and he'd been in Europe on a book tour during the weeks Vinny and I'd been rolling in the hay. ''We've never met,'' I said matter-of-factly.

  He nodded. ''Yes, we have. I worked at the paper for a week a few years ago, doing research for a book. I wrote a story about a carjacking. They offered me a job. I met you then.''

  I tried to remember. We'd had a best-selling author working at the paper? Of course, I could be very selfabsorbed most of the time so I might not have paid any attention, but if he'd covered a carjacking then he may have been in my territory.

  ''When was that?'' I asked.

  ''About five years ago.''

  That explained it. It was before my time as police reporter. I was covering courts then. ''I really don't remember,'' I said when I realized he was waiting for me to suddenly recognize him.

  He shrugged. ''Oh,'' he mumbled.

  ''So you're here now, why?''

  He cocked his head in a very Vinny way. ''Maybe we should go inside.''

  To my apartment? Jesus, why did these DeLucia boys think they could get so familiar with me so quickly? ''Why don't you tell me here?'' I suggested.

  ''I want to talk to you about Vinny.''

  I guess I knew that, but I wasn't sure I wanted to talk about Vinny with his brother. He saw me debating this with myself.

  ''Really, Annie, I think you'll be interested in what I have to say. If you don't want to go upstairs, we could go over to Libby's and get a coffee.''

  I appreciated that he switched gears on that, but I had my police chief files with me and I didn't want to bring them or leave them in my car. ''No, no, that's okay. Sure, you can come up.'' But I was still a little uncertain.

  He followed me up the stairs and held the door open for me on the landing and then at my apartment.

  I dropped my stuff on the kitchen counter. ''Want a beer?'' I asked.

  ''Sure.''

  He was looking at my books when I tapped him on the shoulder and handed him the bottle. ''Thanks,'' he said absently, probably noticing that while I liked Michael Connelly and Laura Lippman—both former journalists—his own books were not among my collection.

  I took a long drink, not sorry that he hadn't started talking yet. I watched him move through my living room, checking out my space: the relatively new IKEA sofa, a hand-me-down teak coffee table from my mom, a Japanese ink drawing of cherry blossoms, the pile of newspapers in the corner that reached midthigh because I hadn't gotten around to throwing them out yet.

  He finally turned and looked me straight in the eye.

  ''What the hell is going on with you two?'' he demanded.

  I snorted. ''You might want to ask Vinny that.''

  ''I did, and he won't say a damn thing about it. Hell, Rosie's gotten her hopes up, and I don't want to see her hurt again.''

  So that was what this was all about. Rosie. I peered a little more closely at Rocco's face. He had the hots for his brother's former fiance´e. That would make things handy, if in fact Vinny and I were able to get back together. But that was a big ''if.''

  ''He might have thought about that when he decided to pretend that he'd never broken up with her at all.''

  Rocco frowned. ''What?''

  I sighed. ''Christmas. She was going to spend Christmas with your family. So I couldn't. It pissed me off.''

  Something akin to amusement crossed Rocco's face and that pissed me off, too, but I kept my mouth shut as I watched him visibly struggle with what he was going to say next. He was wise to take his time; it made me respect him.

  ''So that's it?'' he finally asked. ''That's all it was about?''

  I shrugged and took another swig of my beer. ''Okay, so I can be a little stubborn. But he could've apologized.''

  ''You've got a stalemate.''

  ''One big fucking stalemate,'' I said.

  He laughed at that, a big, vigorous laugh that was his own, something he didn't share with Vinny. And I liked him. Not in the way I liked his brother, of course, but in the way someone who hasn't got a brother might when she suddenly finds herself with one.

  I knew in that instant that I wasn't going to have to grovel to get Vinny back. Rocco was going to help me. So I smiled.

  I was about to ask him if he wanted to go get a pizza or something—I was starving—when the phone rang.

  ''Excuse me,'' I said, grabbing the phone off the kitchen counter. ''Hello?'' I asked, turning away from Rocco even though the apartment was small and he couldn't help but hear everything I said.

  ''Annie?''

  Marty was looking for that goddamn profile.

  ''Marty, I'm working on it,'' I lied. ''You really will have it in the morning.''

  ''No, Annie, that's not what I'm calling about.'' I could hear the tension in his voice. ''Do you have your scanner on?''

  My scanner was in the backseat of my car. ''No. What's up?'' But even as I was asking, I could hear the cacophony of sirens somewhere in the distance.

  ''You have to get over to the Yale Rep right away. Someone gunned down the police chief on the steps as he was going in to see tonight's performance.''

  Chapter 3

  I had to park three blocks away from the Yale Repertory Theatre because of the pandemonium. Red and blue lights flashed against the black sky. I'd never seen so many cops in one place. I shifted my bag up over my shoulder and hugged my jacket closer. It was midApril, but it was still damn chilly, especially when the sun went down. I weaved around the throngs of people who'd gathered to see what was going on. Without seeing him, I knew Rocco was here somewhere, too.

  I'd put the phone down and told him I had an emergency at work, asked if we could continue the discussion some other time. But I should've known that I couldn't fool a DeLucia; his eyes grew wide and he knew something was going down. Hell, he could hear the sirens, too.

  He played along, said okay, and pretended to walk down the block when I pulled out of my parking space. As I stopped at the light at the corner, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him get into a shiny white BMW and follow me. As long as he kept out of my way, I didn't much care. Vinny had told me his brother was always angling for a plot for his next book, and even though I hadn't told him about the police chief, Rocco knew whatever was going on was big enough for him to tag along.

  My eyes scanned the crowd ahead of me, wondering where Tom was. I passed Claire's restaurant, Basta, the meat place next to her vegetarian one. The scent of garlic and onions that wafted out onto the sidewalk was tantalizing, but I forced myself to ignore it.

  What the hell was wrong with me? I was too easily distracted; I hadn't felt that immediate adrenaline rush when Marty called. Had Rocco's visit thrown me for a real loop? Or, God forbid, maybe I really was as burned out as everyone kept telling me.

  Maybe it was just that I was feeling guilty. Really guilty. Because my first thought had been that I didn't have to do that stupid profile after all.

  I should've been concerned about the guy. Gett
ing gunned down on a Friday night on Chapel Street in front of the Yale Rep was unfathomable. Chapel Street was lined with cute little shops, mouthwatering restaurants, two great art museums. This was Yale territory, where the tourists came, where it was supposed to be safe. The Yale Rep puts on a lot of plays that are ''experimental,'' written by students and performed by people who go on to Big Things, like Meryl Streep, Sam Waterston, and Jodie Foster. I go sometimes, if we get free tickets though the paper. Otherwise, it's just not my world.