Dead of the Day (2007)

by Karen E. Olson

  My world consists of those other neighborhoods in New Haven, where shootings are just a matter of course, routine for the patrol cops, a three-inch policeblotter brief for me.

  Through the crowd I spotted Tom, his head bobbing up and down as he moved from the Yale Rep steps down into the street, but then he disappeared. Cops were trying to push the curious onlookers back, to cordon the area off with the familiar bright yellow crime scene tape. I made my way to the edge of the line, just to have a uniform cop slam me in the stomach with a roll of tape.

  ''Goddammit!'' I said involuntarily, the wind knocked out of me.

  The cop's eyes grew wide. ''Sorry, I didn't mean that, but you've got to stay back.'' I could see the deer-in-the-headlights look, like he wondered if I was going to press charges against him. He was young, someone I hadn't seen before, but there were a few new recruits these days I hadn't had the opportunity to run across yet.

  I pulled out my ID and waved it in front of him. ''Annie Seymour, with the Herald,'' I said.

  The surprised look turned into a frown. ''I can't talk to you,'' he said, moving quickly out of my way.

  I was tempted to go under the tape. Tom and Sam O'Neill, the assistant police chief, were about fifty feet away, and a makeshift tent had been set up next to an ambulance. Probably Rodriguez. I wondered how badly he was hurt. Maybe he was dead. Whatever it was, I abandoned my idea of going under the tape because if I did that no one would ever talk to me again.

  I tried to get Tom's attention by waving my arm like an idiot, but if he saw me he didn't indicate it.

  ''Maybe you should just shout,'' came a suggestion to my right.

  Rocco was standing next to me.

  ''Why did you follow me?'' I demanded.

  A smile played at the corners of his mouth. ''It seemed important. What happened?''

  It dawned on me then that even though there was a large crowd, it was probable that few, if any, of these bystanders knew what exactly was going on. I mean, Marty had told me because he heard it on the scanner. Regular people don't listen to police scanners unless they're real geeks.

  ''Someone got hurt,'' I said, feigning ignorance, but I could see Rocco wasn't buying it. ''You know,'' I added, ''you don't really need to come to crime scenes to write about them. I mean, you write fiction, right? You can do whatever you want, make shit up.''

  He was nodding. ''You're right, but I like authenticity. I don't mind chasing a few ambulances to get a really good description for my books.''

  It had been worth a shot to try to get rid of him, but I should've known better. It took more than that to get rid of a DeLucia, although I was pretty sure I had it down to an art form.

  Somehow among the chatter surrounding me I heard a cell phone ring and realized it was my own. I dug into my purse and turned away from Rocco as much as I could to hear Marty asking, ''What the hell's going on over there? What do you have?''

  ''Not much,'' I admitted, my voice carrying over the din. ''Just a shitload of people and cops and some sort of tent near the ambulance. I can't get very close.''

  ''Where's Tom Behr?''

  Marty still thought I had some clout with Tom, God bless him. I didn't have the heart to tell him that those days were long over. I glanced over at the tent again, but Tom was gone. But I did see someone familiar catty-corner to where I was standing.

  ''What the fuck's Dick doing out here?'' I asked Marty.

  ''You can't do this alone, Annie. This is big. Deal with it and get me something soon to start working with. Wesley's out there, too, shooting.'' Maybe not the best choice of words, but that's what we call it, so that's what we say, even at times like this.

  ''Okay,'' I said, punching END on my phone. I turned to see Rocco staring at me. ''What?''

  ''What is it?'' he asked again.

  I sighed, leaned toward him, and said softly, ''The new police chief got shot.''

  He frowned. ''What?''

  ''The police chief got shot,'' I said more loudly. A lot more, apparently, from the hush that came over the people standing near us.

  ''What'd she say?'' someone asked.

  ''The police chief got shot.''

  ''It's the police chief.''

  It was like that fucking telephone game, but everyone was getting it right. Just my luck.

  ''What the hell are you doing?'' Tom's voice resonated in my ears, and I turned to see him glowering at me.

  I shrugged. ''My job?'' I tried.

  He lifted up the tape and pulled on my arm, so I had no choice but to follow him. We stepped up onto the sidewalk and then down the steps to Scoozi, an Italian restaurant next to the theatre that sat below street level. I've never eaten there, but hear it is good.

  The street sounds grew dimmer the lower we went, until it was merely background noise.

  ''Are you trying to cause some sort of riot?'' Tom demanded, his blue eyes almost violet with anger.

  ''No. I got a call from Marty. He asked what was going on. I had to speak loudly.'' I could glower with the best of them, and I did my best to keep up.

  Tom ran a hand through his blond hair, his face contorted with exasperation. ''Jesus, Annie, this is fucked up.''

  ''What happened?'' I asked after a few seconds when it was clear he had calmed down a little.

  He shook his head. ''I didn't tell you this.'' He paused, and I nodded for effect. I wasn't sure why he was telling me a damn thing, but I certainly wasn't going to stop him.

  ''It was a dark Honda, souped-up. Sam said it skidded to a stop just before the light, sat there a second or so. He didn't think anything of it; the light was red. Next thing he knew, he heard two shots and Tony was on the ground.'' Tom took a deep breath. ''Car took off. We found it on Route Thirty-four, Sherman Avenue intersection, abandoned.'' His eyes were darting around, looking up the stairs, knowing he had to go back. ''You know, with a drive-by, you can't take aim. Anybody can get hit, or no one will get hit. It's a fucking crapshoot.''

  What he was saying sent shivers up my spine. This car had stopped. The shooter had taken aim. Tony Rodriguez had been a target.

  ''Is he dead?'' I asked softly.

  Tom's eyes came back to me, and I wondered if he was going to lie. ''No,'' he said firmly. ''He's hanging on.''

  It wasn't a lie. His eyes didn't flicker; he didn't look away.

  ''But it's bad?''

  He nodded. ''Yeah, it's bad.''

  But then I had another thought. ''Anyone else hurt?''

  Tom shook his head wearily. ''No, thank God. His wife is in shock, but she wasn't hit.'' He paused. ''Sam was with them, had a date. It was a goddamn double date.''

  Gossip indicated Sam O'Neill and his wife had separated, and Tom had just confirmed that.

  I watched him as he went back up the steps and out of sight. But then I saw him. Wesley, with his paisley bow tie and his camera swinging around his neck. I knew what we needed, and it wasn't here anymore.

  ''Wesley,'' I shouted as I came up the steps.

  He turned, recognizing me and nodding. ''Hi, Annie.''

  ''They've got a Honda over at Sherman and Thirtyfour. It's the car they shot from. Do you have enough from here?''

  He grinned. ''I'll get right over there.''

  I lost myself in the crowd, not even hearing the noise anymore. Tom wanted this in the paper; he wanted us to print it so maybe a witness would come forward. That's why he told me. That's why he told me where the car was. We'd print a picture and someone might recognize it.

  ''Is he dead?''

  Dick Whitfield had snuck up on me, and I jumped back. ''Shit, Dick, don't do that,'' I chided, but I don't think he heard me. We watched as the ambulance was loaded up. It was taking off now, its sirens screaming away from us.

  ''Is he dead?'' Dick asked again when the noise dulled slightly.

  I shook my head. ''Tom says no. I sent Wesley over to shoot a car they think was abandoned by whoever did this.''

  ''Why the hell would someone shoot him?'' Dick mused out loud
.

  I ran over my interview with Rodriguez in my head, wondering the same thing. He'd seemed so benign, so out of his element, which is probably why I had such a hard time writing up the story. He had been promoted from within, but he'd had no commendations, no big busts under his belt. Hell, Tom had more experience than this guy.

  But Rodriguez did have something that Tom didn't have. He had the right genetic makeup. It was an election year, and the mayor was covering all his bases. The Hispanic population was growing by leaps and bounds, and Rodriguez's family was a nice mix of Puerto Rican and Mexican, making him the dish of the day.

  His eyes were warm and his smile quick. He said all the right things, like it was a fucking script, which was another reason why I couldn't write the story. His answers were too pat, too correct. There had been something missing.

  His goals for the department were ambitious. He planned to reorganize all the shifts, make a sort of rotation for the officers so they wouldn't do the same job for more than six months. That wasn't going to go over well; it had already started to leak out and the ranks were getting pissy about it.

  Rodriguez wanted to mandate that all department employees take Spanish language classes, too, which was another plan that would go awry if he ever got a chance to implement it. While on paper it was a good idea, who was going to pay for it? The mayor would probably stand by it, but, as I said, it was an election year and promises had to be made in order to get reelected.

  The only thing I thought would make points was Rodriguez's proposal for the harbor. He wanted to beef up security down there; he'd been deeply affected by 9/11, with the loss of a close friend in one of the Trade Center towers. He didn't want to take any chances here, he told me, and I had to agree with him on that one.

  I stepped back, away from Dick and onto someone's toes. ''Sorry,'' I mumbled, turning about ninety degrees, but unable to go farther because the crowd had moved up into my way. I saw a pair of jeans and a leather jacket. Rocco again. I wrenched my head around a little more and took another step as I said, ''Listen, maybe you should just leave me alone now.''

  But it wasn't Rocco.

  It was Vinny.

  Chapter 4

  ''Long time no see,'' Vinny said, but instead of looking pissed off, like I thought he would, his eyes were twinkling even though he wasn't smiling.

  I was too surprised to say anything for a second. I'd imagined all sorts of speeches I'd make when I finally saw Vinny again, and all of them seeped out of my head as I tried to keep myself from grinning. If he could keep himself in control, then hell, I could, too.

  ''Fancy meeting you here,'' I said.

  He nodded. ''How have you been?'' he asked, like we weren't at a crime scene, like we were the only two people there.

  My cell phone rang.

  Without taking my eyes off him, I pulled it out of my bag, punched it on, and held it up to my ear. ''Yeah?'' I asked.

  ''What's going on?'' Marty's voice was frantic, and it pulled me back into the moment.

  I turned around, away from Vinny. ''Wesley's gone off to shoot a car they found near Sherman. I don't know where Dick went.'' I couldn't keep the contempt out of my voice.

  ''Jesus, Annie, don't get territorial on me now. Just get the fucking story. What happened?''

  ''He was shot, but he's not dead. I'm going over to the hospital now.''

  ''Call me when you get something.'' He hung up.

  I stuffed the phone back in my bag and turned back to Vinny.

  But he wasn't there.

  I strained my neck and pushed my way through the throngs, looking for him. Christ, had I imagined him? No, I wasn't that bad off.

  I went back down Chapel, away from the theatre and toward my car. I had to get to the hospital. I had to get the job done; then I could deal with Vinny and the jumble of emotions I was feeling right now.

  It wasn't far to the hospital, but it took forever with traffic being detoured from the crime scene, one-way streets, and stoplights. As I pulled up near the emergency room, I hoped Rodriguez wasn't dead. I might not be sure about his future as police chief, but he certainly didn't deserve to be dead.

  The lights of police cars—I counted six—almost blinded me. I double-parked next to a cruiser, slipping my city parking pass onto the dashboard.

  I couldn't get near the entrance because a cop, Ronald Berger, stopped me before I could even cross the street, his face grim.

  ''You can't park there.''

  ''I just need a few minutes,'' I said.

  He shook his head. ''Sorry, Annie, but you're wasting your time.''

  ''Is he all right?''

  Ronald shook his head. ''We don't know. No one's telling us shit, either.''

  ''He must have had some enemies,'' I said, hoping to prompt him into telling me something anyway.

  He shrugged. ''We all do. For God's sake, Annie, you know that.''

  ''They're looking at that Honda over at Sherman,'' I said. ''Drive-bys are usually drugs. Rodriguez was undercover for a while, right?''

  Ronald stared at me. ''Where the hell do you get your information?''

  ''I interviewed him. I'm doing a profile.'' Or was. ''He told me about the undercover stuff, but said he hadn't done that too long.''

  ''Well, that's all you're going to get,'' he said. ''You've got to get out of here.''

  I wasn't going to get shit out of him. I was lucky Tom had told me what he did. I turned around and was about to get into my car when I saw Wesley approach from somewhere to my left.

  ''That was unbelievable,'' he said, his camera swinging from his shoulder.

  ''What?''

  ''The car, the cops all over it. They towed it away minutes after I got there, but I got some good shots.'' Wesley tapped the top of his camera.

  I smiled. ''Great job.''

  ''So what's going on?'' He tilted his head toward the emergency room entrance. ''They won't let me get any closer.''

  ''You and me both,'' I said, telling him the little that I knew. ''And we'd better get back or Marty's going to have a coronary.''

  Wesley nodded and went back in the direction he'd come from. I let my thoughts stray back to Vinny as I unlocked my car door. What the hell was that all about? How could he just ask how I was like that and disappear? I wanted to be angry with him, keep that going, but I wasn't sure I had the energy.

  I leaned over to my glove box and pulled out the Rolling Stones' Exile on Main St. When I slipped it in, Mick sounded a little far away—the tape was fading, I'd played it so much. One of these days I'd get a new car, one with a CD player in it. Problem was, this car just wouldn't die. Two hundred thirty thousand miles on it and it just kept going.

  I turned up the volume and lost myself in the music as I made my way back to the paper.

  ''What's going on?'' Marty demanded before I even had a chance to take off my jacket.

  I tossed it on the desk beside me and plopped into my chair, booting up my computer for the second time in twelve hours. ''He's in the hospital, not dead, according to the cops. Wesley's got some good shots, apparently.'' That was an understatement. ''Tom said no one else was hurt. Rodriguez's wife is in shock.''

  ''Write it up.''

  I nodded, then looked around me. ''Where's Dick?''

  ''He's still out there. He'll call in with updates if he gets them.''

  ''If'' being the operative word here. Okay, Dick had gotten better in the last several months. We'd managed to get along and I wasn't even cursing at him as much anymore. But I knew he still wanted my job, and if I wasn't on my toes, he could very well get it. Bill Bennett, the publisher, liked Dick, and God knows Bennett and I had a tenuous relationship, despite the fact that he and my mother were, at this very moment, somewhere in the Caribbean basking in the sun and drinking tropical cocktails by the pool.

  So far they hadn't moved in together, but I knew it was only a matter of time. She rarely asked about my father anymore, although he continued to ask after her when he called from Vegas.<
br />
  My fingers flew on the keyboard, and I got the story done in about twenty minutes. Dick still hadn't shown up. Marty didn't seem too happy about that, and he nodded as he read my piece.