''Okay, go back out there and see what the hell's going on and where Dick is.'' His voice was tight; he was pissed at Dick for not checking in, and it made me smile.
I grabbed my jacket and bag without saying a word and went back out into the night.
The people were still there. The cops were still there. It was funny—since I'd already filed the story, I felt a sense of closure about the situation, but here I was again, in the middle of it. Tom was talking to Sam O'Neill over near the entrance to the theatre, and I watched their body language. Tom's shoulders were stiff, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't like what O'Neill, who was gesturing wildly, was saying to him. But I couldn't hear what they were saying, the tape keeping me too far away.
''Where'd you disappear to?''
I turned to see Rocco standing behind me. ''Had to go file the story.'' I paused. ''Where's Vinny?''
Rocco shook his head. ''Dunno.''
''He was here earlier.''
''Yeah, saw him. But not for a while. Not since I last saw you.''
All sorts of thoughts started crashing around in my head. Vinny had been known to follow me around in the past, but it was usually because he thought I needed some sort of protection. There would be no reason for that this time, so there was no reason I should think he'd fallen back into old habits. ''Why would he be here anyway?'' I asked.
Rocco chuckled and waved his hand, indicating the people who were still milling about. ''Why is anyone here?''
Christ, another smart aleck. ''Okay, okay. Anyway, I have work to do. Did you want anything?''
''Maybe we can hook up tomorrow on that other matter,'' Rocco said.
I shrugged, like I didn't care. ''Yeah, sure. Give me a call.'' I turned back toward the crime scene, hoping he didn't see my face flush.
But I didn't have too much time to think about it. Tom was on his cell phone, and his face distracted me. His mouth was set in a tight line. He took the phone away from his ear, punched it, put it on his belt clip, and looked at Sam O'Neill.
While I couldn't see Tom's face, I could clearly see the assistant chief's in the glare of the spotlight that the cops had set up in the street.
I read his lips, and it's not hard to make out ''fuck,'' even though I certainly wasn't an expert in lipreading.
I was willing to bet that Rodriguez was dead. And I needed it on the record. Which meant I had a decision to make. Before I could think about it, I forced myself to go under the tape and walked over to Tom and Sam.
''You're not allowed over here,'' Sam said sternly, but I wasn't paying attention.
Sprays of blood splattered the steps of the Yale Rep, and I stopped, unwilling to go further. I looked up, and Tom was glaring at me.
''Get out of here,'' he hissed.
''Is he dead?'' I asked.
Tom's eyes narrowed. ''Get out of here.''
''Is he dead?'' I asked, more loudly this time, glancing at Sam O'Neill, who was nodding without realizing it. ''Can I get that on the record?'' I asked him.
Tom bounded down the steps, grabbed my arm, and pulled me across the sidewalk, back to the tape. I felt his breath on my neck and heard the word ''Yes'' whispered in my ear.
He let go of me and held the tape up so I could scoot underneath it. I wasn't sure whether he was saying ''yes'' that the chief was dead or ''yes'' that it was on the record, but before I could ask, he had turned away.
I headed back to my car, weaving in between the TV vans that crowded the narrow street. It was time for the eleven o'clock news—just their luck. Cindy Purcell, Dick's main squeeze, was holding a microphone in front of a camera, her blond hair teased high, her bright pink jacket squeezing her breasts a little too tightly. If she didn't watch out, they'd come tumbling out a` la Janet Jackson, causing some poor old coot watching the news to get a real treat.
I didn't see Rocco or Vinny as I walked down the sidewalk toward Temple Street. A few stragglers had decided the show was over, and I overheard them saying they were heading for Caffe Bottega, where the Cobalt Rhythm Kings were playing. Maybe I should stop in for a beer—the blues would match my mood— but I knew I had to get back to the paper and top off the story.
For a second, though, I wondered if I shouldn't just call it in and go for that drink, but the thought of a drink alone was pretty pathetic. It dawned on me, too, that I hadn't seen Dick out there. I hadn't seen him in a long time.
He wasn't in the newsroom, either.
''Where's Dick?'' I asked Marty.
''Beats me. You didn't see him?''
I shook my head and told him what Tom had said.
''But all it was was a 'yes'?'' Marty asked, frowning. ''What the hell did that mean?''
''He was confirming that Rodriguez had died,'' I said more confidently than I felt. Had he? I wasn't completely sure. Maybe I really did need to get it from someone else.
And Marty agreed with me.
''You need it officially,'' he was saying.
I went back to my desk and picked up my phone. I hesitated a minute, then dialed a number that was still in the recesses of my brain.
''Hello?''
Tom knew it was me. His voice was curt; he was pretending it wasn't me. He was probably still standing on those steps with Sam O'Neill, amidst Rodriguez's blood.
''You said 'yes' in my ear. I need to know for sure. Is he dead?''
''Yes.''
''Can I say you told me?''
''No.'' His words were clipped, and the call ended.
Police sources. That's what the story said. Police sources confirmed that Police Chief Tony Rodriguez was dead from gunshot wounds after a drive-by shooting in front of the Yale Rep as he headed in for the night's performance with his wife and his best friend, the assistant chief.
Marty nodded as he read it, his lips moving with the words. When he was done, he looked at me and smiled. ''Good job,'' he said.
Wesley's pictures were perfect, and we still had a head shot from the interview I did with Rodriguez for the profile. It was going to take up the entire front page.
Dick still hadn't shown up. He hadn't called. Marty tried his cell phone, but the voice mail picked up right away, indicating that the phone was turned off.
I was actually starting to worry about him. But I would never admit that.
''Can you go out there again and look for him?'' Marty asked.
I also would not admit that I hoped I would run into Vinny again in my search for Dick, but that was running through my mind as I circled the Green for the third time that night in search of a parking spot.
I finally found one on Temple, not too far from Chapel, and didn't bother with the parking pass since it was now close to midnight.
The Green was quiet, dark. The moon lit up the silhouettes of the trees. Someone was crossing Chapel Street, coming toward me, and I clutched my keys tightly. This part of the city was fairly safe, but at this hour anywhere was ripe for a crime and I didn't want to be a victim.
The figure hurried past me, probably just as concerned about me as I was about him. I moved up the sidewalk quickly, turning to my right onto Chapel.
At College Street, two cop cars blocked traffic from going any farther on Chapel, their lights flashing blue and red against the buildings. I scurried past them on the sidewalk and as I reached the High Street intersection saw the crime scene tape hanging limply near the ground, its ends still fastened loosely around two parking signs on either side of the street. The TV vans were gone, their few minutes on the air over. They'd probably gone to camp out at the hospital to get some sort of official word on Rodriguez. And where there had been a crowd several people deep only an hour ago, they had now dispersed and there were maybe ten people still on their side of the tape. Two cops were chatting nearby, standing sentry and making sure no one, like me, tried to get past them. I strained my eyes and saw Tom and Sam, no longer on the theatre steps but farther away, leaning against the side of another cop car blocking the intersection at York. A couple of forensics g
uys were still at work.
I glanced around at the other people milling about, but none of them was Dick. Where the fuck had he gone? I didn't see Rocco or Vinny, either. This looked like a futile trip, and I started walking back toward my car. The desire for a drink at Caffe Bottega was much stronger now; as I walked briskly, I saw the door open two blocks away and the faint sound of music streamed into the night air.
I picked up my pace. One drink wasn't going to hurt. And maybe Dick was there. That was it. Maybe Dick had gone to Caffe Bottega to listen to the music, maybe to get a drink himself, after working a crime scene.
Even as I thought it, I knew how stupid an idea that was. Dick wouldn't not check in. He'd be following me around or going to the newsroom to try to get the story done before I got back.
I stopped in front of Ann Taylor, the headless mannequins in the window towering over me. I was going to have to go ask Tom if he'd seen Dick. Because even though Dick was a moron, he'd somehow grown on me and I really was worried now. When I found him, I'd let him have it, but right now I had no choice.
I headed back up Chapel, promising myself that drink once I found Dick, as sort of a congratulation to myself for doing the right thing, even though it was getting late and I might not make it before last call.
I had just crossed College when the gunfire pierced the black silence.
Chapter 5
I sprinted up the sidewalk, sirens echoing, moving farther away the closer I got. I glimpsed the taillights of two cop cars as they sped down Chapel, leaving behind bits of yellow crime scene tape in the street. A few people clustered under the overhang at the Yale Center for British Art.
''What happened?'' I asked between breaths. I was way out of shape, but it wasn't like I ever tried not to be.
A tall, lanky black kid, maybe around twenty or so, took a drag off a cigarette, a plume of smoke wafting out of his mouth and nose, and said simply, ''Shooting.''
''I heard that,'' I said, trying not to sound impatient. ''But who? Who was shooting?''
He shook his head. ''Heard a car. It was really loud, like it needed a new muffler. Ran right through that yellow tape past the cops over there on York Street. Heard the shots as it reached Chapel. Didn't stop. Just kept going.''
''Who was he shooting at?''
''No one in particular, it seemed.''
This whole thing was surreal: the police chief, the location, everything.
As I was sifting through it, my eye caught movement to my right and I stiffened, stepping toward the kid who'd just spoken to me. A short woman wearing a backpack stopped in front of us.
''What's going on?'' She was looking right at me.
''Didn't you see anything?'' I asked. ''It happened up that way. A shooting.''
She pushed her hand through a mane of hair and glanced over her shoulder at the street. ''No. Didn't see anything.'' There was a lilt to her voice, a slight accent. I wanted to guess Hispanic, but it was dark and the shadows didn't let me see her face too clearly. She could've been Asian, too. I'm not too good at picking out accents.
I looked around at the other six people who were talking softly among themselves.
''Did anyone see anything?'' I asked loudly.
They looked up, seemingly startled at the sound of my voice. Each said ''no,'' then resumed talking.
''Are you sure?'' I asked, not about to be ignored.
But they did just that. The black kid chuckled as he took another drag off his cigarette. ''No one ever sees anything,'' he said.
He was right.
''I'm a reporter, with the Herald,'' I told him. ''Can I quote you on what you saw?''
He took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it to the ground, grinding it into the pavement with the heel of his shoe. Finally, ''Do you need my name?''
I smiled. ''That would be nice.''
He was silent for a few seconds, then, ''I'd rather not.''
I couldn't blame him. But I needed something. ''I could just use your first name.''
He shifted uncomfortably, then, ''Just my first name?''
I nodded.
''Okay,'' he said slowly. ''It's Dwayne.''
''Thanks,'' I said, pulling my notebook out of my purse and writing it down, along with what he'd seen. ''You said he came down York and just started shooting?''
Dwayne nodded. ''There were two cops on the steps of the Rep. They hit the sidewalk.''
Tom and Sam O'Neill. I caught my breath. ''And then what?''
''The cops took off after the car,'' came a soft voice behind me. It was the woman with the backpack. I felt a rush of relief when I realized Tom hadn't been hurt.
Dwayne and I stared at her.
''I thought you said you didn't see anything,'' I said, a little harshly.
She didn't seem to notice. ''I saw the cop cars. The sirens were loud. They all got into the cars and took off.''
''And your name is?''
She hesitated, then, ''Marisol.''
''Can I have your last name?''
She paused again. Shit. Another squirrelly witness.
''Are you a Yale student?'' I asked. Maybe I could get in the back door on this one.
She laughed. ''Oh, no. You think so because of my backpack?''
It was a logical question, I thought. Here we were, in the midst of Yale, and she's wearing a backpack that could contain textbooks.
''I saw the lights and wondered what was going on,'' Marisol continued, answering my next question without me having to ask it. ''I was over at Toad's, but my cousin called me, said to meet her at Starbucks.''
I saw the Rolling Stones at Toad's many moons ago, as well as Springsteen and Billy Joel, back when people admitted to wanting to see Billy Joel. Usually, though, the bands were less well known, sort of like the Cobalt Rhythm Kings.
''Starbucks closed an hour ago,'' Dwayne said thoughtfully, pulling another cigarette out of his breast pocket and raising his eyebrows at me as if to say, ''She's lying.''
But before I could call her on it, my phone started to chirp inside my bag. I scrambled to pull it out and stepped away from Dwayne and Marisol as I answered.
''What the hell's going on over there, Annie?'' Marty's voice was about an octave higher than usual with the night's stress.
I filled him in on the shooting as quickly as I could, telling him I was talking to witnesses.
''What about Dick?''
I'd forgotten all about Dick. ''I haven't seen him. He's not back yet?''
''Jesus.'' I could hear the worry in Marty's voice. ''Where could he be?''
I glanced over at Dwayne and Marisol, who were chatting about something. ''What do you want me to do? Keep looking for him?''
''Hell, I don't know where to tell you to start.''
''Maybe he's still over where they found that car on Sherman,'' I said, although Wesley had said the car was already gone, evidence in the shooting. ''I'll take a trip over there.''
''Okay,'' Marty said. I could hear his doubts in that one word.
''Listen, let me wrap this up here and I'll call you right back.'' I put the phone back in my bag and pulled out a couple of business cards, handing them to Dwayne and Marisol. ''If you can remember anything else, could you call me?'' I asked.
Marisol stared at the card for a second, then stuck it in the back pocket of her jeans. It would probably go through the wash and she wouldn't even remember what it was. Dwayne put the card in his shirt pocket.
I started back toward my car and called Marty. ''Let me give you the quotes from the witnesses.'' I recited what they'd said, and I could hear Marty's fingers tapping on his keyboard, taking down every word.
He didn't like it that I only got their first names, but he seemed to be distracted enough by Dick's disappearance that he wasn't going to give me a hard time about it.
''Where the hell could Dick be?'' he asked.
I sighed. ''You know, Marty, he'll show up. He's probably chasing some ambulance or something.'' As I said it, I stopped walking a
nd stared straight ahead at the dark sidewalk. Dick had said something several months ago about having a source at the hospital. If he was there, that could explain why he didn't answer his cell phone. You can't have them on at the hospital. I told Marty my theory.
''You know, you're right,'' he said. ''I'll be here for a little while longer anyway. It's getting too late to make any more changes to the story, but I can wait to see if he calls. You can go home. You did great.''
Dead of the Day (2007) Page 4
