Dead of the Day (2007)

by Karen E. Olson

  And here I was, in the guy's Beemer following my mother's cleaning lady and a guy who looked like Marlon Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now.

  What was wrong with this picture?

  We followed the Civic through Westville center, down Whalley Avenue, past the jail, all the used car lots, and the Stop & Shop. We managed to make all the lights down Elm, past the city Green and City Hall. When we crossed State Street and drove up Grand Avenue, I knew where we were going. Fair Haven.

  Grand Avenue is peppered with storefronts and restaurants, one of my favorites being El Charro, a great Mexican place. I wondered if we'd have time to get lunch once we were finished with this pseudo–private eye shit.

  This neighborhood had a long history of immigrants settling there after the old New England Yankees decided life might be better in Fair Haven Heights, on the other side of the Quinnipiac River. The Italians and the Irish infiltrated the area in the nineteenth century, and now, at last count and continuing the immigrant tradition, there were between five and seven thousand illegal Latinos living here. It had been cheaper to live here than in other parts of the city back then, and it certainly was less expensive now.

  The neighborhood hadn't completely shed its Italian roots, however. A little farther down Grand was Geppi's restaurant, and Rocco's Pastry Shop—no relation to my companion—on Ferry Street was another reminder of who had been here first.

  As we passed it, C-Town grocery store was looking a bit gray and tired. A knot of young black men sauntered along the sidewalk, a couple of Latino women pushed strollers, and two girls wearing low-rise jeans and jackets that were cropped short enough to show off their bellies giggled as they pointed toward an old man stumbling out of a market that could've been south of the border because, if the signs were any indication, ''Hablo Espan˜ ol'' was all you'd get.

  We turned left at the light down Blatchley Avenue, and Rocco slowed as we saw the Civic pull into the driveway of a three-family house that needed that Extreme Makeover: Home Edition in a really bad way. It stuck out among its more tidy neighbors on either side.

  The Beemer hugged the curb, and we sat idling, watching as Lourdes and her cousin climbed out of the car.

  The front door opened, and a young woman stepped out on the stoop. The guy shoved past her and inside, but Lourdes lingered on the bottom step.

  Rocco's hand was on the shifter between us and put the car in first. As he eased back out into the street and slowly made his way toward the house, both Lourdes and the young woman looked at us. Lourdes frowned and moved in our path. Rocco stopped, rolling down his window.

  Lourdes leaned in, looking at him and then at me. ''What are you doing here?'' she demanded, obviously more confident in her neighborhood than in my mother's.

  ''We wanted to make sure you were okay,'' I said.

  The young woman's face peered at us from the stoop, and it took a second before I recognized her.

  It was what's her name. Marisol. The girl from last night, from the shooting.

  A flicker of recognition crossed her face, too, but then she concentrated on Rocco. ''What are you doing here?'' she scolded, and in just a couple of strides she pulled Lourdes away from the car. ''It's not safe for you here,'' she hissed back at us. ''Go away.''

  And with that, she and Lourdes scrambled up the stairs and inside.

  We didn't talk until we were about four blocks away, the windows rolled back up and the doors locked, even though the crime rate had dropped slightly in recent months. I'd heard that it was because the cops were finally making a dent, but it was hurting business. Not a lot of crime meant there was less money to spend. It was ironic, really.

  The gangs here were mainly black or AfroCaribbean, and they picked on the Hispanics who weren't here legally because they were less likely to report a crime. In our interview, Rodriguez had said one of his plans as police chief was to have even more of a presence in Fair Haven, to try to reduce crime even further. The mayor supported him—hell, he couldn't not support reducing crime—but there were rumors that he wasn't as enthusiastic as he should be. It could have a lot to do with the fact that he just might not give a shit because most of the people in this neighborhood couldn't vote anyway.

  I thought about Marisol. Was she one of the socalled ''undocumented workers?'' Maybe that's why she didn't want to give me her last name last night.

  ''Seemed like she knew you,'' I said finally.

  Rocco's face was scrunched up like he was thinking about something. ''Yeah,'' he said absently.

  ''Do you know her?''

  He shrugged. ''Beats me.''

  That was odd. Because it really did seem like she knew him. And the way he was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel made me wonder if he was lying to me.

  ''I'll take you back to your car,'' he said.

  ''Sure.'' I thought a second. ''Why did you follow me this morning?''

  He gave me a cocky grin. ''You led me to a crime scene last night. I thought maybe you would again today.''

  He was a nut. In the little time I'd known Vinny, I knew the crazy gene had not passed on to him.

  ''Are you really that desperate for a book plot?'' I asked, noticing for the first time the new-car smell and the smooth leather that was emanating heat beneath my ass. Heated seats, for Chrissakes. He might have been crazy, but he had to be loaded with a car like this. That book thing must be pretty lucrative.

  ''I told you, my new book has a reporter in it. A woman reporter.'' He paused as I swallowed that information. ''I hoped maybe you could help me with it.''

  I snorted. ''All you had to do was ask, not follow me around.''

  He mulled that over before asking, ''What about you and Vinny? What's going on with that?''

  The change of subject threw me for a second. ''Nothing. We had this conversation already.''

  ''He's just as stubborn as you.''

  ''Tell me something I don't know,'' I grumbled. We weren't getting back to Westville fast enough.

  ''Want some help?''

  ''Why should I want your help?''

  He glanced at me and chuckled. ''Jesus, you two are made for each other. I can't believe you live a block from each other and neither of you will give in.''

  I refused to talk to him after that. It was none of his fucking business, even if he was Vinny's brother. Obviously, Vinny felt the same way I did.

  I was glad I was an only child.

  When we finally reached my mother's I was more than aware of the rust that was beginning to develop on my old Honda. Next to this sleek Beemer, my car was merely another reminder that I wasn't in Rocco DeLucia's tax bracket.

  As I climbed out into the crisp April air, I heard him say something.

  ''What?'' I asked, leaning in toward him.

  He looked startled for a moment, then said a quick, ''See you around.'' I jumped away from the car as he sped away.

  Chapter 7

  The newsroom was dark and deserted. It was only eleven a.m.; no one would be in this early on a Saturday. I flipped the switches, and the lights flashed brightly against the dull brown of the carpet, reflecting off the dark computer screens. We were scheduled to get new computers, but so far they were still sitting in boxes somewhere in the recesses of the building. We were taking bets on when they'd actually end up on our desks. My money was on October, only a little less than six months away and long enough for them to become obsolete if, in fact, they were now state of the art. Dick Whitfield, I'd learned, was more optimistic than I was—no surprise there—and thought we'd be working on them in a month.

  It just proved how naive he could be.

  The system we were working on now took more than a year to get up and running, and we'd had it for seven years. Seven years in which technology had moved beyond our capability. Word had it that we still wouldn't have sound cards, even with the new system. I wondered if the powers that be thought if we had sound that suddenly the newsroom—one big room without dividers so we were all out in the open—would b
ecome as noisy as a casino.

  Not that we weren't entertained every day anyway by someone's new tune on his or her cell phone.

  I booted up my computer and, as I waited, I regretted not picking up some more coffee on my way in. I could've used the caffeine rush before seeing Dick and hearing all about his ''adventure'' with the cops that landed him on Page One next to yours truly.

  ''You're here early, Annie.'' The voice startled me, and I swiveled around in my chair to see Marty walking through the newsroom toward his desk, just a few feet from my own. He'd read my mind. He was carrying one of those big boxes of coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, a bag full of cups, and a box of Munchkins, which he dropped on the communal food desk. ''Help yourself.''

  I poured a cup of coffee and rooted around in the Munchkin box for a couple of chocolate frosteds, pushing the jelly-filled ones out of the way. I'd read somewhere about how they get that jelly into the doughnuts, and I didn't want to go there.

  As I sipped my coffee and chewed the Munchkins, I could feel Marty's eyes resting on the back of my head.

  ''What?'' I asked, turning toward him.

  ''We have to find out why the hell someone would gun Rodriguez down like that. Do you have anything in your notes that might indicate he pissed someone off?'' He pushed his glasses up farther on his nose as he stared down at me. Marty is about six foot four, and usually I see him hunched over at his desk. Standing, he was very intimidating. Especially since I'd been combing my notes for just what he'd asked and hadn't found a damn thing.

  I shook my head. ''No. He was benign.''

  Marty snorted. ''There was something. Find it.''

  ''No shit, Marty.''

  ''Have you touched base with the cops this morning?''

  ''Not yet.''

  He sighed. ''I know you're burned out, Annie, but

  you really have to get motivated on this one. When it's over, you can take a week off.''

  I felt a bubble of anger rising; then it receded. He was right. I was burned out and tired. What the hell was wrong with me? One of the biggest stories of my career was sitting in my lap. I resolved to give a shit. ''Okay,'' I said, retreating to my desk and picking up the phone.

  Tom's ''Hey, Annie'' was tight in tone, but I ignored it.

  ''Just wondering if you've got anything on Rodriguez's shooter. Is it the same guy who shot at you?''

  ''Can't say anything, Annie. You have to understand that.'' He was telling me this was too sensitive even to give me something off the record.

  ''The guy who got shot. Is he alive?'' I asked.

  ''Yeah, but barely. Dick got a break, didn't he?''

  I didn't want to talk about Dick.

  ''Listen, Annie, I gotta go.'' And I heard the dial tone.

  I was getting nowhere fast. As I got up to get another Munchkin, my phone rang, and I sat back down.

  ''Newsroom,'' I announced.

  ''I'm looking for Annie Seymour.'' The voice was soft, lilting.

  ''May I ask who's calling?'' I hate identifying myself to anyone who might be a nut.

  ''Just tell her it's the girl she met last night.''

  Marisol. Whom I'd just seen as I sat in Rocco DeLucia's luxury sedan. ''This is Annie, Marisol. What can I do for you?''

  ''I need to talk to you.''

  I wondered if it had anything to do with Rocco, but decided I'd let her tell me. ''Sure. When?''

  ''Half an hour. IKEA. The restaurant.'' She hung up.

  IKEA is still a relatively new phenomenon to New

  Haven. Before IKEA, there had been a plan to build a huge mall next to the highway that the city claimed would've created scads of jobs and boosted the city's economy. But the traffic nightmares that would've resulted from the plan were enough to stick a stake in the proposal's heart. Thus, IKEA was the saving grace, the Store That Would Save New Haven.

  So what if IKEA customers didn't even know how to find downtown New Haven? They built it and they came in droves, coming off the exit ramps with empty trunks and flatbeds and getting back on the highway heavy with their new build-it-themselves furniture.

  The store is cavernous, and I decided to get a plate of meatballs while I waited for Marisol. I dunked them in lingonberries and mashed potatoes, washing them down with some sort of orange Swedish soda.

  I saw her just as I was finishing my lunch. Her dark, curly hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones, smooth skin, and smoky eyes. She was a goddamn knockout. She wore a peasant skirt and a T-shirt with a fuchsia hoodie that did nothing to conceal a voluptuous figure. She stepped around a woman with a stroller and sat down across from me.

  ''Hungry?'' I asked, indicating my plate.

  She shook her head. ''Thanks for meeting me.''

  I waited as her eyes took in the people around us.

  ''What were you doing with him?''

  I raised an eyebrow and took a bite of roll. ''Who?''

  ''I saw you in the car with him.''

  ''Who, Rocco?''

  Marisol leaned toward me. ''He told me he wouldn't tell anyone about me, and he brings you to my house. Why?''

  So Rocco did know her. ''Why don't you ask him?''

  She took a deep breath and pursed her lips for a second before speaking. ''I don't know how to reach him. I recognized you from last night and I still had your card. So I thought I could find out from you.''

  I shook my head. ''Listen, Marisol, Lourdes is my mother's cleaning lady. She got picked up by a really scary-looking guy and we decided to follow them, to make sure she was going to be okay. It's just a coincidence that we all ended up at your house.'' I paused. ''How do you know Lourdes, anyway?''

  ''She's my cousin,'' she said. ''Your mother's cleaning lady?''

  ''Yeah. I was worried about her.'' I thought a second. ''Is your last name Gomez, too?''

  She bit her lip and nodded, then leaned back, her eyes skipping around the restaurant.

  ''Who's the guy who picked her up?''

  ''My brother.''

  I didn't see the family resemblance.

  ''Do you all live there, you and your brother and Lourdes?''

  She nodded, but I could tell she didn't want to tell me about her home life.

  ''Did your friend tell you about yesterday?'' Marisol asked.

  I had no clue what she was talking about, but it never hurt to pretend. ''Why don't you tell me your version?'' I asked.

  She moved her chair closer to me then, her face inches from mine. Her brown eyes flickered, and I could see fear in them. What the hell was going on?

  ''You wrote about it,'' she whispered.

  ''Everyone in the state wrote about it,'' I said. ''It's not every day the police chief is shot and killed.''

  But she was shaking her head. ''No, no. Not that. The body, the one that washed up at Long Wharf.''

  ''What about it?''

  ''It had to be the one I saw.''

  She was being far too cryptic. ''Saw where?''

  Marisol took a deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. ''I saw someone dump the body in the water.''

  Chapter 8

  ''Does Rocco know about this?'' I asked.

  Marisol nodded.

  Rocco was holding out on me, and it pissed me off.

  ''He was there, too, but he didn't see it. Only me.'' She paused.

  ''Where were you exactly?'' I asked.

  Marisol shrugged. ''I was at the park, you know, Criscuolo Park, on the river.''

  My heart was beating faster, wanting to tell her to hurry up, but I knew from experience that if I did that, she'd get spooked. She had to tell me in her own time what happened out there.

  ''It was a man, a man dumped the body in the water. Across the river, but you know, it's not too far across at that point.''

  ''Which side?'' I asked.

  She frowned.

  ''Quinnipiac or Mill River?'' The park stuck out into the water where both rivers converged into the harbor.

 
''Quinnipiac.''

  The port was over on that side. I wondered again about currents, how the body had gotten all the way to Long Wharf. But she was interrupting my thoughts.

  ''He saw me then.''

  I frowned. ''Who saw you? Rocco?''