Shot Girl (10 page)

Wanting to ask him about that put me in a compromising position. I would have to be nice to Dick Whitfield, something that was not natural for me. Especially since he was going out to cover
my
story.

Jane Ferraro poked her head in the office and motioned that she needed to speak to Marty. As they huddled together just outside the door, I moved around them and followed Dick’s path, catching up with him just as he was about to step outside. I tugged on his sleeve.

"A quick minute, Dick?" I asked.

His eyes were wide, and his expression told me he had no clue how to react. Was I going to yell at him for something, swear at him, order him to let me cover this accident? For a second, I let him wonder as I studied his appearance. He’d begun to abandon his penchant for green clothing, and more browns and blues had joined his color palette. Must be the influence of his girlfriend, TV reporter Cindy Purcell, who was in the newsroom at that very minute, fluffing up her blond locks as she prepared to report for the five o’clock news from Hartford’s Channel 9 Shoreline Bureau, aka the
New Haven Herald
.

Dick’s eyes were starting to glaze. Might as well get it over with.

"Over at the courthouse, have you heard anything about a grand jury investigation concerning Ralph Seymour, the guy who died at Rouge Lounge last night?" I asked.

The question caught him by surprise, and he nodded involuntarily. "I was going to ask you about that later. I didn’t say anything to Marty yet. Especially since this guy was your husband."

I frowned. "Ex-husband. So you
did
hear something? Who told you?"

Dick’s pointy ears twitched. I stared unabashedly. I didn’t think they could do that.

"I heard it from someone over at the courthouse, a source," he said.

Oh, yeah, Dick had sources. It was hard to believe at first, but I grudgingly had to admit he was getting better at his job. At least he didn’t make shit up, like Ralph had. Well, not that I knew of, anyway.

"So what did this source tell you?"

Dick bit his lip, a flush crawling up his face. "He said I should ask you why your mother was representing your ex-husband."

Chapter 12

My mother? Vinny had lied to me. Well, not exactly. He just hadn’t answered when I asked about it.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he knew something—he did know Felicia’s name without me even saying it—and he probably was working for my mother on it. What his exact role was, well, now, that was what I needed to find out.

I sent Dick off to his accident with a wave of my hand, muttering how he’d miss it if he didn’t get there right away. He didn’t seem to notice I hadn’t said anything before he scurried away. But I did catch something in his eye, something that indicated he might just ask me about this again.

Which meant I was going to have to find out about it before he did. And before Marty did.

The clock across the room told me I was meeting Vinny in less than an hour. I sighed, going back to my desk and dropping into my chair, my head in my hands. I’d hoped for a little romance tonight—and some much-needed sleep. If I confronted Vinny with this, we could be up all night, and not in a good way.

I had an insane thought for a nanosecond: Maybe I should call my mother or go over and see her and ask her about this. I could have time before I was supposed to meet Vinny.

No, that wouldn’t work. This was a conversation with my mother that would require much more than twenty minutes; she and our publisher, Bill Bennett, were probably sipping margaritas on the back porch of my childhood home, and I really didn’t need to see
him
right now, either.

So Vinny it would be. I was not looking forward to this.

Throwing my notebook in my bag, I sauntered over to Marty’s desk. "I’m heading home. Do I have an assignment for tomorrow?" The weekend shifts sucked; there were only two reporters scheduled each day, and if news didn’t happen, we got stuck covering art shows or, God forbid, community gardens.

Marty studied my face a second. "I thought you’d finish up that Shaw story tomorrow, so I didn’t assign you to anything."

He should’ve known better. I could’ve written that story with my eyes closed. Practically did.

". . . and since you can’t cover your beat—," he was saying.

"Wait a minute. You mean, even if there’s a shooting or a murder or a fire or something tomorrow, I can’t cover it?"

He shook his head. "No. Simmons made that pretty clear." He shuffled some papers on his desk and pulled one out from under the chaos. When his eyes met mine, they were apologetic. "There’s a quilting bee in Bran-ford at the senior center at one p.m." His voice had gotten so quiet, I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

"A quilting bee?"

He nodded, held out the assignment sheet. I stared at it and opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me. "This’ll all blow over soon, Annie."

I grabbed the paper. "I thought since Ralph died of a heart attack, this would be over now."

"But until this thing with your gun is settled . . ." His voice trailed off.

I sighed, but didn’t reply, just turned on my heel and walked out of the newsroom.

Vinny was sitting on my stoop.

"Why didn’t you go up?" I asked after he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

He pointed up, toward Walter’s apartment windows. "I don’t think he likes me here when you’re not here."

"He told me that this morning," I said. We went through the front door and were halfway up the stairs when I asked casually, "Why were you here yesterday morning after I left for work?"

Without missing a beat, he replied, "Forgot my watch." He held up his wrist to show off the simple Timex. He had a fancier watch, a waterproof thing that he wore kayaking, but this one was his day-to-day. He wouldn’t get a ticket from the fashion police, but he might get a warning for it.

The air conditioner in my apartment apparently was still on strike. Vinny opened windows while I rummaged in my hall closet for the big, sturdy fan I inherited from my mother when she had central air installed. I positioned it carefully in the living room and turned it on, but it merely blasted hot air back at us.

"I hate this time of year. Sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s hot," I said, reaching into my fridge for two Heinekens. I handed one to Vinny, then noticed something. "Hey, where’s the pie?"

I was starving; he was empty-handed. Well, except for the beer.

Vinny shrugged. "Thought maybe we’d go out."

I took a long drink from my bottle, then said, "Why? I barely got any sleep last night and I’m wiped out. I really just want to go to bed." I also wanted to pick his brain about Ralph, but he was looking damn good at the moment: his T-shirt showing off his swimmer’s arms, his "nice" jeans—but wait, something wasn’t right. He was wearing sneakers. With socks. He
did
want to go out. Otherwise he’d be wearing flip-flops. And shorts.

And instead of staring at me with that look I’d come to know so well, he was avoiding my eyes, looking at anything and everything except me.

"What’s up?" I asked.

Vinny ran a hand through his dark hair and smiled sheepishly. "I just thought it might be nice to go out."

Something was up, but I could tell he wasn’t going to let me in on it. He was looking at me expectantly, like I was supposed to say something. Instead, I stood in front of the fan, trying to cool down. "I have to change," I said.

"I’ll wait."

He didn’t follow me into the bedroom. That was unusual. I grabbed a red sleeveless top that clung in all the right places and pulled on a stretchy black skirt that twirled as I walked. Glancing in the mirror, I saw there wasn’t much to be done with my hair, but I went into the bathroom and put on a little mascara, hoping to disguise how tired my eyes looked, dabbed a little blush on my cheeks and gel on my lips. Fairly presentable. Back in the bedroom, I scooched down and reached for the strap of one of a pair of high-heeled sandals under my bed. I managed to find the other one, too, with a little more effort.

Brushing dust off my skirt, I went into the living room, where Vinny was looking out the window.

"Hey, there," I said softly. Maybe with the right moves, I could avoid this going-out shit and we could just go to bed.

For a second, I thought it was going to work. When he turned, he finally had that look in his eye. But then he was all business again, reaching for the door.

"Ready?" he asked, not even commenting on the outfit or how pretty I was or anything. Damn. Our relationship was still too new for him to start ignoring the way I looked.

He followed me down the stairs and opened the passenger door to his Explorer, closing it after me and going around the front before climbing into the driver’s seat. I welcomed the air-conditioning, leaned forward, and aimed the vent at myself.

I felt his hand on my thigh through the thin fabric and I jerked my head up. If we weren’t already past Olive going down Chapel, I might have been able to change his mind. I slapped his hand away playfully.

"You had your chance," I teased.

Vinny shrugged. "Yeah," he said absently, his eyes locking with mine for a second before they went back to the road.

Again I wondered what he was up to.

We pulled into a lot on Crown Street, next to Louis’ Lunch.

"I don’t want a hamburger," I said, indicating the small, squat burger joint.

Vinny chuckled. "We’re not going there."

We parked, and I had to jog to keep up with him on the sidewalk, but not too far. He stopped in front of the Istanbul Café. Turkish food. I wasn’t sure about this.

Vinny saw my hesitation and leaned over, whispering in my ear. "They’ve got belly dancers tonight."

"Oh, yeah, right, like that’s going to entice me," I grumbled. While I wasn’t in the mood for a burger, I would rather just have a pizza or pasta. Spicy food had its place, but not when I was overtired and overheated.

I didn’t have a choice, however. Vinny opened the door, and he tugged my arm so I had to go through. A tall, dark man greeted us and led us to the back of the small restaurant to a table for two behind sheer orange and red curtains. I rolled my eyes, and Vinny ignored me, thanking the waiter for the menus as we sat. I tried to get comfortable on the pillow on my seat, but if Vinny had thought this would be romantic, he was wrong. I needed a beer, some quick food, and to get the hell out of here.

Vinny seemed oblivious to my feelings as he ordered a lamb dish that we could share, but to his credit, the beer was cold and quenched my thirst. He laughed as I finished it, ready for another.

"Slow down. This is only the first stop."

What the hell?

I barely tasted the food and was happy that our curtains seemed to be a barrier between us and the belly dancer, who had begun to make her way around the restaurant, table by table. I chewed faster, hoping we could finish before she decided we were in the mood for a little entertainment.

Her moves reminded me of Jack Hammer. I wondered again about seeing him with Shaw this afternoon at the nature center. I couldn’t make the connection between the two, unless my suspicions about Shaw having some sort of nefarious background were right.

"So where are we headed next?" I asked as our dessert of melted cheese covered with strings of stiff maple syrup was placed on the table. I wasn’t sure about it, so I took a sip of the incredibly strong coffee. Jesus. That would wake the fucking dead.

Vinny cocked his head toward the door, his mouth full of cheese.

"Yeah, I know we’re leaving, but where to?" I asked. The coffee was doing its job; the beer and sleepy fog had started to lift. I felt like I could run a goddamn marathon.

"Bar."

I glanced toward the window that overlooked Crown Street toward the bar across the street, simply called Bar, like it would be too hard for anyone to remember another name. Okay, the clientele ran a little young, so maybe that wasn’t so far-fetched an idea.

"Why?" I asked, but that coffee must have sparked my memory while waking me up, and I remembered. "It’s Felicia Kowalski, isn’t it? Is she working there tonight?"

Vinny leaned back on his pillow and smiled. "Give the girl a gold star. I was wondering when you’d put two and two together."

"Give me a fucking break, Vin. I had four hours of sleep last night."

"Yeah, but now you’re awake, right?"

It had been good strategy on his part. Sometimes I forgot that Vinny was Ivy League smart and almost had a Ph.D. He wouldn’t have been caught dead at Southern. But my newfound energy also jolted my memory, and it was time to get to the bottom of what was really going on.

"So tell me more about Ralph’s grand jury investigation and how my mother came to be representing him," I said.

Vinny’s mouth was full and he choked back his surprise, recovering enough to swallow before a long, slow grin spread across his face. "You mean you don’t know everything yet?"

"So what’s the deal?" I took my fork and picked at the crunchy syrup until it sank into soft cheese. I tried a taste. It wasn’t bad: sweet and chewy and a little sour all at the same time. I took another forkful as I waited for an answer.

"Ralph was into some serious shit." Vinny stared at me a few seconds, then, "He’s been buying guns legally out of state but selling them illegally here. For drugs and money."

Chapter 13

The waiter came back, and I ordered another coffee. I’d be up all night at this rate, but I wanted to be alert for this conversation. I sat back on my cushion, letting Vinny’s words sink in.

So this was where Ralph had ended up. Back home. Not the Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist he’d dreamed of being, but a criminal.

Vinny was talking. "I knew he was working there. Last night. That’s why I was there. At the Rouge Lounge."