Shot Girl (17 page)

I had just graduated, and Ralph was already working at the midsized daily near the Catskills in New York State. I’d applied for a reporter position there, and I found out the day after we got married that I’d gotten the job. We would live in Ralph’s one-bedroom apartment, and we’d stay there for a couple of years before we could get onto a bigger paper, like the
Times
. We both wanted to work for the
New York Times
.

Maybe I would’ve made it. Maybe I would’ve been there now, if I hadn’t run home to Westville, to my mother, to where I felt safe.

Staying had become a habit I couldn’t break.

I shook off those thoughts as I drove up Whalley Avenue. Instead of turning to my left, which would’ve brought me into my mother’s neighborhood, I turned up Fitch, toward Southern Connecticut State University. This stretch of Fitch changed from looking like a cute little suburb with one-family houses—but with some crime issues—to apartment buildings and college dorms. I drove under the walkway and continued past campus down to Arch Street, where I turned right.

This area is cluttered with houses right on top of one another, mostly multifamily, some Victorian, some ugly 1960s duplexes, so close you could hear someone in the next house breathe. The old stomping ground from our college days had been where Ralph had last laid his hat, so to speak, and although when I’d come here with Priscilla, it hadn’t seemed odd, it did now. Why did Ralph move back here?

The front of the two-family house where Ralph had lived was in pretty good shape, considering. It had been freshly painted a grayish blue color with pale yellow shutters. The house next door was shedding its paint, revealing the dull wood underneath; it was the drab color of white underwear after it had gotten mixed up in the color load. All the houses here had postcardsized lawns in front; some had wraparound porches. One had wooden patches over its windows and the black scars of fire. I’d covered that one, just a month ago. Had Ralph already started watching me by then, or had he seen me there and begun his surveillance afterward?

As I sat in my car in front of the house, I thought about the phone call last night and despite my best efforts to convince myself otherwise, knew someone was still watching me. Was he—or she, I couldn’t discriminate—watching me now? I pushed the thought away, because my curiosity was stronger than any fear at the moment.

I grabbed a flashlight out of the glove box, got out of the car before I could talk myself out of it, and climbed the steps to the front porch. Ralph’s apartment was accessible through the door on the left, and there was a white piece of paper stuck to the door and the doorjamb, announcing that by order of the city police department no one was to enter. I’d hoped I could just walk in, but I’d have to break it, announcing that someone had disobeyed. I hoped that all suspicion would be off me at this point.

I touched the doorknob, knowing it would be locked. But this time I had an advantage.

I had a key.

Chapter 22

The paper ripped as the door opened easily. I pulled the key back out of the lock, turned the flashlight on, and shut the door behind me.

Okay, so it was a fine line between this and actual breaking and entering.

I shone the light across the room and felt like I was in the middle of a
CSI
episode. I could never understand why, when they could, they didn’t just turn the lights on. But the longer I moved the light around, the more I could see the allure in using a flashlight, the mystery of it. It certainly gave the room an eerie glow. But those
CSI
folks didn’t need to hide.

I did.

Ralph’s apartment was sloppy. I didn’t know if it was from the police search or if he’d never changed his ways from college, when he’d take a piece of clothing off and just leave it where he was at the moment. I played wifey and picked everything up. Idiot.

The living room was barely furnished. A well-worn sofa sat along one wall facing a large, flat-screen TV perched on a long coffee table that looked like it was probably salvaged from the dump or left in front of someone’s house for the garbage collector. Ralph had loved picking up pieces of other people’s lives. We’d furnished our apartment by borrowing a friend’s pickup and driving around neighborhoods.

It didn’t seem weird at the time, but now it skeeved me out. It was either age or another pet peeve about Ralph, probably a little bit of both.

I kicked a couple of T-shirts and a sweatshirt to the side and made my way into the kitchen. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes—couldn’t blame the cops for that one—and Ralph used the tabletop as a cabinet, since there were precious few of them. Three boxes of Cap’n Crunch were lined up as if at attention behind a jar of peanut butter and something in a Tupperware container. I wasn’t going to look.

A cursory flash of the light showed me there was nothing here I wanted to see, so I followed the bobbing beacon down the hallway and into a bedroom. A mattress lay on the floor—no box spring, no frame—and the heavy scent of sex hung in the air, mixed with vanilla. A quick flip of the flashlight to the dresser indicated a fat candle sunken in the middle with a black wick. The bedsheets were twisted and halfway off the mattress. Again, there was no way of knowing whether Ralph had left it this way.

Besides myriad shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear on the floor, there was nothing on the walls, nothing on the dresser except the candle. The mattress and the dresser were the only pieces of furniture in the room.

The closet door was open slightly. I didn’t want to touch anything—my fingerprints were already on the doorknob outside and I couldn’t leave them anywhere else—so I nudged the door open with my toe. More clothes. Nothing but two baseball caps on the shelf above the rack. Yankees. Figured.

A mildew odor permeated the bathroom, and the light reflecting off the mirrored medicine chest made my heart jump for a second. I didn’t want to do it, but I picked up the towel off the rack, wrapped it around my hand, and pulled open the cabinet door. Ralph liked prescription medications. Nasonex, Xanax, and Zoloft. Allergic, anxiety-ridden, and depressed. Just what every woman’s looking for.

There were so many signs that divorcing the man had been a good idea.

Back in the hall, I saw the door to a second bedroom. It was halfway closed, so again I used my foot to push it back. A desk sat propped against the opposite wall. A dark shade had been pulled down against a window, but a pile of manila folders had spilled across the desktop, scattering papers across it, the chair, and the floor. I steered my light toward it.

I caught my breath. This was what I’d come for, but seeing it made it real. Made me take a reality check.

Pictures. Pictures of me. Like Tom had said. And interspersed between them, on top of some of them, were clips. Newspaper clips, with headlines. And my byline. Highlighted in yellow.

This was far worse than anything I’d expected. I wondered if there had been more, if the cops had taken some as evidence.

But evidence of what? That Ralph had a thing for his ex-wife?

A picture of me and Vinny on the floor caught my eye, and the light reflected a little, bouncing back into my eyes like someone had taken my picture with a flash. I crept closer to it. This picture was taken two months ago. I knew exactly when, because it was the day we’d gone kayaking. We were unloading the kayak off the top of Vinny’s Explorer, handing it down to Vinny’s brother, Rocco, who’d come with us.

I shivered. It was cold comfort that Ralph was dead; what the hell had he been up to with this shit? How could I have been followed and not notice?

Shining the light closer on the strewn photographs, I saw myself coming down the steps of my brownstone, getting out of my car in the parking lot at the
Herald
, and kissing my mother just outside the door at her house in Westville.

With each picture, my heart beat faster, and I had to look away, swallowing hard, blinking back tears from—well, fear. The phone calls had made me nervous, but this, well, it was as if the camera lens had raped me. The photographs taunted me, showing how vulnerable I was. I wasn’t used to being a victim; I was an observer, an outsider. My hands began to sweat, and it had nothing to do with the heat. The blood pounded in my ears; my knees felt like they were going to give way.

It wasn’t a surprise I was so distracted that I barely heard it. But when the front door closed with a distinct thud, my stomach rushed into my throat and I pushed the button on the flashlight with my thumb, bathing myself in darkness. Without the light, I didn’t know where to go; my eyes hadn’t adjusted, and I could see nothing. I thought about the Xanax in the medicine cabinet; what I wouldn’t give to have one of those suckers right now. But I didn’t, so as I tried to calm myself, I glanced quickly around the room, looking for a hiding place.

Footsteps moved through the apartment, and a sliver of light crept into the hallway in front of me. I ducked behind the door but was afraid to move it closed for fear it would creak. But whoever it was would smell my fear anyway—I was certain of that.

"Annie?" A hoarse whisper echoed through the hallway.

I didn’t recognize the voice.

"Annie?" It was louder now. "I saw your car outside. Where are you?"

I flattened myself farther against the wall behind the door, but the room’s overhead light blinded me as the door swung away from me and I found myself staring at Jack Hammer.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded.

I wanted to ask him the same thing. I mean, someone
had
been following me. And he just happens to show up? Seemed like too much of a coincidence. My throat was dry, and I was sure he could hear the hammering in my chest.

"What are you doing here?" he asked again.

I swallowed hard, trying to find some saliva, the ability to speak. Finally, "What are
you
doing here? Are you following me?" I was whispering.

Jack grabbed my arm, and I instinctively pulled away.

"Jesus, Annie, you’re not supposed to be in here."

"No shit. And you are?" My voice had come back, but too loud. Wouldn’t you know my smart-ass personality would shine through now.

"I had to get something," he said matter-of-factly. He didn’t make an attempt to touch me again.

I stepped out into the hallway, trying to gauge how quickly I could leave the house and get to my car. I regretted that Vinny hadn’t suggested replacing my gun earlier, although I might be able to hit Jack hard enough with the flashlight to stun him if he tried anything.

But he didn’t. He followed me into the hallway, flipping the switch, so the only light again was from my flashlight.

"Did you know Ralph was following me, taking pictures of me?" I asked, my grip tight on the light as I shone it into his face.

He shielded his eyes. "Shit, Annie, that’s too bright."

I moved the light slightly.

"Yeah, I knew," he conceded.

"Did you have any role in this?" I asked.

"I told him he should just call you."

I snorted. Calling me. That was all I thought he was doing.

"You were all he ever talked about," Jack offered before I could say anything.

"But what about Felicia?"

Jack grinned. "Jesus, Annie, she was a good fuck. What else would she have been good for?"

Well, now, I didn’t know. "Do you know she’s been reported missing?"

Something crossed his face, but I couldn’t tell for sure if this was news to him.

"She’s a kid. She probably ran off with some guy after she found out about Ralphie and she’ll turn up," Jack said, but it was too casual, too, well, something that I couldn’t put my finger on.

He had, however, moved very close and put his finger under my chin, tipping my face toward his. I cringed under his touch, every muscle stiffened, and I couldn’t move. He didn’t seem to notice as he tilted his face back a little to study me for a second before saying, "You have no clue what you’re getting into here. You need to stay out of it." And then he dropped his hand and stepped back.

"It’s my job to find out what’s going on." It was more than that, though, and he knew it.

Jack shook his head. "You’re a stubborn bitch, aren’t you?"

I was trying to come back with a clever retort when he added, "Just be careful, then. Can you do that?"

I cocked my head in the direction of Ralph’s office. "Looks like what I had to be careful about is dead."

Jack Hammer’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t be too sure."

Exactly what I was afraid of, and I hoped he would elaborate, but he didn’t. I had to get my mind off those pictures and get the hell out of here so I could think. I wasn’t sure about Jack Hammer, why he was here. I just didn’t buy that he had to retrieve something he’d left behind.

To keep myself grounded, to keep the fear away, I had to keep asking questions. "Why are you here?"

"I have to get something," he repeated.

I was about to press him for more, but a red light splashed against the walls. Shit, a police cruiser.

Jack looked at me, put his finger to his lips, then took my hand, pulling me toward the back of the apartment, into the kitchen. Instead of recoiling this time, however, I let him lead the way. Jack twisted the knob on the back door, opened it. I heard paper ripping. The cops had put one of those stickers back here, too. I didn’t have time to contemplate that, though, as Jack pushed me outside, then followed me, closing the door quietly behind him. He grabbed my hand again, and we were jumping a short fence that divided Ralph’s backyard with the backyard of the house behind his, which fronted another street.

I was out of breath by the time we stopped, two blocks away. Jack was still holding my hand, and I yanked it away.

"What the hell?" I asked.

"Cops."