Shot Girl (3 page)

Oh, yeah, it had been a long time. Maybe he was cool with it now.

"Hey, Tom?"

I looked to my right to see Frank Piscitelli, New Haven’s answer to
CSI
’s Gil Grissom, beckoning Tom to come over. Frank was short and squat, what my dad—who is also Italian—would call "a real Guido" from East Haven, who hardly conjured the image of a scientist. Frank spent a lot of time in a small, brightly lit room at the New Haven Police Department, so unlike
CSI
portrayals, it was comical. I was never one for understanding forensics or fingerprinting, but I admit a curiosity about the refrigerators that house the bloody clothing. Or at least that’s what Frank told me is in there. It probably contains that day’s lunch. Or both. Frank could have a grisly sense of humor.

"Don’t go anywhere," Tom warned me again as he walked away.

Jack Hammer, however, did not leave my side. Great. The way I was dressed, he probably thought he could get lucky. But then he surprised me.

"You’re Annie, aren’t you?"

"Yeah, that’s right," I said, frowning. "How the hell do you know that?"

He shrugged. "Ralphie pointed you out earlier." He paused. "He talked a lot about you."

I stood up a little straighter, folding my arms across my chest. "He did?"

"Said you’d been the best thing that ever happened to him."

Yeah, he would say that. And he did say that as I left him and his pathetic lies in New York, where they belonged.

"When did he start working here?" I asked.

Genuine surprise crossed his face as he frowned. "A month ago. You know that."

Before I could respond, Tom came back.

He pointed at Jack Hammer. "Come with me."

I hoped I could finally leave, but Tom was shaking his head at me. "You have to stay right here. I’m not done with you yet."

That’s what he thought.

I glared at him. "At least can I go to my car and get my phone? I’ve got a pair of flip-flops in there, too." I indicated my blistered feet. "I have to take these things off."

A mix of emotions crossed Tom’s face, until finally resignation settled in. "Give me the keys. I’ll have someone get the shoes for you." He paused. "But no phone, and I’m not telling you shit."

Even in prison they give you a fucking phone call. I thought about Cindy Purcell outside with her camera crew and wondered if her main squeeze—and my nemesis—Dick Whitfield, was lurking out there, as well. I could only hope that he had the good sense to show up. But he was probably sitting in the newsroom trying to get someone on the phone instead. It was about time for the lottery drawing, and the news editor needed the night reporter to get the numbers off the TV because the copy editors were too busy on eBay and checking their e-mail to get the numbers off the Internet. I regretted not taking up Vinny’s offer of his phone earlier.

I hesitated a couple of seconds before I pulled my keys out of my small bag and gave them to Tom. It was too late now. If I changed my mind, he’d wonder why.

"The flip-flops are just on the floor on the passenger side," I said. "Right inside the door."

The keys dangled from Tom’s hand as he led Jack Hammer away and out of sight. The minute they turned the corner, I figured it was a good time to see if I could get any information out of anyone else, most likely Frank.

"Detective said you had to stay here." The young cop hovered over me, his shoulders so wide I could use them as an umbrella.

"I just need some air," I tried. He stepped into my path, shaking his head slowly, the frown indicating I obviously did not know how to play well with others. No shit. I glanced around the bar but didn’t see anyone who could rescue me. I felt so useless. I hate that.

I pulled a chair up to the nearest table and sat, my shoulders hunched over until I realized anyone standing behind me would be able to see my breasts. I straightened, my back now as stiff as a twig.

Renee and her sisters and friends had been rounded up and were seated at various tables, waiting their turns to be questioned. Renee caught my eye, and since the detective in charge hadn’t ordered that she had to stay in one place, she came over to my table and dropped down in the chair across from me. She was better than nothing.

"Wouldn’t you know this would happen to me?" She sighed and toyed with her cuticle. "Did Tom say when we could get out of here?"

I fought the urge to remind her that "this" didn’t happen to her; rather, it happened to Ralph, who, as far as I knew, was still dead on the sidewalk outside.

"So, you knew the guy?" she asked after a few seconds of silence, realizing I wasn’t going to be chatty.

I nodded but was unwilling to offer up any fodder for gossip. I knew telling Renee anything about Ralph would somehow make it over to the
Herald
faster than I could say "Jack Hammer."

"Someone said you were married to him," Renee said, pouting, like it was some sort of race and I’d already beaten her to the altar.

"Long time ago," I mumbled, aware now that one of the blisters on my foot had started oozing some sort of sticky goo. I wanted to take off these shoes in the worst way, but I didn’t want to put my feet on this floor that had God knew what on it.

"Looked like you were still pretty friendly with him."

I leaned over to adjust one of the shoe’s straps. "What do you mean?"

"I saw you talking to him over by the door, just before he went outside. I saw him kiss you."

Chapter 3

Okay, so I may have forgotten to mention that little detail to Tom. But I was trying to forget it myself. Ralph had caught me off guard. What he was doing barely registered until I felt his tongue probing my lips, because it happened so fast.

"Did you also see me knee him in the balls?" I asked, trying to keep my voice low but unable to keep the anger out.

Renee chuckled. "No. But that would’ve been funny."

I tried to remember why I’d agreed to attend this little party. It wasn’t like Renee and I were great friends or anything. She was ten years younger than me, had come to the paper two years ago from graduate school, following her boyfriend-now-fiancé to New Haven, where he was learning how to be a doctor at Yale. She was the cheerleader, the sorority sister I never wanted to be. I had to admit that she could write, and since her desk was next to mine, we’d managed to have a sort of work relationship that her sisters must have felt was more than it was, because they invited me to this shindig. I had not been invited to the wedding.

I should’ve questioned that earlier. Why invite someone to the bachelorette party if she’s not invited to the wedding?

I didn’t have to come tonight. Priscilla had talked me into it.

Priscilla Quinn was my best friend from college and was now at the
Daily News
in New York. She was much more hip than I was, and she convinced me that going to see a male strip show would be a hoot. She was sorry she couldn’t come with me—she’d had other plans—but she’d come out the weekend before and brought some clothes with her, knowing I didn’t have anything to wear to something like this.

She had no idea she was dressing me for a murder.

Renee held a small bag not unlike mine, and I wondered if she had a cell phone in it. Before I could ask, however, her eyes drifted past me, distracted.

"Hey, there’s that guy," Renee said, indicating Jack Hammer, who was coming toward us.

Not again.

Renee did one of those hair-toss things, flipping back her highlighted brown locks and fiddling with her blouse. What was wrong with her? She was getting married, for Chrissakes, and here she was, coming on to Mr. Sleazy.

Jack Hammer wasn’t paying attention to her. He scooched down on the floor next to me, leaning in so close I caught a faint whiff of vanilla and maybe cinnamon. Weird.

"Need to talk to you," he said.

I looked at Renee, who looked surprised. Not in a good way. Okay, second strike against me. First I’m married before she is, and now Jack Hammer wants a moment of my time. Alone. Lucky me. I shrugged as she pushed her chair away and marched back over to her sisters, shaking her head as they all looked over their shoulders at me like I’d just agreed to fuck Jack Hammer on the floor in front of everyone. Not that they hadn’t wanted to do that just an hour ago themselves.

I liked it better when I thought all Chippendales were chairs.

I turned to Jack Hammer. "What do you want?"

He put a finger to my lips, and I jerked my head back reflexively. Who the hell knew where those fingers had been? "I got it for you," he whispered, slipping something into my hand.

I looked at the business card. My business card. "What about it?" I asked.

"I got it from Ralphie. Just before he went outside. I know you told the cop that you didn’t really talk to him, so I figured maybe you had a reason to keep this quiet."

I turned the card over in my hand.

On the back was my phone number. My home phone number. And my cell number. In my handwriting.

"You got this from Ralph?" I asked.

"He told me to put it in the office, in his Rolodex." Jack Hammer bit back a smile. He was still balancing himself next to me—probably all that "dancing" gave him unusually strong muscles. "I won’t say anything," he promised.

I tucked the card into my bag and thanked Jack Hammer. Instead of going away, like I’d hoped, he moved to the chair where Renee had been sitting. Jesus. Why did everyone think I wanted company?

"Ralphie was right about you," Jack said.

I didn’t even want to know. But Jack was hell-bent on telling me.

"You’re pretty hot, even if you are pushing forty."

I glared at him. "Don’t look for any dollar bills in your G-string from me, asshole."

He laughed. Really laughed. Loud enough so heads turned. And I had to admit it—somehow it made him less smarmy.

"Why do you do this?" I asked after a few seconds.

"Do what?"

"Get up onstage and pretend to fuck all those women?"

"It’s safe sex."

"I guess that’s one way to look at it. But it’s pretty gross."

"I’ve got a nice condo on the water, and I drive a Porsche."

Touché.

"So why are you here tonight, then, if you disapprove?" Jack Hammer’s eyes were a deep brown, sort of like cows’ eyes, with big lashes, and he seemed really interested. Right. He got paid to seem really interested.

"Bachelorette shit. I don’t know. Got talked into it."

"You don’t seem the type to get talked into anything."

I glanced around. Where the hell was Tom? Last thing I needed was to bond with a male stripper. But that’s exactly what was going on.

"Is this a regular gig for you? I mean, here at the Rouge Lounge? Did you know Ralph well?" I asked, ignoring his comment.

He shrugged. "We’ve been here a few times and at other places around the state. I know Ralphie from before."

"Before what?"

His eyes narrowed. "You know."

I shook my head. "No, I don’t know."

He studied my face for a few seconds, then must have decided I was telling the truth, because he leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest before saying, "I met him in lockup."

I knew about Ralph’s arrest. Priscilla kept up with him and told me. She didn’t tell me much else, and only when I asked, which was rarely. Ralph got nailed with two roommates because suddenly their electric bill went through the roof. Cars came and went at all hours of the day and night at the house they’d rented somewhere in Westchester County in New York. A neighbor had complained.

Cops found the basement full of marijuana plants, some almost five feet tall because of the fluorescent grow lights. The cops brought all three of them in, and because Ralph was the only one who didn’t have a record, they kept his charge to a misdemeanor and he had to serve only six months of community service. His roommates weren’t so lucky.

If he’d been into anything else since then—it was about ten years ago—I didn’t know about it.

"What were you arrested for?" I asked Jack Hammer.

"Prostitution."

He said it matter-of-factly, like he was telling me he’d bought a carton of milk at the store. I nodded. "And you and Ralph bonded?" Maybe Ralph and Jack had some sort of thing going, some sort of Brokeback Jail-house. But Jack was one step ahead of me.

"Not like that."

"So do you know why someone would gun him down?" How much did this guy really know about "Ralphie"?

Jack Hammer shrugged. "Everyone loved Ralphie."

Obviously not. But who was I to mention that?

"You wouldn’t by chance have a phone on you, would you?" I asked before seeing the stupidity of my question. He was wearing a skintight T-shirt and leather pants that looked like they’d been painted on. Where would he keep it?

"Sorry, babe," he said. "Back in the dressing room."

Again with the "babe"? Dressing room?

Just as I was about to ask him if he could go get it—I really needed to make a call—Tom was standing over me. Where the hell had he come from? One look told me he didn’t have my flip-flops.

"Hey, I thought you were getting—"

"Get up, Annie," he interrupted, glaring at Jack Hammer. "We can’t talk here. I’ve got to take you down to the station."

"What the fuck’s going on, Tom? The station?"

"Just come with me."

"Where’re my keys?"

He leaned down and grabbed me under the armpit, pulling me up. "Just come with me," he said roughly.

I teetered on the damn heels, thought I’d topple over again. Tom wasn’t paying attention. I looked at Jack Hammer, whose eyebrows were shooting off the top of his head. I shrugged at him as Tom led me through the bar and back out into the night, the humidity wrapping itself around me like a hot, wet towel. It was only the beginning of June, for Chrissakes.