Shot Girl (5 page)

"You’ll see Vinny soon enough. You need to get home and get some sleep."

I
was
tired, but there was too much going on in my head. Tom actually had called me a "person of interest," which pissed me off. He hadn’t done the interrogating, though. Conflict of interest and all that shit. So newly promoted detective Ronald Berger got to ask me a million questions about my relationship with Ralph, while we were married and since. I didn’t think it was any of his goddamn business, but my mother intervened when I got too worked up, and managed to smooth things over. Nothing against Ronald or anything—he’s a nice guy, but just not on the other side of the interrogation table. I’d rather knock back a few beers with him and ask him about other "people of interest."

I strapped myself into the front seat of my mother’s Mercedes, prepared for her erratic driving—she’d give any NASCAR driver a run for his money.

"I need to pick up my car," I said as she turned the ignition. "It’s back in the bar parking lot."

She sighed, and instead of turning up Chapel, she kept going straight on State Street. The Rouge Lounge was just a block up from Café Nine—another nightspot but without the slick decor—and its parking lot was a rarity in the city, where meters reigned and garages charged way too much for a night on the town.

The yellow crime-scene tape was still attached to a utility pole in front of the bar, but that was the only sign that something had gone down the night before. In the harsh light of morning, the building looked like a hooker who’d put on too much makeup.

My silver Honda Civic, only a few months old, sparkled like a new dime in the dingy lot, surrounded by cast-off Styrofoam coffee cups, cigarette butts, and the occasional syringe. When my 1993 Accord became a crime victim in April, I resigned myself to a new car and found myself loving it. It wasn’t one of those hybrids, but it still got good gas mileage and was just as big as my old car. And I finally had a CD player and air-conditioning.

I stepped out of my mother’s car, but before I could shut the door, she said, "Wait, Annie."

I leaned down to look at her.

"Be careful," she said, the weariness dripping off her words like the sweat that was slipping down the back of my neck. How could it be so hot so early in the morning?

"Can you go home and get some sleep?" I asked, pulling at my T-shirt and fanning myself with the fabric.

"Don’t worry about me," she said, frowning as she stared at my chest.

I had pinched the shirt together at the center of the skull. I waited for a comment about my fashion statement, but it never came. I shrugged. "Thanks, Mom."

She nodded. "That’s what mothers are for."

I closed the door, and she took off down the street. I watched until she turned onto Chapel before I approached my car.

It had been searched. Tom had warned me about that as he escorted my mother and me out to the street. Tom also told me I would need to vacuum the car. No shit. While it was still gleaming silver on the outside, as I got closer, I saw the fingerprint dust around the door handles. He’d explained patiently, despite my many outbursts, that they confiscated the gun for evidence, because he—to his credit—was unwilling to believe that I’d actually shot Ralph in the street. It would be tested to see if ballistics could match it with the shell casings found near the body.

My mother told me I could admit it was my gun, and I did so. But she also told me not to say anything else. I didn’t.

I opened the car door and wished I owned a Dust-Buster.

However, I knew someone who did.

I reached into the glove box and pulled out my cell phone. At least the cops hadn’t taken it and had locked up the car when they were done, so nothing was stolen. I punched in a number and waited as it rang and rang. I didn’t even get voice mail. Where the hell was Vinny?

I closed the phone, leaned against the car, and wished I were like Samantha on
Bewitched
so I could just twitch my nose and my car would be clean. I regretted the black shirt and capris; I could feel them getting clammy as the sun blasted heat against me. It was another three-shower day, cold showers at that.

"Did you beat the rap?"

The voice startled me, and I jumped as Jack Hammer came around the side of the building.

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked.

He held up a black duffel bag. "Left it here last night. We’ve got another show tonight, up in Hartford."

There was a place in Hartford that had male strip shows? The Berlin Turnpike, sure, but Hartford? New Haven had it all over the capital city for nightlife, restaurants, and theater. I’d been to Hartford after nine p.m., and the streets were hardly bustling. Even the Starbucks closed early.

He held out his hand. "We were never properly introduced last night. John Decker."

I frowned, and he grinned. "You didn’t think ’Jack Hammer’ was my real name, did you?"

Somehow that moniker fit him better than "John Decker." "John Decker" could be a next-door neighbor, a teacher, one of those "Friends" on MySpace. Okay, so maybe I shouldn’t be making any assumptions.

I shook his hand. "Annie Seymour."

"Yeah, I know," he said, holding my hand just a second too long. "Ralphie—"

"I don’t really want to talk about him right now," I interrupted. "I have to get home."

He nodded and held up the bag. "Gotta get going, too." But he didn’t move. Instead, he said, "You might want to talk to Felicia."

"Felicia?" I asked.

"She works here sometimes. She and Ralphie had a thing."

"Why should I talk to her?"

Jack gave me a lopsided grin. "You never know."

Cryptic asshole.

"I really don’t give a shit about Ralph’s girlfriend," I said. "Ralph and I were a long time ago."

"Were you?" he asked.

It was the way he said it that made me take pause. He’d said that Ralph talked about me to him. Maybe he’d talked about me to this Felicia, too. My natural curiosity bubbled up, and I couldn’t help myself.

"Do you know how to find her?"

Jack shrugged. "She works at bars all over town. Someone probably knows how to reach her."

Weird. I thought a second. "What about you? Do you have a number where I can reach you if I have any questions about this?"

Jack winked. "Don’t worry about that. I’ll be around." And he disappeared around the corner.

I tried not to think about him as I opened the trunk. I’d done a sweep of my closet and stuck a bag of clothes in there to take to Goodwill. They were strewn all over the place, but I couldn’t tell if it was because the cops had gone through them or if they’d just ended up that way after a few quick turns.

I grabbed an old T-shirt, shook it out, closed the trunk, went around the car, and laid it across the front seat. I maneuvered myself on it carefully, trying not to get too dirty, and started the engine.

Before I could pull out of the lot, my cell phone rang. I grabbed it off the center console, where I’d dropped it, and glanced at the number. Vinny.

"Hey there," I said.

"You out?"

"Beat the rap," I said, realizing that’s what Jack Hammer had said. "I’m in my car, on my way home."

"Really?"

"Don’t sound so fucking surprised," I said.

I heard him chuckle. "I’m just curious, Annie, why they let you go. It seems like there was some evidence to keep you there, even charge you."

I thought back an hour and remembered the look on Tom’s face when he told me.

"Ralph wasn’t shot to death," I said flatly. "It looks like he just died of a heart attack. That’s why there wasn’t any blood."

Chapter 6

Silence for a second, then, "You’re kidding."

"No, apparently he had been shot at, but whoever shot at him missed him. He died of natural causes. Just collapsed on the goddamn sidewalk."

Tom hadn’t been happy that I’d taken my gun out for a ride last night. And he really wasn’t happy that I wouldn’t tell him any more than that. My mother just kept saying that I had a carry permit, and I was allowed to keep the gun in the car. There was still no proof my gun had expelled those bullets, so she told Tom and Ronald Berger that if they wanted to keep me there any longer, they’d need an arrest warrant.

I couldn’t fault Tom for pushing the issue. He and I might no longer be dating, but we had a bond—one that Vinny was all too aware of even if he really didn’t have anything to worry about.

So Tom let me go.

I didn’t know how long that ballistics test would take, and he wasn’t forthcoming with any time frame.

As I replayed the high points of the night to Vinny, my body suddenly felt like I’d taken three Valium, wake me up in the morning.

"I have to get home," I said. "Will I see you later?"

"Definitely," he said. "Glad it worked out okay."

I said good-bye and managed to get to my brownstone on Wooster Square before my eyes started drooping. The red light on my answering machine was winking at me again. I reached out to play the message, then pulled my hand back. I didn’t want to do this now, so I ignored it.

The air-conditioning unit in the living room would normally have cooled off the entire small apartment if it were working properly. It was hotter than a fucking furnace, maybe even more so than outside. I stripped off the T-shirt, the capris, and my bra, leaving on only my underpants, and collapsed on top of the bedcovers, wishing for the first time I had an icy water bed. Despite the heat, I drifted off.

When I woke up, the clock read ten a.m. Four hours of sleep. Time to get up. It was Friday, after all, and a workday. I didn’t think it would look too good if I called Marty Thompson, the city editor, and said I couldn’t come in because I was exhausted from my nightlong interrogation by the police. Especially since now there had been no murder after all.

I didn’t bother with a robe as I padded into the kitchen and put on a pot of water to boil. As I reached for the freezer door to get the coffee, I saw the note taped there.

 
I reached into the freezer, welcoming the cold blast against my face and neck, my nipples standing at attention, and pondered the note. This was the first time he’d signed with "Love." For some reason, we never used the word.

We’d been dating almost three months. There were the four months before that when we didn’t see each other at all because I was an idiot, and there were three weeks before that when we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. And then there were all those years since high school that I didn’t even know he was alive until we stumbled across a dead Yalie about the same time and I realized even geeks can turn out pretty sexy.

Vinny had his own private-investigation business these days, after a few years as a marine scientist studying whales. He claimed that being a private eye was like doing his research, only it was on dry land watching people instead. That said, he still liked to be out there on the water; however, our kayaking expedition a month ago proved that it wasn’t going to be one of the top ten things we’d do as a couple—a rather harrowing experience in April seemed to do some damage to my previous water-loving psyche.

I pulled my eyes away from the word and focused on the others he’d written. "Checking on some things" could be code for "I’m checking on what happened last night with Ralph," or worse yet, it could mean he was checking with my mother. Vinny did occasional investigative work for her law firm, and they could be talking about me right this very minute.

I pulled the kettle off the stove, measured four table-spoons of coffee into my French press, and poured the boiling water on it, absently noting the time so I could press in four minutes.

I had enough time to go down and get the paper. I threw on my light cotton Japanese
yukata
and wrapped it around myself, tying it tight.

Just my luck, I ran into my upstairs neighbor, Walter, as he was heading out.

"You know, your boyfriend should pay rent here, he’s here so much," Walter said grumpily. Walter was always grumpy. At least with me.

I shrugged, not wanting to get into it. But then I got a little worried. If Walter felt compelled to tell the landlord about Vinny, maybe he would have an issue with it. And since Vinny and I couldn’t even say the word "love" to each other, cohabiting was definitely not an option.

"You really shouldn’t let him come in when you’re not home."

Walter was still talking to me, even though I had picked up the paper and had my hand on the doorknob. His words made me turn back.

"What?"

"Yesterday. Morning. Said he’d forgotten something. He is a friendly guy, I’ll give you that, but it’s probably better if he’s only here when you are." And with that, Walter made his way down the steps. I watched him, his arms bowing out around his big torso—sort of like that kid in the
Christmas Story
movie who couldn’t put his arms down flat—before I stuck the newspaper under my arm and headed back upstairs to my coffee.

Damn. Six minutes instead of four. I pushed the press down and poured myself a cup, opened up the paper, and looked at the front page.

Ralph was above the fold but under a banner story about electric rates going up. I scanned the story; Dick Whitfield had done the best he could with the scant information Tom had given him.

 
It had been early this morning , after deadline, when Tom told me Ralph hadn’t actually been shot, so no surprise it wasn’t in the story.