Shot Girl (6 page)

How the hell was I going to keep this from leaking? I was going to have to talk to Marty. I had to tell him before someone else did. My biggest saving grace was that Ralph had died of a heart attack, so we could just run a few graphs updating the story and that should be the end of it.

Unfortunately, Dick was going to stay on the story; I knew Marty wouldn’t let me get within a mile of this one.

The phone rang just as I got out of the shower. I hesitated, not sure if I should answer it, but finally decided it might be Vinny, so I picked up the handset.

"You okay today, Annie?" It was Tom. I took a deep breath, relieved to hear a familiar voice, even if it wasn’t Vinny’s.

"Yeah."

"I’m sorry about last night, but you know why I had to take you in."

"I know."

"Why didn’t you just tell me right away that you had your gun in the car? When you asked me to get your flip-flops." Now that my mother wasn’t hovering over me, he was going to do his best to get something out of me. I had to give him an A for effort.

When I didn’t respond, he continued. "And when we were at your apartment, you let me look in the drawer for it. You still didn’t say anything. Should I be worried about what those ballistics tests will turn up?"

He didn’t mention my clothes, the ones I’d last seen in that plastic garbage bag. Probably hadn’t gotten to them yet.

I weighed my options about what I would say. "Until I knew Ralph had died of a heart attack, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea. I mean, he was my ex-husband, and we did not have the most amicable divorce."

"You never said much about him," Tom said thoughtfully.

"What was there to say?" I asked, trying to keep my tone light. "We were young, we were stupid. It was the best thing to split up."

"That’s all you’ve ever said."

I had to change the subject. "Do you think Ralph’s heart attack was prompted by him being shot at?"

Tom chuckled. "No, Annie, I don’t think that. Let’s just say that Ralph has heard the sound of gunshots before, and I don’t think it would’ve killed him."

I could hear something in his tone; now
he
wasn’t telling
me
everything. "What was up with Ralph? What do you know about him? I know he was arrested once but got off with community service. Too many pot plants."

"Well, he’s stayed out of prison," Tom offered, but it wasn’t enough.

"That’s no answer. What’s he been up to?"

"No good."

Everyone’s a smart-ass.

"Not a surprise." I thought about what Jack Hammer had said that morning. "What about his girlfriend, Felicia?"

"Do you know her?" I could hear surprise in his voice.

"Not directly." Not at all, but I wasn’t going to admit that.

"Well, if you happen to come across her, I’d love to talk to her."

"Why?" My curiosity was more than piqued.

"Let’s just say unfinished business."

"What sort of unfinished business?"

"As long as you didn’t shoot at him, you have nothing to worry about."

"But someone does, right?" Something was definitely up.

Before I could press it further, Tom said, "So tell me why you felt it necessary to bring your gun out to a bar last night." He was a goddamn broken record. "When was the last time you even went to the shooting range?"

I could still feel the weight of the gun in my hands, the pressure of the earmuffs as I leaned to the left slightly to avoid getting hit in the head with a shell casing. It had been a long time, way overdue—even I knew that. But I wasn’t beholden to Tom in any way, and my mother had said to say nothing more.

So I turned back to the only thing that could keep me grounded: the possibility of a story. Because instinct told me there
was
a story, even if I wasn’t getting any answers at the moment.

"So, what’s up with Ralph? What’s he been into?" I asked again. "Why do you need to talk to his girlfriend? I heard she works at bars all over town." As I said it, I wondered about her line of work. Maybe she was a real "working girl." "What is it she does, anyway? Do you know?"

Silence. Then, "She’s a shot girl."

Chapter 7

I arrived at the newspaper half an hour later. My hair was still a little damp, but it didn’t matter. The humidity and heat these last couple of days had created a sort of bird’s nest out of it, and at least while it was wet, it looked normal.

I didn’t want to, but I’d finally checked my answering machine after I got dressed, and it turned out to be my friend Priscilla—who’d loaned me that dreadful outfit the night before. I wondered just how to tell her that Tom had confiscated her clothes. She’d heard about Ralph from Ned Winters, head of the journalism department at Southern Connecticut State University, an old classmate of ours who’d risen to the level of his incompetence. Ned had probably seen the story in the paper. I knew he kept up with both Priscilla and Ralph, but even though we were both in the same city, I hadn’t seen Ned since Ralph and I split. A thought crossed my mind: Ned must have known Ralph was back here.

I dropped my bag on my desk and booted up my computer. Renee’s chair was empty; the wedding was tomorrow and she was busy with bride shit. Again I wondered why I’d been invited to the bachelorette party but not the wedding. I’d had to buy a present—Priscilla had told me it would be bad form if I didn’t bring anything—and I spent as little as I could on some massage lotions I’d found at Bath & Body Works. I guess it was okay I wasn’t going to the wedding, because then I’d have to spend more money and I don’t like doing that for people I have only a peripheral relationship with.

Dick Whitfield was tapping away on his keyboard three desks away, alternately briefly glancing up at me and then deliberately looking back to his computer.

He must have heard.

Marty had, too, because he was beckoning me to follow him into Charlie Simmons’ office. Charlie had come on board as editor in chief only a few months ago, and I’d had some interaction with him then, but I’d tried to keep it to a minimum since. He wasn’t going to like this.

I didn’t even wait for anyone to ask me to sit. I plopped down in the chair in front of Charlie’s desk, stared him straight in the eye, and said, "Yes, I spent the night at the police station."

Charlie, who managed to keep his resemblance to an Elvis impersonator intact by poofing up his black hair in such a way that we almost expected to see him in sequins and blue suede shoes at some point, leaned forward, his elbows on his desk, his fingers knit tightly together.

"What is the connection between you and the dead man?" His voice was low, and I knew I had to tread gently with this one.

"Ex-husband." I looked over at Marty, who had taken off his glasses and was twirling them around nervously. "He died of a heart attack. He wasn’t shot. That’s why they let me go."

"Why did they find it necessary to bring you in, in the first place?" Charlie asked.

I sighed. "On the advice of my attorney, I can’t say." Okay, so my mother might have told Bill Bennett, Charlie’s boss, about what was going down last night, but then again, she might not have. I wasn’t going to spill the beans if I didn’t have to.

"You won’t tell us?" Charlie was incredulous; Marty still hadn’t said anything.

"All you have to know is that they let me go. I wasn’t charged with anything. Ralph was not murdered. There is no problem." I wasn’t sure about that last one, but hell, it sounded good.

Charlie didn’t think so. He puffed up his cheeks and blew a blast of air out at me. He’d had garlic the night before, no mistaking that. "Well, Annie, I’m going to have to do something you won’t like."

My entire body tensed as my stomach dropped.

"I think it might be best to give you a break from the police beat for a while. Dick Whitfield can cover for you. With Renee Chittenden off for three weeks, you can fill her beat until she returns. When she returns, we can reassess the situation."

Marty’s face was blank. I wanted him to stand up and say, "No, this wasn’t Annie’s fault. She doesn’t have to be punished." But he didn’t. He just sat there, picking at imaginary lint on his trouser leg, not even looking at me. Coward.

Renee covered the social services beat. That meant stories about the homeless and benefits for sick children and dealing with the local clergy. All things that require compassion. I wasn’t good at compassion. I opened my mouth to say so, but instead of my voice, I heard Marty say, "Annie will do whatever you want, Charlie."

Within seconds, Marty was pushing me out the door and back into the newsroom, through the sports department, and around the corner toward the cafeteria. He stopped in front of all the plaques declaring various people EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH. The way my life was going, I’d never see that. I told people it was a stupid award, but secretly I’d always wanted to be recognized for doing a kick-ass job. Unfortunately, my ass was usually the one that got kicked, and I was feeling the pain of that today.

"You will do Renee’s job," Marty said softly, shaking his head when I opened my mouth to speak. I shut my mouth and listened. I don’t do that much, but Marty rarely looked as concerned as he did right then. "I don’t know what’s going on, but if you want to keep your job here, you’d better do what Charlie says." He paused, looking around a second to make sure no one was coming, then added, "He wanted to suspend you."

Anger rose in my chest. I hadn’t been charged; this was ridiculous. If Charlie had suspended me, I would’ve had my mother find me a good labor lawyer and sued his ass. Maybe I should just quit.

But then what would I do? I wasn’t cut out for doing anything else. Being a journalist was all I knew. This was all I ever wanted to do. And with newspaper cut-backs and layoffs lately, where else would I find a job?

Marty knew what I was thinking—we’d known each other a long time—and he nodded. The anger subsided. He’d gone to bat for me, and I owed him big-time, so much so that I’d have to look deep into my soul and see if any compassion existed there. And if it didn’t, I’d have to pretend.

"Thanks, Marty."

"What the hell’s going on?"

"Tom found my gun in my car. There were .22 shell casings in the street near Ralph’s body. But Ralph wasn’t shot." I paused, thinking about what Tom had said on the phone. "Something was up with Ralph, though. Tom was evasive when I asked, said they’re looking for his girlfriend. Even though he died of natural causes, something was going on, and it’s not over yet."

That got his attention.

"But since I’m not covering cops right now, I can’t really get into it." I looked into Marty’s eyes. "Can I?"

Marty bit his lip; he was wondering if I could. Finally, "Lay off this weekend, but if you ask around, I don’t know about it, okay?"

I nodded. "Know about what?"

He smirked.

We started back toward the newsroom.

"So what should I work on?" I had no clue how to cover social services. The thought of Dick Whitfield finally getting my beat, even temporarily, was getting in the way of finding compassion. I bit back a snide remark.

"Reverend Shaw is working with high school students from the West Rock projects at the nature center there. They’ve planted a community garden. We need a story for Monday, and I know you’re on the weekend shift, so you can work on that today and tomorrow." Marty’s eyes conveyed his apologies. "You can do it," he said, and I felt like Rocky when Burgess Meredith was encouraging him to get back in the ring even though he was beat-up and bleeding.

"The good reverend is a fraud," I said quietly. No one knew if Shaw was really a minister; he had no church, appearing out of nowhere a year ago to "give to the community." With a flamboyant air, he crashed into our little city like he was getting Jesse Jackson’s speaking fees. He’d become a victims’ advocate, a gadfly with a loud voice throughout the city. He fought with the city for money for after-school programs for underprivileged kids and raised hell when it was suggested the cops wanted a lockdown at one of the city projects. No one knew how he made a living; he seemed to have a stream of unlimited cash, but no one questioned as long as he helped. I’d Googled him at one point, after the lockdown rumors, but nothing came up except stories from the
Herald
; it was like he’d never existed before he came to New Haven.

He nodded. "Yeah, I know. But it’s a story, and if you do it, you’ll redeem yourself."

We walked slowly back to the newsroom, trying to act casual but without any food or drink from the cafeteria, which would’ve raised red flags if anyone had been paying attention. Dick was still at his desk, Charlie still in his office. The other metro editors were doing whatever they did at this time of day, and no other reporters had come in yet. The business editor was hunched over his desk, the
Wall Street Journal
spread out in front of him, the features editor was on the phone, and the clerk was silently putting mail in everyone’s slots along the side wall.

Marty found the Reverend Shaw’s phone number in Renee’s Rolodex and brought it over to me. He was doing that only because he was feeling like shit.

"Thanks," I said to him again, wondering if I was going to have to keep apologizing forever.

I itched to call Vinny, just to hear a friendly voice, but dialed Shaw instead.

"Yes, how can I help you?" he asked when I identified myself. His voice was deep, smooth as chocolate. It was a voice that sounded trustworthy, but I wasn’t going to let myself get sucked in.

"I’m doing a story about the community garden," I said, my voice stiff. Hell, I can ask the medical examiner about cause of death, how deep those stab wounds were, but this was completely unnatural for me. For a brief second I wondered if I’d been a cop reporter too long.

Nah.

"I was hoping we could get together sometime today and talk about it." Nothing like perseverance and Charlie Simmons watching me from the doorway of his office.