Shot Girl (9 page)

If it had looked like this when I was here, maybe I’d be like Ned, too, and never want to leave.

I walked into Morrill Hall, and a dozen emotions embraced me as the air-conditioning hit me in the face and I sighed with relief. I hadn’t realized how comfortable I’d gotten with the heat; it was sort of like wearing a heavy coat I didn’t need but had gotten used to, so I kept it on.

I pushed the button on the old elevator, and as the doors opened, Ned Winters and I both did a double take; he stepped out and pulled me into a bear hug before I could say anything.

"Oh, Annie," he said, his breath causing goose bumps to rise on my neck. "I saw you from my window, so I came down to meet you. It’s just so awful about Ralph, isn’t it? I was worried something like this might happen someday."

Worried what might happen? That Ralph would get shot? That’s what was in the paper; that’s what everyone thought. Why would Ned think this was how Ralph would end up?

I gently released myself from his arms and took in his tanned face, hazel eyes, which were blue in one light and green in another, and blond hair that was spiked up in an effort to cover an ever-increasing receding hairline. He’d put on more than a few pounds, and it threw me for a minute. He’d always been pretty vain about his looks and to see that he’d gained so much weight was a shock. He was nattily dressed in blue slacks and a button-down shirt, his feet clad in brown loafers. Very college professorlike.

Sometimes it was hard to remember we were grown-ups now. Even though those double digits kept getting higher, most of the time I still felt like I had in my twenties. Of course that could have a lot to do with the fact that I was still living my life as I had when I was in my twenties: single and working at the
Herald
.

The gap of differences between my life and Ned Winters’ had diminished considerably in just a few seconds of introspection. I felt like Dr. Phil had come around the corner and shouted, "How’s that workin’ out for ya?" I didn’t have an answer for him.

Time to get off the fucking pity pot.

"Well, I know a little more about what happened to Ralph," I started, but Ned took my arm and led me outside, back into the natural furnace.

"Let’s go to the student center and get something to drink," he suggested.

We didn’t say anything, following the sidewalk. I marveled at the work being done on the library, and as we approached the Michael J. Adanti Student Center, I was struck by how much it had changed here, how time and construction had physically erased what I remembered.

"It was such a tragedy when Adanti died," Ned said as he held the door open for me.

Michael Adanti had been president of the school, on vacation in Italy, when he died in a freak car accident just a couple of years ago. I nodded. I’d skimmed the stories but not much more than that. Our higher-education reporter had covered it.

As Ned pushed open the door to the student center, I could see in his face how comfortable he was here, like he was just going from the living room to the kitchen in his own house. Southern really
was
Ned’s life. It had been his life since we’d all gone to school here, and I wondered what that must be like, to perpetually be in college.

It wasn’t the air-conditioning that made me shudder now.

Two iced teas later and seated near windows overlooking the bridge I’d just passed on the road, Ned leaned back and studied my face.

"You look good," he said, like he was surprised.

"You put some weight on," I said flatly.

He chuckled, patted his stomach. "Yeah."

"Married yet?"

"No way."

"Too many coeds to play with?" I asked, but it wasn’t a joke and he knew it. A year or so ago there had been some allegations, a pregnant student claiming he was the father. Priscilla told me about it. I tried like hell to get something in the paper—it would serve Ned right—but the threatened lawsuit never materialized and Priscilla said a DNA test had proved the girl’s claims false. But knowing Ned, well, I wouldn’t be surprised if he
had
been screwing around with the girl.

The scowl turned his face ugly, and more memories rushed back. I pushed them out of the way.

"Priscilla called me," I said, ready to change the subject.

Ned nodded, and the scowl disappeared. "I talked to her, too." He paused. "You said you knew something. Something about Ralph?"

I watched the drops of sweat slip down the sides of my iced-tea glass. I certainly wasn’t going to tell him where I’d spent the night. But I had to tell him the truth. "He wasn’t shot. He had a heart attack."

Ned let that sit for a minute as he took a sip of his drink. "Was it hard for you to see him like that, though? I mean, I know you haven’t seen him in a long time, but it must have been tough."

"How do you know I saw him?" I asked, keeping my voice measured.

Ned frowned. "Priscilla said you were at the bar last night. Didn’t you write the story?"

Dick’s byline was on the story. I shook my head. "No, I didn’t," I said, watching his face but seeing no emotion at all.

"Oh, I just assumed . . ." His voice trailed off as he took a drink of his iced tea.

"Did you know he was in town?" I asked.

He nodded. "He’s been back for a while, looking for work. I had him speak to one of my classes this spring."

The incredulity spread through me like a goddamn wildfire. "You let him do that?"

Ned snorted. "Jesus, Annie, he was a helluva reporter once upon a time. He knew his stuff—he was going places."

"And then he fucked it up."

Ned leaned across the table, his eyes boring into mine. "He fucked
you
up."

He was trying to provoke me.

"No, I have a career. He ended up on a goddamn sidewalk on ladies’ night."

He sat back again. "You can’t ignore the fact that you never got married again, that your job is your life. You never left New Haven after that."

How much had Priscilla told him? I was going to have to talk to her.

"Did you know Ralph was seeing one of the journalism students here? Felicia Kowalski," I said, not wanting to let him get to me.

Ned nodded. "They met that day he talked to my class. She’s one of my students." He paused. "She’s an intern at the
Herald
this summer."

"Yeah, I know. And she didn’t show up this morning for a chamber meeting she was supposed to cover. Do you know how to reach her?"

Ned shrugged. "She’s a kid. Who the hell knows? Maybe she’s too torn up about Ralph. They got pretty close pretty fast." His tone made me wonder if he wasn’t pissed about that. A coed that he couldn’t bed but Ralph could.

I wasn’t getting what I needed here, and there were too many ghosts. Being with Ned was like being with Ralph, in a way, and I’d had enough of that. Before I could bid adieu and get on my merry way, however, Ned had one more thing to say.

"I’m surprised you haven’t asked about the grand jury investigation."

Chapter 11

Grand jury investigation?

The question must have been written all over my face, because Ned started nodding. "I think Ralph told Priscilla. She didn’t tell you?"

I hated not knowing things, and I hated it that he was teasing me, leading me on. "Jesus, Ned, what the hell are you talking about?"

"Ralph got into something serious. I don’t know the details. He was pretty vague, and Priscilla said he didn’t tell her much, either. Something about a grand jury investigation, possible indictment. He was trying to cut a deal. That’s all I know."

I snorted. "My God. Did you know about this when you had him speak to your class? Did you tell your students what he did?"

Ned shook his head sadly. "Get over it, Annie. What happened is ancient history. It killed him to have to give up his dream."

"He made it all up, Ned. He made up those stories. He wasn’t a reporter; he was a goddamn sham. If he’d just played it out, done his job the way he was supposed to, he would’ve gotten to the
New York Times
on his talent, like he should’ve. He just couldn’t wait around; he couldn’t be patient." The anger rose like a bubble in my chest. I was barely whispering and my voice was shaking.

"He didn’t betray you, Annie. He betrayed himself."

I stood up, pushing my chair back. "He betrayed all of us," I said as I rushed outside, headlong into the wall of heat that couldn’t keep the tears from streaming down my cheeks.

As I sat in my Civic, I wondered how much of this was exhaustion and how much of it was just shit I hadn’t dealt with and now it was coming out. I didn’t even try to start the car, which was like a sweatbox, but I barely noticed.

Ralph was dead. It was over. But what about this grand jury? And why hadn’t Priscilla told me about it? The questions swirled around me until I realized I needed to turn the car on and get some air-conditioning or I’d pass out.

My cell phone rang just as I turned the key.

I dug the phone out of my bag and saw Vinny’s number. "Hey," I said as I flipped the cover.

"Where are you?"

"Southern. Revisiting my past." I tried to keep the contempt out of my voice, but I wasn’t too successful.

Vinny’s silence reminded me that he knew very little about my time at Southern and my history with Ralph. I needed to elaborate. "I know the head of the journalism department. I came by to see him about Ralph—we were all friends once." I paused. "Hey, how did you know about Felicia Kowalski?"

"Did you find her?"

"No. And you didn’t answer my question." But before he could, a goddamn lightbulb went off over my head. "Is it the grand jury investigation? Is she some sort of witness or something?"

"Jesus, Annie, how the hell did you hear about that?"

So I was right. And if I didn’t know about this, but Vinny did, it might mean only one thing. Which was not good. "Is my mother somehow involved in this? Are you working for her?"

"How late are you working? Can I still pick you up at seven?" Vinny asked, avoiding the question and giving me the answer at the same time.

"How is my mother involved, Vinny?"

"Seven’s okay, right? Your shift is over then, right?"

We could go around like a carousel all day.

"Are you okay, Annie?" he asked when I didn’t answer. His tone was soft, and I felt myself getting all emotional again.

"I’m fine," I said, but even I wasn’t convinced.

"You didn’t get much sleep. Can you get a nap in before I get over there?"

I looked at my watch. It was already three o’clock. "Maybe. Can you bring over some takeout from your parents’ pizza place?"

"Let’s play it by ear," he said after a second or two, and I wondered what was up.

We didn’t say good-bye, just both ended the call at the same time, and I turned the car back toward downtown and the newspaper building.

I wanted to write up this community-garden story. At least then I could get it done and over with so I wouldn’t be brooding about it all night and I might be able to actually cover something more interesting on my weekend shift tomorrow.

 
Marty was thrilled with my story about Shaw and the gardens. It was like I was going to get a fucking Pulitzer or something.

"Great job," he kept saying over and over as he pushed his glasses farther up his nose for the umpteenth time. "You’re a natural at this." He knew better than to ask me if I wanted to switch beats. It was probably the way I was glaring at him.

"You know, Marty, a good reporter can write about anything," I said, noticing Dick Whitfield was watching the entire exchange. "Did that intern ever show up?" I asked.

Marty cocked his head to one side and took off his glasses. "Why so much interest in her, Annie? Was she just a shot girl at the Rouge Lounge or is there more to it?"

"Someone told me she was involved with Ralph," I conceded. "Did she show up today?"

"No." He chewed on the end of his glasses. "Dick didn’t get much information out of the cops about what went down last night. We’re going to run a story updating that your ex died from a heart attack, but there were several witnesses who said they heard gunshots, too. Renee gave us the names of people who were there."

His face showed his disappointment that I hadn’t been as forthcoming.

"Shit, Marty, I spent the night at the police station. I wasn’t exactly thinking about witnesses and all that crap," I said. "And then you sent me off to see that charlatan and his hoodlum gardeners."

Marty stood up, an imposing figure at six feet four, and led me by the arm to Charlie Simmons’ vacant office. Charlie must’ve had an early Friday night date. When the door was shut behind us, he turned to me.

"Renee told me in confidence that you were seen talking to Ralph Seymour just before he was shot. And that you were seen outside just after he was shot."

I took a deep breath. "Yeah, I did talk to Ralph, and she knows it. We talked about it last night. I was outside because I heard the shots and wanted to find out what happened. There’s nothing mysterious about it." I hoped I was convincing enough so he’d leave it alone.

Marty studied my face for a few seconds, and I forced myself not to look away. Finally, he said, "One of her sisters saw you near your car after the shooting."

I knew what he was getting at now. "So you think I shot at Ralph, he keeled over, and then I put my gun back in my car afterward? The parking lot isn’t far from where Ralph collapsed."

Marty sighed. "I’m just telling you what’s out there."

He meant the gossip.

"Tom let me go," I said.

Despite the door being closed, we heard the scanner screech about an accident. On reflex, I put my hand to the doorknob, but Marty shook his head. "No, Annie, Dick’s got this."

Through the glass office window, I watched Dick pick a notebook up off his desk. He looked over at us and nodded as he made his way across the newsroom. Dick had been covering courts the last few months—the beat I’d held until I became the crime reporter—and it was possible he’d heard something about this grand jury investigation.