Shot Girl

by Karen E. Olson

  "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.

  "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.

  Wanting to ask him about that put me in a compromising position. I would have to be nice to Dick Whitfield, something that was not natural for me. Especially since he was going out to cover my story.

  Jane Ferraro poked her head in the office and motioned that she needed to speak to Marty. As they huddled together just outside the door, I moved around them and followed Dick’s path, catching up with him just as he was about to step outside. I tugged on his sleeve.

  "A quick minute, Dick?" I asked.

  His eyes were wide, and his expression told me he had no clue how to react. Was I going to yell at him for something, swear at him, order him to let me cover this accident? For a second, I let him wonder as I studied his appearance. He’d begun to abandon his penchant for green clothing, and more browns and blues had joined his color palette. Must be the influence of his girlfriend, TV reporter Cindy Purcell, who was in the newsroom at that very minute, fluffing up her blond locks as she prepared to report for the five o’clock news from Hartford’s Channel 9 Shoreline Bureau, aka the New Haven Herald.

  Dick’s eyes were starting to glaze. Might as well get it over with.

  "Over at the courthouse, have you heard anything about a grand jury investigation concerning Ralph Seymour, the guy who died at Rouge Lounge last night?" I asked.

  The question caught him by surprise, and he nodded involuntarily. "I was going to ask you about that later. I didn’t say anything to Marty yet. Especially since this guy was your husband."

  I frowned. "Ex-husband. So you did hear something? Who told you?"

  Dick’s pointy ears twitched. I stared unabashedly. I didn’t think they could do that.

  "I heard it from someone over at the courthouse, a source," he said.

  Oh, yeah, Dick had sources. It was hard to believe at first, but I grudgingly had to admit he was getting better at his job. At least he didn’t make shit up, like Ralph had. Well, not that I knew of, anyway.

  "So what did this source tell you?"

  Dick bit his lip, a flush crawling up his face. "He said I should ask you why your mother was representing your ex-husband."

  Chapter 12

  My mother? Vinny had lied to me. Well, not exactly. He just hadn’t answered when I asked about it.

  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he knew something—he did know Felicia’s name without me even saying it—and he probably was working for my mother on it. What his exact role was, well, now, that was what I needed to find out.

  I sent Dick off to his accident with a wave of my hand, muttering how he’d miss it if he didn’t get there right away. He didn’t seem to notice I hadn’t said anything before he scurried away. But I did catch something in his eye, something that indicated he might just ask me about this again.

  Which meant I was going to have to find out about it before he did. And before Marty did.

  The clock across the room told me I was meeting Vinny in less than an hour. I sighed, going back to my desk and dropping into my chair, my head in my hands. I’d hoped for a little romance tonight—and some much-needed sleep. If I confronted Vinny with this, we could be up all night, and not in a good way.

  I had an insane thought for a nanosecond: Maybe I should call my mother or go over and see her and ask her about this. I could have time before I was supposed to meet Vinny.

  No, that wouldn’t work. This was a conversation with my mother that would require much more than twenty minutes; she and our publisher, Bill Bennett, were probably sipping margaritas on the back porch of my childhood home, and I really didn’t need to see him right now, either.

  So Vinny it would be. I was not looking forward to this.

  Throwing my notebook in my bag, I sauntered over to Marty’s desk. "I’m heading home. Do I have an assignment for tomorrow?" The weekend shifts sucked; there were only two reporters scheduled each day, and if news didn’t happen, we got stuck covering art shows or, God forbid, community gardens.

  Marty studied my face a second. "I thought you’d finish up that Shaw story tomorrow, so I didn’t assign you to anything."

  He should’ve known better. I could’ve written that story with my eyes closed. Practically did.

  ". . . and since you can’t cover your beat—," he was saying.

  "Wait a minute. You mean, even if there’s a shooting or a murder or a fire or something tomorrow, I can’t cover it?"

  He shook his head. "No. Simmons made that pretty clear." He shuffled some papers on his desk and pulled one out from under the chaos. When his eyes met mine, they were apologetic. "There’s a quilting bee in Bra
n-ford at the senior center at one p.m." His voice had gotten so quiet, I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly.

  "A quilting bee?"

  He nodded, held out the assignment sheet. I stared at it and opened my mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop me. "This’ll all blow over soon, Annie."

  I grabbed the paper. "I thought since Ralph died of a heart attack, this would be over now."

  "But until this thing with your gun is settled . . ." His voice trailed off.

  I sighed, but didn’t reply, just turned on my heel and walked out of the newsroom.

  Vinny was sitting on my stoop.

  "Why didn’t you go up?" I asked after he kissed me lightly on the cheek.

  He pointed up, toward Walter’s apartment windows. "I don’t think he likes me here when you’re not here."

  "He told me that this morning," I said. We went through the front door and were halfway up the stairs when I asked casually, "Why were you here yesterday morning after I left for work?"

  Without missing a beat, he replied, "Forgot my watch." He held up his wrist to show off the simple Timex. He had a fancier watch, a waterproof thing that he wore kayaking, but this one was his day-to-day. He wouldn’t get a ticket from the fashion police, but he might get a warning for it.

  The air conditioner in my apartment apparently was still on strike. Vinny opened windows while I rummaged in my hall closet for the big, sturdy fan I inherited from my mother when she had central air installed. I positioned it carefully in the living room and turned it on, but it merely blasted hot air back at us.

  "I hate this time of year. Sometimes it’s cold, sometimes it’s hot," I said, reaching into my fridge for two Heinekens. I handed one to Vinny, then noticed something. "Hey, where’s the pie?"

  I was starving; he was empty-handed. Well, except for the beer.

  Vinny shrugged. "Thought maybe we’d go out."

  I took a long drink from my bottle, then said, "Why? I barely got any sleep last night and I’m wiped out. I really just want to go to bed." I also wanted to pick his brain about Ralph, but he was looking damn good at the moment: his T-shirt showing off his swimmer’s arms, his "nice" jeans—but wait, something wasn’t right. He was wearing sneakers. With socks. He did want to go out. Otherwise he’d be wearing flip-flops. And shorts.