The men were carrying black duffel bags, not unlike the one I’d seen Jack Hammer carrying just yesterday at West Rock. I glanced behind me, but he had vanished like the ghost he was.
"What the hell are you two doing here?"
Dick and I turned to see Tom coming toward us, his eyebrows knit with anger.
"Can’t keep shit quiet in this city," I said. "Figured we’d see what was up." I cocked my head at the house. "Who lived next door to Ralph?"
Tom looked at Dick for a long second before turning his eyes on me. He stared at me for what seemed like minutes before saying, "I’m not at liberty to say."
"Shit, Tom, it has to be connected to Ralph. I mean, hell, he lived here, too. So who lived there?"
"Even if you don’t tell us, we can find out anyway," Dick said without realizing how stupid it was to threaten that.
"Then go ahead," Tom said, confirming my suspicions that he’d call Dick’s bluff. He turned to me. "Someone broke into Ralph’s apartment." He said it like he knew it was me. But he couldn’t prove it.
"How do you know that?" My voice actually sounded normal. Like I really was here covering this.
"We put up a seal, and it was broken." Half his face was hidden in the shadow, the other half illuminated by the streetlamp. I couldn’t completely see his expression.
"Why would someone break in?" I asked, trying to act nonchalant.
"I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me?" Tom said.
"How the hell am I supposed to know?"
We glared at each other for a few seconds. Dick, to his credit, didn’t say anything until, "Can you give us anything about what’s being confiscated from the apartment?"
Tom shook his head. "This is the feds’ game here," he said. "You can ask them, but I bet they won’t say anything."
"If it’s the feds’ game, why are you here?" I asked.
He didn’t like that, narrowing his eyes at me, studying my face until I was happy it was dark because then he couldn’t see me flush.
I was still holding the flashlight behind me, and I shifted a little. I had left my bag in the car on the floor of the passenger side, but my keys were in my pocket. I didn’t have a notebook out, like Dick. Tom noticed, but instead of saying something about it, he just tossed a "Stay back until we’re through" before walking away.
Dick looked at me, his eyebrows all furrowed together like a fuzzy caterpillar. "You shouldn’t be here," he said, as if he’d finally figured that out. He was so slow on the uptake.
"Don’t worry, I won’t write about it," I said. "You’ve got the whole thing." I made it sound like I was handing him everything on a fucking platter, like he was completely competent.
Sad thing was he believed me and grinned. "So you’re just here to check it out?"
"Don’t tell anyone, okay?" I asked conspiratorially.
"Mum’s the word," he whispered.
It was way too easy. But no one ever confused Dick with the sharpest knife in the drawer.
My car was parked just behind the first cruiser. I said good-bye to Dick and pulled my keys out of my pocket, shifting the flashlight and tossing it in when I opened the door. It rolled under the seat just in time.
"What was that?"
Tom was behind me. I didn’t turn around, just twisted my neck so I could look at him. "What was what?"
"What did you put in your car?"
I pointed at my bag on the floor in the front. "My bag."
"Someone saw a light in the house. Like a flashlight. When we got the call, I recognized the address and decided to check it out." He was trying to trip me up.
I forced myself not to move, to keep my expression neutral.
"Why are you really here?" His breath was hot; I could feel the whisper of his day-old growth of beard just underneath my ear.
I shivered.
"Cold?" he asked softly, moving closer, his fingers circling my wrist so I couldn’t move.
"No."
"How did you get in?"
"In where?"
"In the house."
My eyes moved up toward Ralph’s place of residence. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Will I find your fingerprints inside this time?"
"No." I wasn’t lying. I’d been careful.
"If anyone finds out you were in there, I won’t be able to help you."
I was trying to figure out a response when another car pulled up just behind mine. It was a long, sleek Jaguar, one of those cars I always thought about, but even if I could afford one, I knew I couldn’t ever take it to a crime scene.
Apparently, the Reverend Shaw wasn’t as practical as I was.
Chapter 24
Shaw stepped out of the car, pressing a button on his key fob, and all the doors locked. Like that would keep anyone out in this neighborhood.
"Thank you for calling me, Detective," Shaw said, his hand outstretched and taking Tom’s. He saw me and smiled. "And the lovely Ms. Seymour."
Tom’s eyebrows shot up into his forehead, but he shook Shaw’s hand firmly and didn’t say anything.
"I’ll give you any information you might need about my tenant," Shaw said.
"Your tenant?" I butted in. Tom gave me a look, but he should know by now that I don’t stand on ceremony at crime scenes.
He couldn’t stop Shaw from saying, "I own this property."
He did? I began to wonder about land records. I was a bit rusty with hunting them down, but back in the day, when I was covering towns, one of the things I had to do on a daily basis was check land records at town hall to see who was buying what and if anything was worth writing about. When a reporter is covering a town of only about ten thousand people, she’ll go anywhere for a story, and land records proved to be a gold mine when it came to learning about new developments and shit like that.
If Shaw owned this house, what else did he own? A quick visit to city hall might tell me. Or maybe just a call to Kevin Prisley, who covered the mayor’s office and spent time in the city clerk’s office, too.
Tom was leading Shaw away from me, toward Jeff Parker. I knew better than to follow them. Shaw had forgotten me as he was introduced. More hand shaking was going on. I watched for a few seconds, then looked back at my car. Shaw’s Jag was close, but I thought I could get out. I was the goddamn Queen of Parallel Parking. I climbed into my Civic and maneuvered the wheel so I just squeaked by the cop car in front of me and without even getting close to Shaw’s Jag.
My head was a jumble of thoughts as I made my way back down Fitch to Whalley Avenue toward downtown. The conversation with my mother intruded somewhere between Jack Hammer and the black duffel bags carried out of the apartment.
Shaw had asked Ira Hoffman to represent Ralph in the grand jury investigation. Shaw owed Ralph one, my mother had said. What did he owe him?
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. Ralph was living in Shaw’s house. That still seemed more like Ralph owed Shaw.
When I reached the end of Whalley where it merged into Elm Street in the midst of the old Gothic buildings that are Yale University, I realized I might have dodged a bullet tonight. I didn’t trust Jack Hammer, but if he was the danger he’d warned me about, he hadn’t acted on it when he could’ve. Granted, there were cops everywhere, and all I’d had to do was scream. Now going home alone scared me more than being at Ralph’s.
That was fucked-up.
I thought about going to Vinny’s. Even if he wasn’t home yet, I had a key; he probably wouldn’t mind if I let myself in, and then I wouldn’t have to deal with any middle-of-the-night creepy calls.
Without stopping in front of my brownstone, I turned left around Wooster Square and pulled up across from Vinny’s building, which was similar to my brownstone. It had more perks, however: Besides the central air, there were two washing machines and a dryer in the basement.
Before I got out of my car, I glanced in the rearview mirror but didn’t see any headlights anywhere around the square. The clock on my da
sh told me it was ten thirty—had I been over at Ralph’s that long? It seemed like only minutes—and the lights in Vinny’s third-floor apartment were off, so he still wasn’t home.
I sat in the car for a few more seconds with all the doors locked. I had no clue whether anyone was still following me. The only person who kept showing up unexpectedly was Jack Hammer. It seemed my presence at the house tonight surprised him, too, and he’d expected the police to show up. His warning to be careful made its way through my head. He knew more than he was saying.
My heart began to pound in an unfortunately familiar way as I opened the car door. On impulse, I grabbed the flashlight. It could do some damage if I had to hit someone with it.
A shadow crossed the street as I made my way to Vinny’s building. My heart sped up even faster, my feet skipping more quickly, but then I realized a cloud had just passed over the bright moon for a second.
I took the steps two at a time and slid the key into the lock at the front door, opening it and making sure it was shut securely after I got in. As I climbed the stairs to Vinny’s apartment, relieved I was locked inside, exhaustion spread throughout my body. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the last couple of days, and I was ready to pass out.
When I opened the door to Vinny’s apartment, I was hit with a familiar scent. My mother used to take me to swimming lessons at the YWCA on Howe Street when I was a kid.
Vinny’s apartment smelled like a pool.
It was all the cleaning products. Vinny was neat, really neat. No dust bunnies at his house, unlike mine, where I had started to feed them and give them names until I realized how quickly they would multiply. But it still didn’t get me to pull out the vacuum more than every few weeks.
Vinny’s place, though, well, you could eat off the floor. The kitchen gleamed. No crumbs on his counters. The bathroom was spotless, not even a drop of toothpaste or one small hair in the sink.
When I’d first met him, I wondered if he was gay. But the kisses quickly assured me otherwise. He was just neat.
I unlaced my sneakers and walked barefoot through the dark living room, knowing I wouldn’t run into a pile of newspapers like I would at my place. I also knew that every book was alphabetized by author on the shelf, and even the tops of the picture frames on the walls would be free of dust.
Vinny’s king-sized bed beckoned, but I went into the bathroom first after dropping my bag on his couch. My toothbrush was in its slot next to his. He’d made a big show of buying me one to keep here, even though I lived just a block away. I was so nervous it would get all clotted with toothpaste and look out of place that every time I brushed my teeth, I spent ten minutes cleaning it afterward.
The idea of cohabitation scared the crap out of me. I could visit this life every now and then, but I didn’t think I could live with it every day. It was another reason why the "love" that had popped up so suddenly was giving me angina.
I pulled my T-shirt over my head and slipped off the capris, carefully folding them and placing them on Vinny’s dresser. I unhooked my bra and stuck it between the shirt and capris. A glance in the mirror reminded me that maybe I needed to start working out now that I was almost forty. But the idea of sweating on purpose was about as alluring as cleaning my apartment, so I quickly dismissed it.
While I liked being naked in Vinny’s apartment when he was here, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable about it when he wasn’t. This was the first time I’d let myself in without him already being here, and now I wondered if I shouldn’t call him to warn him he’d find me in his bed.
I took one of his T-shirts out of a dresser drawer and slid it over my head. My bag was still in the living room, and even though I could use his phone, I would call him on my cell before turning it off.
I still hadn’t turned on any lights, made a detour for the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and started toward the couch.
The phone rang.
I froze.
As the sound echoed through the room, I told myself I was being ridiculous. This was Vinny’s apartment; whoever was calling was calling him. I debated a second about answering. If it was his mother, she certainly wouldn’t be happy if I picked up the phone. She and I were not on the best of terms. On the other hand, if it was his brother, Rocco, I’d have someone to talk to for a few minutes while my heart started beating again.
I heard a click. Too late. The machine picked up.
"Talk to me." We may have been at opposite poles regarding cleanliness, but we had the same taste in answering-machine messages.
A second passed, then, "Vinny?"
It was a woman. A woman with a breathy voice. A woman with a goddamn sexy breathy voice. It wasn’t Rosie, his ex-fiancée. I unfortunately knew her voice too well. No, this was a stranger. And despite my noncommittal feelings, jealousy intruded, even though I tried to tell myself it could be a client. Vinny dealt with a lot of divorce cases when he wasn’t tracking someone down for my mother’s law firm.
"I just missed you. I’ll try you on your cell."
The machine clicked off. I grabbed a pen out of my bag, writing down the number listed on Vinny’s caller ID.
And immediately felt guilty. But I pushed aside the guilt and went to Vinny’s desk, where his laptop sat. I had a cheap Dell laptop; this one was a fancy Apple PowerBook. I turned on the small desk lamp, brushing the room with a soft yellow. The chair was cold from the central air, and I shifted a little so the T-shirt was farther under my butt.
I opened the laptop and found the power button. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but Vinny had access to an account where he could find out the name of someone living at a particular address using a reverse directory. I’d asked him to help me a couple of times when the cops wouldn’t oblige. This time, though, I was on my own.
I had to hook up to the Internet. Vinny had given me a short tutorial at one point, hoping I’d abandon my PC, so I found the little triangular thing up at the top left, clicked on it, and clicked again and there I was—the wireless AirPort was ready to go.
I found Firefox in the little bar across the bottom of the screen and clicked on it. Damn Mac, no right click, just one click. Vinny swore by the thing, but the price was still prohibitive for me.
Fortunately, his sidebar listed all his bookmarked places and I found the reverse directory site easily and clicked again.
I typed in the address of Ralph’s house and hit Send.
Immediately, the screen popped up with the information. Damn, but it was fast. I would have to think about getting DSL or cable Internet. My dial-up really was a pain in the ass, and I couldn’t download shit or watch videos or anything and I had to be tethered to the phone line.
The house listed the owner: Reginald Shaw. Okay, so that wasn’t a surprise. But it didn’t give me who lived there.
I hit the back arrow and found myself at the start of a new search. I typed in the phone number of the woman who’d just called. I told myself it was in my own best interest to do this.
It didn’t come up as residential or business, so I hit "cell phone" and hit pay dirt.
Ashley Ellis. The shot girl at Bar. The one whom Michael Jackson had shot at earlier today on the Green.
Chapter 25
My first thought was not what you’d expect, which should’ve been why Ashley Ellis and Vinny were playing phone tag. That was my second thought. My first thought was that I could call Ashley, get a few quotes from today’s shooting, and still make deadline for the final edition. I shut down the computer and closed the cover before rummaging in my bag. I pulled out my cell, a notebook, and a pen. I punched in Ashley’s number.
"Hello?" The voice wasn’t as breathy this time; she obviously didn’t recognize my number on her screen and probably thought I was a wrong number.
"Ashley Ellis?"
"Yes?"
"This is Annie Seymour, with the Herald. I saw you this afternoon, after the shooting. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me."
The silence was
long enough for me to wonder if she’d disconnected the call. My pen was poised above the notebook, waiting.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Yes, I’m here." She paused again. "What do you want to know?"
"Michael Jackson, the guy who shot at you, what is the nature of your relationship with him?"
"What do you think?" she asked sarcastically.
Fair enough. "What were you arguing about when he pulled the gun?"
"Is this going in the paper? I don’t want anything in the paper," she said.
I wished now I’d paid more attention to her last night when I saw her at Bar with Vinny. "Where do you go to school?" I asked.
The change of subject threw her, but she sounded relieved when she said, "Southern."
"What year?"
"Senior."
"What’s your major?"
"Education." She seemed more comfortable now.
"How long have you and Michael been dating?"
"We’re not dating or anything. He’s still in high school." She spit out the last two words like they were poison.
"Why did he feel it necessary to shoot at you?" "He, well, wanted, well . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I really don’t want anything in the paper."
"Witnesses said you told him to fuck off." She hadn’t hung up yet, so I figured I could keep firing questions at her.
"He was annoying me."
And if she was stupid enough to keep answering, I wasn’t going to stop. "That’s pretty strong language for mere annoyance."
"Okay, listen, but you can’t put this in the paper. Okay?"
I figured I could eke something out of this conversation on the record, anyway. "Sure. What happened, Ashley?"
Silence for a second, then, "We met a couple months ago at Bar when I was working. He looked older—he didn’t tell me how old he was. We went out a few times. But he thought it was serious. I didn’t." Her voice was flat, her words sounding scripted. It was probably the same speech she gave the cops this afternoon.
"So that’s why he shot at you?" I tried. "Because you didn’t want to get serious?"
"Yeah."
"Someone told me that you screwed him over on some deal." It was a little bit of a stretch, but I wanted to see where it went.
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