Shot Girl

by Karen E. Olson

  "Yeah?"

  "Detective Behr asked that we detain you until he can get here."

  Tom? Detain me? I looked behind the cops and saw him jogging toward us, his face scrunched up like he’d sucked on a lemon. When he reached us, his back was wet with sweat, and he wiped his brow, flinging little droplets onto my shirt.

  "Sorry," he said, taking my arm, nodding at the two uniforms, and walking me out of earshot.

  "What the hell, Tom?" I asked.

  "I just got an interesting phone call patched through to me." Tom’s eyes were dark, his voice low. "A guy named John Decker tells me you broke into a City Point condo last night."

  My heart jumped up into my throat, and I tried to swallow it without him noticing. I shrugged, not trusting my voice to keep my secret. Why the hell did Jack have to call Tom? What was he up to?

  "You knew about that 911 call last night, didn’t you? That’s what you were trying to tell me, right? You really were there." His voice was barely above a whisper, but there was as much force behind it as a goddamn hurricane. "I was over at that condo most of the night, Annie."

  When I didn’t say anything, he took a deep breath. "Fuck it, Annie, what the hell is going on? Why are you breaking into condos? Why are you carrying your goddamn gun around?" His voice had gotten louder. The uniforms were trying not to obviously eavesdrop as they shifted from foot to foot, exchanging little smirks.

  "I already told you—"

  "Yeah, right. The fucking phone calls." I’d never seen him so pissed. "But I want the truth. I want to hear you say it. Was this guy telling me the truth?"

  I tried to make my face go all innocent. "Who is he?" I asked.

  "Jesus, you know who he is. He’s that stripper, your ex’s friend."

  "You believe him?"

  Tom studied my face before answering, squinting in the sunlight. I felt his eyes run across my cheeks and down to my lips before they settled back on my eyes. "I’m tied up here at the moment, as you can see," he said, waving his arm toward the crime scene. "But I’m going to have an officer take you home and wait there with you until I can get there."

  "So you do believe him?"

  "I want to talk to you. I want you to tell me what’s going on."

  "I’ve been getting phone—"

  "Yeah," he cut me off. "I know. The calls. Maybe if you’re straight with me, we can figure out what that’s all about and who it is. And who’s been taking pictures of you. In the meantime, Officer Riley has offered to follow you home."

  Mighty big of him. "I get to drive my own car?" I asked, unable to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

  Tom ignored it and cocked his head toward the guy with the lawn for a head.

  "Yessir?" the officer asked.

  I could see Tom was eating up the respect. He certainly didn’t get it from me.

  "Once you escort Ms. Seymour home, I’d like you to make sure she stays there until I get there." He paused then, having another thought. "Follow her inside. If anything’s out of line, take her immediately to the police station and call me." Tom turned to me. "Okay?"

  Something was up here. If he believed Jack Hammer, why ask this cop to check out my place? Was he protecting me from something? Had he told me everything Jack Hammer had told him? Jack had said I was in danger. Did he tell Tom that, too?

  As I looked into his eyes, I saw more than anger there. I saw fear. Jack must have told him.

  However, I was feeling like a prisoner rather than protected, which made me think of my father. In his world, if you were getting protection, it certainly wasn’t going to be from a young cop but from some guy in a dark suit and a fedora, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Someone who looked like Robert De Niro or Harvey Keitel or Ray Liotta. Someone who knew Joe Pesci was just around the corner with the baseball bat.

  Tom’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. "I’ll be there as soon as I can, Annie."

  Riley went to his cruiser. I turned to my car but felt Tom’s hand on my shoulder. I twisted my head to look at him, and he cupped my cheek and stared at me a long second. "Don’t do anything stupid," he said softly.

  I made a face at him. "Who, me?" I asked.

  Riley pulled up and indicated I should get in my car. I did so, noticing that Tom kept looking back at me every few steps or so, before he was out of sight. I pulled away from the side of the road and started back up Wintergreen, with Riley on my ass. To his credit, he didn’t turn on the lights, but he might as well have. I got a lot of looks as he followed me all the way back to Wooster Square.

  Until the cop got out of his cruiser behind me.

  "Your keys, ma’am?" Riley asked, his hand out. He was taking this a little too far, but, hell, who was I to stop him?

  I dropped them in his palm, wishing Tom had made it clear that I wasn’t a "ma’am." I was feeling my age a little too much these days. "Second floor," I said simply, indicating which apartment was mine.

  Riley skipped up the steps and unlocked the front door, and I followed him up the stairs. When we reached the apartment door, he held up his hand. "Just a minute, please. I have to check it out."

  I watched Riley let himself in, his right hand touching the top of his revolver in the holster at his hip. Reminded me that my gun was still MIA.

  Riley disappeared down the hallway to my bedroom and bathroom. I closed the door behind me and stood in the middle of the living room, uncertain how to deal with this situation. Riley came back out a few seconds later, his arm now hanging loosely at his side, relaxed.

  "Everything’s all clear, ma’am," he said.

  "Annie."

  "What?"

  "Just call me Annie. Do you have a first name?"

  "Jonathan."

  "Do you want a soda?" I asked. I wanted a beer, but figured he was still on the job and a Coke would have to do.

  He looked slightly uncomfortable, but it was probably because it had just struck him that it was hotter in my apartment than it was outside. "Sure," he said.

  I went to the fridge, took out a Heineken for me, a Coke for him. We drank silently for a few seconds, and I began to regret being so social. I didn’t know what to say to this guy, so I busied myself with the big fan, trying to get it to circulate some air.

  "Air conditioner broken?" Riley asked, indicating the unit in the window.

  I nodded. He went over to it and pulled off the front before I could say "heat wave."

  "Filter’s filthy," he said, pulling out something that looked like a dead cat. He took it over to the trash bin and shook it out. It looked slightly cleaner after that, and he went to work on the innards of the machine. I decided it was time for a bathroom break.

  When I came back, the air conditioner was whirring like it was brand-new.

  "How’d you do that?" I asked.

  Riley blushed and smiled shyly. "Thanks for the soda." He raised the can in the air, nodded, and went out the door.

  I stood by the window in front of the air conditioner, savoring the cool air that was actually spouting from it. Damn. It was too bad he was so young. He’d be useful to have around. Neither Vinny nor Tom had ever been so useful. Well, not in that way.

  I took a long drink of my beer, but nearly choked when the phone rang, startling me.

  I stared at the handset from across the room. Should I answer it? It might be Tom to tell me he was on his way. It might be Vinny. It might be Priscilla, still mad at me for leaving her with Ned.

  I waited so long that the answering machine kicked in.

  "You know what to do." My voice echoed through the room.

  A click indicated that whoever was on the other end had hung up.

  Chapter 35

  I looked out the window. Riley was tapping the steering wheel, keeping time to music that he might or might not be actually listening to. Someone knew I was home, had probably watched him escort me up and then go back down alone.

  Jack Hammer’s warning ricocheted around in my head like a fucking pinball.

>   Even though Riley was just outside, I went to the door and locked the dead bolt and put on the chain lock. I thought about the fire escape platform just outside my bedroom window, and I made sure that window was locked, as well.

  Becoming agoraphobic was looking really good right about now. I could get pizza delivered; Vinny could bring groceries. I could get DSL or a cable modem and start e-mailing stories to work; I could do all my interviews by phone.

  The more I thought about it, the more I realized it could be done. I would never have to leave the confines of my own apartment. I could exist here until I grew old and died. All I’d need was about fifty cats and I’d be that crazy lady who scared small children on Halloween.

  I looked away from the window and stared at my apartment, which, thanks to Riley, was getting a lot cooler. I finished my beer and was debating another when the front buzzer scared the shit out of me.

  I looked down at the stoop and saw Priscilla, barefoot and holding her shoes, Riley holding her arm.

  I buzzed them in, unlocked the chain, and opened the door.

  "She says she’s your friend," Riley said.

  I nodded. "That’s right."

  He flashed a smile at her, tipped his hat at me, and went back down the stairs. I closed the door as Priscilla flopped down on the couch. An odor had come in behind her.

  "Who’s the bodyguard?" she asked.

  "Where’s Ned?" I asked.

  She tossed her head and flung her shoes on the floor. "He got some urgent phone call and had to leave. He put me in a fucking cab. A fucking cab."

  "You’re the one who wanted to be friends with him," I said grimly. "Did he at least pay for it?"

  She snorted. "No fucking way."

  "But he paid for lunch?"

  "And the drinks at the Playwright after."

  That’s what I smelled. The booze. She was drunk.

  "Where did Ned have to go that was so important?" I asked.

  Priscilla shook her head, but it was too much for her. She jumped up and ran down toward my bedroom. I heard the bathroom door slam shut. From the recesses of my apartment, I could hear Priscilla getting sick. Damn. She wasn’t going home tonight. I couldn’t send her home.

  I finished my beer and sat on the couch, my head back, my thoughts spinning out of control. If Tom didn’t show up soon, I’d go crazy just sitting here. I tried Vinny’s cell, but didn’t get an answer. I hit END without leaving a message.

  Priscilla was moaning. I found her on the floor, her head hanging over the toilet. She’d flushed. Thank God.

  "What the hell were you thinking, getting drunk?" I asked. I didn’t care that she was sick. She brought this on herself.

  Priscilla managed to raise her head slightly and snorted.

  "And what the hell is up with Ned?"

  "Even though I hate him right now, I really don’t hate him. He just wants to be friends again. He misses us."

  Yeah, and I missed him like the fucking prom.

  "Are you finished here?" I asked, indicating the toilet.

  She shook her head, and I went to the linen closet for a washcloth. I soaked it in cold water and came back into the bathroom, putting the cloth against the back of her neck. She made a soft sound, sort of like a cat purring. "Thanks."

  I heard my cell phone ringing. Maybe it was Vinny. "I’ll be right back," I told Priscilla, who’d moved closer to the toilet again. I shut the door, trying to shut out her sounds.

  The cell was in the bottom of my bag. I looked at the number; something about it looked vaguely familiar.

  "Ms. Seymour?"

  "Jamond?"

  "Something bad has happened."

  No shit, Sherlock.

  "I don’t know who else to talk to."

  "Define ’bad,’ Jamond. Growing pot plants in a community garden can be bad. Your friend shooting at Ashley is bad. Is this worse?"

  "Hell, yeah." But he still wasn’t forthcoming.

  "Listen, you called me. Why don’t you tell me?"

  "I’m in trouble, and I can’t go to the cops. But you know them. Maybe you can talk to them."

  I sighed, knowing Jamond was at the bottom of the priority list when it came to society. "What are you in trouble for?" My voice was soft as I thought about this kid who had nothing going for him. Jesus, my compassion gene must really have kicked in. God knows it wasn’t any sort of biological-clock thing. That alarm had never been set.

  "I know you been lookin’ for her."

  "Who, Jamond?" Butterflies started crashing against my insides.

  "Felicia. I found Felicia. But someone else got to her first."

  How the hell was I going to get out of this apartment without Riley seeing me?

  Jamond said he’d found Felicia’s body up at Judges Cave at the top of West Rock. He said she’d been shot; the gun was next to the body. Problem was, he’d touched it before taking off, and now he was too scared to go back or call the cops.

  Okay, so maybe he did shoot her. The thought did cross my mind. But why call me?

  I told him he had to talk to the police. However, I didn’t want to turn him over to Riley downstairs. I had to take him to Tom myself. He agreed that if I went with him, he’d tell the cops everything he saw, take them to the body. I couldn’t have him come to the apartment; I’d have to meet him somewhere.

  So I told him to meet me somewhere familiar to both of us. At the old student center on the Southern campus. It was a decrepit building now, but I remembered it in its heyday, when we’d all gather around and watch that new music phenomenon, MTV. Who knew that music could be seen?

  We could never have imagined YouTube.

  I tried Tom’s cell, but I got his voice mail. He was probably still working the scene at West Rock School. As I thought about it, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Felicia’s ID was found with that body, especially if her body was just up the ridge.

  I left a message telling Tom he might want to check out the Judges Cave, there might be another body there, and he could reach me on my cell about it.

  As much as I wanted to protect Jamond, it was my civic duty to at least tell Tom what he’d told me. It was the least I could do after not coming clean with him about the condo last night. I would do damage control later.

  Priscilla was on my bed, the cold, wet cloth covering her eyes. I sat down next to her, accidentally bouncing the bed in a way that was not soothing for a person who’d just tossed her cookies.

  "Mmmmm" came out of her throat as her stomach rumbled ominously.

  "I have to leave," I said.

  She was still as a statue, her arms at her sides, her bare feet pointed toward the ceiling. "Where?" she managed to croak.

  "I have to meet this kid, Jamond. He says he found Felicia. She’s dead."

  Her fingers twitched. She loved a good story, too, and this one was a doozy. "You’ve got that cop watching you."

  I was eyeing the window that I’d locked so carefully before, the one from which I could step right out onto a fire escape and climb down into the alley between my brownstone and the buildings that lined Wooster Street. "I’ve got a plan."

  Priscilla raised her arm and carefully lifted the cloth off one eye. It did not look happy with me. "Do I want to hear this?"

  "Yeah, in case I don’t come back," I quipped, but only halfheartedly. I told her about going to Southern. She was dubious.

  "Why don’t we call Vinny? He can go meet that kid for you. You really should stay here until Tom gets here."

  I’d thought about that, but he still wasn’t picking up his phone. I’d left a message this time. "He knows where I’m headed," I said as I laced on a pair of sneakers.

  I went into the living room and grabbed my bag before going back to the bedroom. I went over to the window, unlocked it, and lifted the glass. It was one of those old-fashioned storm windows with a screen in it, drafty as all hell during the winter. I slid the two buttons on the bottom at the same time and pulled up the screen.

  Pe
ering out at the fire escape and the ladder that descended from it, I felt a little dizzy. I’m not much for heights. But it wasn’t one of those fire escapes you see in the movies, where the ladder slides down and you have to drop about six feet to the ground. No, my landlord had actual stairs built up to my apartment and Walter’s upstairs.

  Looking at it from this angle, I was surprised I’d never been burgled. It would be so easy.

  "You’re not really doing that, are you?" Priscilla had taken the cloth off her eyes completely and was propped up on her elbows, the butterfly tattoo stretched wide on her shoulder.

  "Yeah, sure," I said, but I wasn’t convincing even myself.

  "Stay and wait for Tom," she said again.

  "I promised Jamond," I said. "He’s scared."

  "Doesn’t he have anyone else to call?"

  I thought about that. What about Shaw? Why hadn’t Jamond called him? But then again, maybe he knew something about Shaw. Shaw was mixed up with Ralph in some way, and maybe Jamond knew how. Jamond knew about the guns, knew about Ashley and Felicia.

  "Everyone knows where I’m going." I justified it to myself as well as to Priscilla. "I’m just going out the back way."

  I swung my leg over the windowsill and stepped out onto the landing. My bag was slung over my shoulder, across my chest. The wall of heat slapped my skin, and I realized just how cool my apartment had gotten since Riley had fixed the air conditioner. "Close the window and keep the air inside," I instructed Priscilla as I headed down the stairs. She was back to being prone on the bed, though, the cloth covering her eyes, so it might be a while before she got to it.

  The next problem was my car. So I hadn’t thought this through. The car was in front of the building, in front of Riley’s cruiser. How the hell was I going to get out to Southern?

  New Haven does not have taxis trolling every block, looking for people to pick up. You have to call one to come get you. And it could take a while. New Haven also does not have a subway system or a local train system.

  It does, however, have buses.

  I had no clue about bus schedules.

  I maneuvered through the alley and ended up on Wooster Street in front of Sally’s Apizza. A white clam pie and a beer sounded pretty good right about now, but they weren’t open yet and I had other plans. I’d seen buses go down Chapel Street, and maybe, just maybe, I could walk up Olive and over to Chapel without Riley seeing me. His cruiser was on Chapel, in front of my building, pointing in exactly my direction. He wasn’t expecting to see me a block away, so perhaps I could get away with it.