Annie Seymour 01 - Sacred Cows

by Karen E. Olson

  Vinny shook his head. “Torrey’s covered his tracks so well even I can’t trace him. It’s too bad you pissed him off.”

  “Right. Blame me.”

  “You did piss him off.”

  “Don’t remind me. What’s our next step?”

  “We have to find out what Hickey knows.”

  “What if it was Hickey who did this to me last night?” I pointed to the scrape on my chin.

  “Amateurs.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know who did that to you, but I’m sure that if it was someone who meant business, you’d be dead already.”

  “Oh, that makes me feel better.” I was just about to call him an asshole when the phone rang. I picked it up.

  “I have been advised not to give you a statement.”

  “Hello, Mother. Who advised you?”

  “My lawyer. And you’ll be getting a phone call from Bill.”

  Great. “Why are you covering this up?”

  “I’m not. I’m just not going on the record with it.”

  “Who else got scammed?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “You know, though, don’t you?”

  Vinny was looking out my front window, drinking his coffee, his back to me.

  “I can’t believe you’re stonewalling me. This is my job.”

  “And it’s my money and my life and I’d like a little privacy.” She paused. “Oh, by the way, I think Vinny DeLucia’s got a crush on you.”

  I felt my face turn hot even though I knew he couldn’t hear what she was saying.

  “Why do you think that?” I tried to keep my voice light.

  “He’s been asking a lot of questions about you. What do you like to do in your spare time, have you been dating this police officer for a long time, is it serious, that sort of thing. I think he’s rather cute, don’t you?”

  Okay, so I had a dream about him that I didn’t want to mention because it might indicate I had some deep-seated sexual feelings for the guy. But I certainly wasn’t going to tell my mother. “No. No, I don’t,” I said coldly, coldly enough for Vinny to turn around, his eyebrows arched, questioning my conversation.

  “Methinks she doth protest too much.”

  Sometimes I really hated my mother.

  “Can’t you give me another name, someone I can talk to about Mark Torrey’s scam?”

  “You don’t seem to understand, Annie. These are people who would rather not see their names splashed all over the newspaper proving they were stupid enough to get scammed.”

  No shit. And what didn’t I understand? “Fine. I could keep names out of it. I just want someone on the record to tell me the feds are after Torrey and what the reason is.”

  “I’ve got another call. Sorry, dear.” The dial tone pounded into my ear.

  “No luck, huh?” Vinny asked when I hung up.

  I shook my head. “You know, don’t you? You know who these people are. You’re working for my mother. Why can’t you tell me?”

  “I’m looking for Mark Torrey. That’s my job. I get paid when I find him.”

  “But why are you still hanging around me?”

  “Because I think he’s going to contact you again.”

  “I pissed him off, you even said it yourself.”

  “I think he likes the idea of talking to a reporter. I think he wants to see his name in the paper. If it goes long enough without any news about himself, he’ll call. He wants to show off, let everyone know that he can be invisible. But no one’s that clever. He’ll slip up. And I think it’ll be because he craves attention. That’s why I’m hanging around.”

  “What will you do with him once you find him?”

  Vinny grinned. “I turn him over to the police and I’m a goddamned hero.”

  He took a long drink from his cup and I studied his face. I lied. I did find him attractive. But I’d never admit it.

  “My mother tells me you have a crush on me.”

  I saw the splash of coffee come out of his nose as he sputtered, “Where’d she get that idea?”

  “She says you’re asking all sorts of personal questions about me.”

  He wiped his nose with a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. He was stalling. “It’s for the case,” he tried.

  I smiled condescendingly. “Don’t think it’s going to make any difference.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  We scowled at each other for a few seconds, but it got boring. “I’m going to call Hickey,” I said. “Maybe I can get something more out of him.” I picked up the phone.

  He put his hand over mine. “Don’t let on we know about the bank account. See if he tells you first.”

  I could feel the heat from his hand move up my arm and down my spine. The images from the dream came back to me, and I pulled my hand away. “What do you think I am, stupid?” I barked.

  His lips parted in a slow smile, and this time I could feel it between my legs. “I love it when you talk dirty,” he whispered, and I turned my back on him, dialing and praying they’d pick up on the first ring.

  CHAPTER 15

  I didn’t have anything. Hickey didn’t return my call. My mother wouldn’t give me anything. Paula wouldn’t give me anything on the record; she said she was only part of the investigating team and would get into deep shit if her bosses found out she was talking to me. Sometimes my job really sucked.

  And then the publisher called me. At home. He said he was sorry I wasn’t feeling well, but could I try to make it in that afternoon? He had something pressing he wanted to discuss with me. I couldn’t say no: My face looks like a truck ran over me, I haven’t done laundry in more than a week, and I have no clean underwear. I was stuck like a pig. Shit.

  I finally found a clean pair of slacks in the back of my closet, but when I pulled them on, they were so tight I was afraid they’d split. I remembered why they were in the back of the closet. I found a skirt, but it was in the same shape. Maybe I should try working out or something. Or maybe not. I usually just bought several items in several sizes, knowing I’d fit into them at one point or another. Aha! A knit skirt with an elastic waist tucked behind my pile of sweaters. If I pulled a shirt out of the laundry basket, who would be the wiser? I squirted a little perfume on myself and doubled up on the deodorant.

  The makeup job wasn’t going to be easy. I surveyed my face in the mirror, the scrape looking like the Grand Canyon with a bloody Colorado River running through it. I touched it and winced, but fearlessly pushed ahead and smeared some foundation over it. When I was done, I still looked like hell, but it was better than before.

  Walter met me in the hallway when I was locking up.

  “Christ. What happened to you?”

  I shrugged. “Another tough night on the wrestling circuit.”

  I think he thought I was serious.

  I went into the building through the executive side. I didn’t want to run into Marty or, God forbid, Dick. My investigation was stymied, and I didn’t want to have to admit that. And now Bill Bennett was going to tell me to stop where I was and not go any further.

  He was leaning back in his big leather chair and motioned for me to sit in the uncomfortable straight-backed chair on the other side of his desk. I’d been in this office only once before, a long time ago, when there was still a Christmas party every year. I vaguely remember making out with someone.

  “I suppose you know why you’re here,” he said. Maybe he thought I walked around all the time looking like this, because he didn’t even raise an eyebrow when I walked in.

  “Mark Torrey.”

  “I would prefer it if you let this one go.” It was nice the way he pretended to make it my choice.

  “When they catch him . . .”

  “When they catch him, we’ll assess the situation.”

  He was smooth, but I wouldn’t have expected less from any man who dated my mother.

  “The private investigator on the case seems to th
ink Torrey will contact me again.”

  “Then you call the police.”

  It seemed easy enough, as far as he was concerned. But I couldn’t stop myself. “Between you and me, I’ve heard you invested some of the paper’s money.” It wasn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever said, but it was close. His eyes narrowed and I could see them grow dark.

  “I don’t know where you heard that, but if I ever see it in print, in our paper or another publication, you’re fired.”

  He couldn’t get more direct than that.

  “And what happened to your face?”

  I sighed. “Someone decided to use me as a punching bag last night.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Sure.”

  “Does your mother know?”

  I snorted. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to tell her this. I would appreciate some discretion on your part, too.”

  He straightened up and put his elbows on his desk. “Is this connected in some way to the story?”

  I told him about the note.

  “That does it. You’re not to write another word about this.”

  I bit my lip to keep my mouth from opening. He was pushing me toward updating my résumé. “The community should know if a city lawyer is embezzling money from people. This is our job, isn’t it?”

  Bill Bennett nodded, but he was no Ben Bradlee, that was for sure. “I can’t have my reporters being threatened, being beat up because of a story.”

  “It means I’m getting close.”

  “But I just told you to stop. Now.” He stood up. “Considering what’s happened, too, I think you should have a lighter load for a while. With your connections, I think you’d do a fine job covering the cows. I talked to Marty Thompson about this earlier.”

  I froze, even though he was walking next to me, trying to get me out his door so he could move on to whatever else it was he did during the day. He frowned when I stopped.

  “Is that a problem?”

  I should’ve said no. But I heard myself before I could think about it. “I don’t exactly believe in the cows, Mr. Bennett.”

  Incredulity moved across his face. Not believe in the cows? What sort of New Havener was I? Didn’t I want the economy to prosper from a bunch of silly fiberglass bovines? He shook his head. “Your mother told me you could be difficult. I’m going to ignore that. If you want to continue working here, you’ll do as I say.”

  The door shut behind me.

  I didn’t care anymore who saw me. I strolled into the newsroom and ignored the shocked faces staring at me. Marty dropped his pen when he saw me.

  “Christ, you look awful.”

  “Thanks. We need to talk.”

  Dick’s eyes followed us to the conference room and I shut the door on him, turning to Marty.

  “Bennett wants me to cover the fucking cows. I have to stop work on the Torrey story. I know why, too. I think he invested pension money and he doesn’t want anyone to find out.”

  “Where did you get that one from?”

  “Something I deduced from something someone told me off the record.”

  “We’re not the story here.”

  “Maybe we are. Maybe Bennett really fucked up and lost a lot of our money.”

  “You’re not exactly in a position to be making statements like that.”

  It was his tone that made me sink into one of the chairs. “I’m in deep shit and all I did was my job.”

  He pulled a chair up next to me. “I understand. It pisses me off, too. But there’s nothing I can do. It’s out of my hands.”

  “Stupid cows.”

  “I need a story about the cow hospital.” He said it so matter-of-factly and without a trace of a smile.

  “What?”

  “The place the cows will go when they’re vandalized.”

  “So I’m not the only one anticipating major graffiti and demolition.”

  “It’s in an old warehouse off Hamilton Street.”

  “You’re serious. I have to cover the cows.”

  He nodded. “Just for a week or so.”

  “What if Torrey contacts me again?”

  “Call the police.” Everyone had the same answer.

  “What about Dick? Isn’t he going to be the slightest bit curious as to why we’re not covering this anymore?”

  “I’ll have him make the daily phone calls and get him on something else.”

  “That might work for a while, but in the long run . . .”

  “Let me worry about that.”

  For the first time I wanted Dick Whitfield to put up a stink, to be his obnoxious self so everyone in the newsroom would know what was going on. I couldn’t tell anyone else; Bennett would know it came from me or Marty and I couldn’t risk that. But Dick, well, I could risk Dick’s job with absolutely no conscience.

  “Like I said, the cow hospital is off Hamilton. I understand there’s already a couple of casualties.”

  “Graffiti?” I hoped.

  He shook his head. “One artist was a little ambitious. Tried to attach the cow to the side of the Yale Rep and it fell right into that restaurant, you know the one I’m talking about, the one with the outside tables.”

  I nodded. Marty’s senior moments were only a tad worse than mine these days. “So is there some sort of cow doctor at this place?” I knew my tone was more than sarcastic, and I didn’t even try to disguise it.

  He ignored me and handed me a card. “The guy’s name and number are on that. You’ll have to make an appointment.”

  So I’d even have to schedule this, organize my day around the cows. This was too much. “I’m going home, Marty. I called in sick. I’m tired and I feel like crap. I’ll set something up for tomorrow, maybe the next day. I don’t get the impression this is something that’s breaking news.”

  “We already covered the incident with the falling cow. Dick’s on top of that. Minor damage. No one was eating outside at the time.”

  He said it all with a straight face, like it was real news. I walked out without another word.

  Dick caught up with me in the parking lot.

  “What happened to you?”

  “I had a little accident.”

  “Does it have anything to do with Torrey?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. But we may never know. Bennett put the kibosh on the story. And you didn’t hear that from me. I’m not even officially here.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.” I opened my car door, but Dick put out his hand to keep me from getting inside.

  “The story’s off? Why?”

  I shook my head. “You’re a reporter, Dick. Find out. But if I hear you used my name in vain I’ll send the same guys who did this to me after you.”

  His mouth was still hanging open when I drove off.

  I knew it would be all over the newsroom in less than half an hour. But I didn’t expect to have three messages from my colleagues on my answering machine by the time I got home. Yeah, I stopped off for a loaf of bread and some tunafish, but it didn’t take that long.

  “Heard what happened with the story, Annie. That sucks.”

  “Maybe we should just cover the story and when it breaks, give it to the SunDial.”

  I liked that one. The SunDial scared the shit out of the Herald editors, God knows why. It was your basic alternative, go-against-Corporate-America little rag that had great restaurant reviews and very unique personal ads. Every once in a while, the SunDial got a good story, something we should’ve had but didn’t for a gazillion reasons, some of which having to do with the fact that most of our reporting staff was inexperienced and underpaid.

  The third message was simple, straight to the point:

  “U-N-I-O-N.” It was whispered, probably from the pay phone in the cafeteria. It could’ve been anyone, but I suspected it was Fred Wheeler, who’d been at the paper longer than I had and who was even more cynical. Whoever it was, he made me smile.

  I stripped off my clothes and pulle
d on my fleece bathrobe. I liked the way it felt on my skin, and I wondered how I could be horny after being beaten up, but I was. I thought about calling Tom but opted against it, it was late in the day and he’d be working. Instead, I pulled a beer out of the refrigerator to have with my tunafish sandwich. It wasn’t much of a supper, but I didn’t have much of an appetite.

  I dialed the number on the card Marty gave me but it just rang and rang. I guess there weren’t any sick cows today. I’d try again in the morning.

  I plugged my cell phone into its charger and started channel-surfing. I fell asleep watching Donald Trump belittle a group of wannabe Donald Trumps. It was pathetic.

  I was having a dream that a cow was in my living room and I couldn’t get it to leave. Just as I opened the door to push it out, I heard the doorbell. And then I heard it again. I struggled to wake up, realizing the doorbell wasn’t in the dream but it really was ringing. I glanced at the clock. Midnight.

  “Yeah?” I asked the door, vaguely aware I was wearing nothing under my robe.

  “Let me in.” It was Vinny. I pulled my robe closer, checking to make sure there weren’t any cheap thrills, and opened the door.

  “How’d you get in downstairs?”

  He ignored me and went right to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  “Make yourself at home,” I said sarcastically and slumped down on to the couch. The phone was off the hook at my feet. “So I didn’t want to talk to anyone, sue me. Anyway, I’m off the story. I’m on to a better one. I get to cover the cows.”

  Vinny was frowning at me, uncertain whether I was joking.

  “I’m off the story,” I said again. “Even if Torrey contacts me, I can’t do a fucking thing about it.”

  “I have copies of legal affidavits filed by Torrey’s victims, along with some other damning evidence.”

  I was fiddling with the collar on my robe and stopped. “What?”

  “Do you want it or not?”

  I took a deep breath as I struggled with myself. Of course I wanted it, but what could I do with it? Give it to the SunDial, like my colleague had suggested? Give it to the Courant? Give it to Richard Wells? Or write it myself and sell it somewhere else, thus quitting my job and going freelance? But first there was a more important question.