Dead of the Day (2007)
Page 1
DEAD OF THE DAY
Karen E. Olson
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
Praise for Karen E. Olson's Annie Seymour Mysteries
''Like an alchemist, Karen E. Olson blends . . . wildly disparate elements into pure gold. Dead of the Day is a delightful dance with the devil—dangerous, dark, and romantic.''
—Reed Farrel Coleman, Shamus Award–winning
author of The James Deans
Secondhand Smoke
''Olson knows exactly how to blend an appealing heroine, an intricate plot, and inventive humor. Annie's is a story . . . well worth reading.''
—Richmond Times-Dispatch
''Annie Seymour, a New Haven journalist who's not quite as cynical as she thinks she is, is the real thing, an engaging and memorable character with the kind of complicated loyalties that make a series worth reading. Karen E. Olson is the real thing, too, a natural storyteller with a lucid style and a wonderful sense of place.'' —Laura Lippman, award-winning author of
To the Power of Three
''Olson's second mystery hits the mark with setting, plot, and character. . . . Her lovably imperfect heroine charms, and the antics of her coworkers and the residents of 'da neighborhood' will keep you intrigued and amused. Four stars.'' —Romantic Times
''Humor, plenty of motives, and strong character development make this a fast, fun read.''
—Monsters and Critics
''Humor enlivens this first-person account. . . . This remains a series with considerable potential.'' —Booklist
continued . . .
''Olson's characters are her own, and her fast-paced plot and great ending make it a perfect read for patrons who like a bit of humor in their mysteries.'' —Library Journal
''Authentic urban atmosphere, generous wit, and winning characters lift Olson's second outing. . . . Readers are sure to look forward to Annie's further adventures.'' —Publishers Weekly
''Annie is a believable heroine whose sassy exploits and muddled love life should make for more exciting adventures.'' —Kirkus Reviews
Sacred Cows
''A boilermaker of a first novel. . . . Olson writes with great good humor, but Sacred Cows is also a roughhouse tale. Her appealing and intrepid protagonist and well-constructed plot make this book one of the best debut novels of the year.'' —Cleveland Plain Dealer
''In this just-the-facts-ma'am journalism procedural, Karen Olson plunges readers into the salty-tongued world of cynical reporter sleuth Annie Seymour. . . . [The story] spins from sinister to slapstick and back in the breadth of a page. Engaging.''
—Denise Hamilton, bestselling author of
Savage Garden
''A sharply written and beautifully plotted story.'' —Chicago Tribune
''Olson writes with a light touch that is the perfect complement for this charming mystery.''
—Chicago Sun-Times
ALSO BY KAREN E. OLSON
Sacred Cows
Secondhand Smoke
DEAD OF THE DAY
Karen E. Olson
AN OBSIDIAN MYSTERY
OBSIDIAN
Published by New American Library, a division of
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
ISBN: 1-4295-7853-X
Copyright © Karen E. Olson, 2007 All rights reserved
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To my mother
Acknowledgments
Sometimes it takes a village to create a book, and I would be remiss in not recognizing mine: The First Offenders (Alison Gaylin, Lori Armstrong, and Jeff Shelby), my partners in crime; Maria Garriga, who lent more than just a name; Arturo Perez-Cabello, who gave me a glimpse into a world I knew existed but had never really seen; Reed Farrel Coleman for suggesting the title, and Helen Bennett Harvey for coining the term; Dr. Ann Wold, who taught me about stitches and wounds; George Mihalakos, who makes a helluva egg sandwich; Bonnie Winchester at the New Haven Police Department for an enlightening tour; Abram Katz for his droll sense of humor (do you have an idea for a column?); Liz Cipollina, who tells me when it sucks and when it's good; my writers group (Angelo Pompano, Chris Falcone, Chris Woodside, Cindy Warm, and Roberta Isleib); Melanie Stengel for a kick-ass author photo; my parents, Ruth and Vern Olson, for letting me know I could be anything I wanted to be and it would be okay; my in-laws, Ernest and Edith Hoffman, who buy my books even when they can get them for free; and my aunt, Janet Dunfee, who encouraged an imaginative kid with a big dream. I also toast Eric Turton with a glass of red wine and a hunk of smelly cheese for keeping tabs on my career across The Pond. The University of Montana bee re search Web site was invaluable, as was Doris B. Townshend's Fair Haven: A Journey Through Time. The Cobalt Rhythm Kings can be heard around New Haven. Very special thanks to Jack Scovil, as always. To Kristen Weber for her continued belief in my work and all of her exclamation marks! And to my wonderful, supportive husband, Chris, and daughter, Julia, who make me believe anything is possible.
Chapter 1
For a dead guy, Warren Black had a lot to say. I held the phone away from my ear a little bit; he was shouting about how we got it wrong.
No shit.
''Mr. Black,'' I managed to say when he took a breath. ''Hold on a sec, okay?''
We don't have a HOLD button on our phones, so I cradled the receiver in my lap. ''Marty?'' I called across the aisle to the city editor. ''I've got a guy on the phone who says he's Warren Black.''
Marty Thompson peered over the top of his glasses. ''But he was our dead of the day.''
''Well, he says he's still alive.''
Marty rustled some papers around on his de
sk, finally pulling a press release out from underneath the chaos. His mouth sagged open, then quickly shut again. ''You'd better transfer him to me,'' he said, his voice so quiet I almost didn't hear him.
Not wanting to deal with Mr. Black's wrath any further, I quickly pushed the TRANSFER button and then Marty's extension before hanging up my phone. This was the second time in a month that our ''dead of the day,'' as we called them, had not actually been dead.
Here at the New Haven Herald, we like to memorialize our neighbors who have passed on to life eternal with a little eulogy of our own. Family members and friends usually give us the stories of their lives so we can write up a quick ten inches. These aren't necessarily the pillars of our community—some are grandmothers, some are Elks, and one even turned out to be a child molester, but of course we didn't know that at the time it was written. His fan club, and I say that facetiously, notified us with a barrage of letters to the editor and about a hundred phone calls the next day.
I wasn't really sure what had happened with Warren Black, but it was likely that we'd put the wrong picture with the obituary. That's what happened the last time. If there were photos of two different people with the same name in the system, and the reporter writing up the story didn't know one from the other, we had a fifty-fifty shot it would be right.
Too bad we were on the wrong end of those odds today.
But I didn't have time to ruminate about New Haven Herald fuckups. I was trying to pull together my notes to write a feature about the city's new police chief. Tony Rodriguez had been on the job for two weeks now, and he was full of idealistic plans to reduce crime that couldn't possibly ever work, or at least would be stymied by the city's powers that be for political reasons. But he didn't seem to know that yet.
My assignment was to spit out everything he'd told me so the city could make up its own mind about him. It was not my favorite part of the job.
I glanced at the clock. I figured I had about two hours to get this thing done and sent over to the Sunday editor.
If I managed to pull this off, it would be happy hour, but I wasn't sure I had too much to be happy about on another Friday night alone.
It was my own damn fault. A few months ago, I was embarking on a relationship with someone who turned me on and challenged me all at the same time. We had three weeks together after Thanksgiving, three weeks during which I lost about ten pounds because of amazing sex and three weeks during which I actually felt myself softening around the edges. But that was probably from the sex, too.
Vinny DeLucia and I went to high school together, but he was a geek and I wasn't interested back then. Now he was a hotshot private detective with his own shingle, and doing occasional work for my mother's law firm. Our paths crossed several months ago while I was working on a story about a dead Yalie, and our relationship progressed from there. It seemed like things were going to work out with me and Vinny. Until Christmas.
Vinny didn't think we should spend Christmas together, at least not with his family, which was the only option since my mother's Jewish and my dad is in Vegas.
Vinny had just broken up with his longtime fiance´e —for me, I might add. But his family wasn't too keen on that idea, and Rosie had been invited to spend the holidays with them, out of some sort of solidarity. I told Vinny he should boycott on principle, but he said he couldn't. It blew up bigger than a goddamn balloon, and there I was, telling him he was a fucking coward and walking out.
It was April now, and I hadn't seen Vinny since. Not that I hadn't tried. He lives around the corner from me on Wooster Square, and I'd come incredibly close to being a stalker at times, but I still hadn't spotted him. It was almost as if he'd moved, but the Ford Explorer was there on occasion, parked in front of his building.
Yeah, I was being an idiot. All I had to do was call him, but I'd been too angry at first and then it just became a habit. With all the time that had passed, it would be embarrassing to call him now.
My notes swirled together in front of my eyes, out of focus enough that I wondered if I was going to need to get those drugstore glasses soon. Right, that would make me attractive to a man. I'd put those specs on and he'd know right away that the goods were getting a little old. And I wasn't even forty yet.
The scanner started to squawk behind me, and I leaned over and turned it up, causing Renee Chittenden, the social services reporter who sat two desks away, to frown at me. I shrugged. It was my fucking job.
A body had been found at Long Wharf. That wasn't too far away. I pushed my notes aside and grabbed my bag and jean jacket, making my way to Marty's desk.
''A body,'' I said, ready to leave.
''What about the profile?''
''I think a body supersedes the profile,'' I said, but when his mouth set into a grim line, added, ''I'll stay late and finish the profile.'' I said it like it was putting me out, like I was willing to sacrifice my life for my job. Marty knew I was full of shit.
He nodded. ''Take a photographer with you.''
Wesley Bell was just coming around the corner of the photo lab. ''Hey, Wesley, body at Long Wharf,'' I said, not stopping, knowing he'd grab his stuff and probably get there before I did. With his bow ties and penny loafers, he didn't look like a typical photojournalist, but his pictures were the best I'd ever seen. I wouldn't be surprised if Hagrid the Giant showed up one day with an invitation to Hogwarts and told him he was a goddamn wizard.
The road was blocked off, and I pulled into the Rusty Scupper restaurant parking lot. It was filling up with happy-hour traffic; I stuck my press card on the dashboard and hoped they wouldn't tow me.
The masts of the Quinnipiack, the old schooner, rose high above the pier that jutted out into the harbor perpendicular to the visitors information center. The tide was going out; there was a rank fishy smell hanging in the air. The yellow crime scene tape was flapping in the breeze, and I counted three police cars, their red lights spinning. I didn't count the cops, didn't pay attention to any of them except the detective in the tweed sport jacket, his blond hair a little mussed, his blue eyes taking in the scene.
''Hey, Tom,'' I said softly from behind him, the tape between us.
He turned around and nodded. ''Hi, Annie.''
I missed his quick smile, the twinkle in his eye that used to be for me. I wondered who got it now.
''Whatchagot?'' I asked.
He took a deep breath. ''Floater.''
The fishy smell suddenly took on a whole new meaning. ''Any ID?'' I asked.
Tom shook his head. ''He was naked. Hispanic.''
He was telling me this only because he knew I'd find out eventually and it wasn't compromising anything. And a Hispanic man in New Haven wasn't exactly a rarity. Hell, I heard more Spanish around the New Haven Herald than I did English at times.
''Cause of death?'' I asked.
''Not sure yet.''
So it wasn't a gunshot wound or a stabbing. Probably the guy just drowned. Too bad. I wanted this to be bigger, so I would have a good excuse not to finish that stupid profile.
I took in the scene at the end of the pier, where the forensics guys were doing their thing. It was sort of like on TV, but the people weren't as good-looking. Except maybe Tom.
Tom and I broke up because of Vinny. He didn't know, or at least I didn't think he knew, that Vinny and I were history. And I certainly wasn't going to enlighten him.
''You okay?'' Tom asked, and when I looked back at him, I could see genuine concern in his face.
I frowned. ''Sure. I mean, why wouldn't I be?''
''You don't look great.''
I'd had a cold that had hung on for weeks, and I'd finally shaken it. But I knew that wasn't what he saw. ''I'm okay,'' I said gruffly. ''Had a cold.''
He was a detective and he could see the lie. But he played along. ''Yeah, something was going around.''
I spotted Wesley Bell over near the body, his face hidden by a gigantic lens, his camera recording everything.
''How did he get over t
here?'' Tom muttered, starting to walk toward him.
I didn't have the heart to tell him about Wesley's powers.
Not wanting to go back, and abandoned by the only person in any position to tell me anything, I lingered for a few minutes, jotting down what I saw. It wasn't much. My eyes strayed across the harbor to the huge freighter docked on the other side, at the port. I'd been curious about what went on over there for a while now; no one covered the harbor anymore—not for years—because Marty said we didn't have enough reporters. But since 9/11 and reports about possible terrorists infiltrating the country's ports, my interest had been piqued. New Haven's port was the busiest in the state, with freighters bringing in fuel and scrap metal and some other shit. There was a jet fuel pipeline that ran from the harbor to the airport north of Hartford, which seemed like a pretty big deal to me but not to anyone else at the Herald.