Dead of the Day (2007)

by Karen E. Olson

  ''What time tomorrow?''

  ''Sleep in a little. You must be beat. I'll be here at noon.''

  ''I'll see you then.'' I threw the phone back in my bag and continued down the sidewalk. It was after one a.m. now, too late to check out Caffe Bottega. Everyone would be drunk, and it would be ugly. Marty was right; I was beat and needed to go home.

  The sun was shining through my miniblinds, blinding me when I opened my eyes. I squinted at the clock. Nine a.m. I thought about pulling the covers over my head and going back to sleep, but even though I'd been exhausted when I crawled into bed, I was wide awake now and knew it was time to get up.

  I padded into the kitchen and put some water on to boil. I'd bought a French press, feeling very European, and discovered it made better coffee than my old coffeemaker. It didn't even take much longer.

  I stuck a bagel in the toaster before going downstairs to get the paper on the stoop.

  I was halfway back up the stairs when I finally shook it open to see how it all ended up. A headline reading POLICE CHIEF GUNNED DOWN screamed across the top of the page, at least 100-point type. My byline underneath, the story about Rodriguez's shooting, death, and then the other shooting later on.

  But then I saw it. Dick's byline. A sidebar. And it wasn't what I'd expected.

  ''Suspect Shot by Police.''

  What the fuck?

  I ignored the whistling of my teapot and sat on the couch, smoothing out the paper as if doing so would smooth out my bruised ego. While I was talking to Dwayne and Marisol, Dick obviously had been with the cops as they went after that second shooter. How the hell had that happened?

  I couldn't stand the sound of the kettle anymore, so I wandered over to the stove and poured some water onto the coffee in the press. As I waited the requisite four minutes before pressing, I scanned my own story again, turning the page to read the jump.

  Dick had been at the hospital, as I suspected. He had a tagline saying he contributed to the story, and I found his contribution. Three paragraphs of color about the scene at Yale–New Haven Hospital, the grim faces, the silences, the confirmation of Rodriguez's death.

  I finished making the coffee and poured myself a cup before calling Marty at home.

  ''How the hell did he do this?'' I demanded.

  ''Annie?'' His voice was gruff. I'd woken him up.

  ''How did Dick get this shit?''

  I heard a chuckle. ''Now don't go off half-cocked, Annie. You would've had the same thing if you were in his position.''

  ''Which was what?''

  ''He was at the hospital, and one of the cops offered to take him back to his car downtown. While they were en route, they heard the call about the other shooter, and they responded.''

  Holy shit. He was right there with them. In the goddamn police cruiser. This is what pissed me off about Dick Whitfield. He was a boob, but he had the best fucking luck of any reporter I'd ever met. It was a good thing he couldn't write a coherent sentence or he really would put the rest of us out of business.

  ''I need to get some more sleep, Annie,'' Marty was saying. ''I'll see you in a couple of hours.''

  The dial tone rang through my head. I put the receiver back in its cradle and took a drink of coffee, but I couldn't even taste it. This thing with Dick could be bad for me. His stock would go up even higher.

  As I put on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt—it was Saturday and there was no dress code—I pondered my next move.

  I blamed the phone for interrupting my train of thought, which was going nowhere, as usual, but no one had to know that.

  ''Hello?'' I asked as I picked up the receiver.

  ''Hello, Anne.'' My mother's voice was softer than usual, probably from all those cocktails and massive doses of sunshine down in the Caribbean.

  ''Hi, Mom,'' I said absently, not wanting to think about someone else's vacation. ''What's up?''

  ''I have a favor to ask, dear.''

  Shit.

  ''Could you stop by the house?''

  ''I thought you had someone doing that,'' I said. It wouldn't take too much time to swing by, but I was going to be busy today and didn't want to be bothered. ''And anyway, aren't you coming home tomorrow?''

  ''Please just stop in for a few minutes, okay? Ira said he was sending me a fax and I need to make sure it got there. I can't reach Lourdes to see if she can check.''

  Ira Hoffman was head of my mother's law firm. Lourdes was her cleaning woman. I'd teased my mother when she'd hired Lourdes a couple of months ago, especially since she'd made a point for years about never letting anyone else scrub her bathtubs. But since she and Bill Bennett had hooked up last fall, she was doing a lot of things that were out of character. Like letting him talk her into the Caribbean, when my mother's previous vacations were all in Paris or Rome or Madrid. I never knew her to sit on a beach and do nothing. But Bill Bennett asks her, and where is she? Baking on a beach, basting herself with sunscreen.

  I couldn't say no. I wanted to, but I knew if I did, she'd manage to pile on the guilt so I'd regret it for years. But it still bothered me. ''You'll be back tomorrow, so why did he fax it to the house? Can't you just see it at the office?''

  I heard her take a deep breath. ''I don't think I have to explain this to you, but since you're insisting on giving me a hard time, Ira and his wife are going on vacation today, and it's something I want to work on tomorrow when I get home. My office is being painted this weekend and I would rather not be overcome by fumes while trying to work there.''

  I'd pushed it too far. ''Sure, okay, I'll stop by before work.''

  ''Work? It's a Saturday.''

  ''Yeah, well, we've had some excitement here.'' Understatement of the year. ''New police chief got shot down in front of the Yale Rep last night, died in the hospital.''

  ''The police chief?''

  ''Yeah. No clue who did it, at least no one's saying right now.''

  She was quiet a minute, then, ''If the fax is there, can you put it on the desk in my basket? If for some reason it hasn't come through, call me.'' She rattled off a phone number, and because I have a million pens and pencils scattered around my apartment, I was able to take it down next to Dick's sidebar about the shooting. ''Thank you for this, and if I don't talk to you, I'll call you tomorrow when we get in.''

  I said good-bye and hung up, grabbing my jean jacket off the couch as I went out. I could make it over to Westville and back to the paper in about half an hour, if I was quick about it.

  But I couldn't make my getaway that quick, because when I stepped outside, Rocco DeLucia was leaning against the railing.

  ''I'm on my way out,'' I said, trying to sidle past him.

  ''Wondering what's going on today,'' he said, following me down the steps and to my car.

  I paused. Damn—if he didn't look like Vinny. ''Listen, Rocco, I have to get going, okay?'' I unlocked the car door.

  ''Do you mind if I tag along? I'm researching another book. This one's with a reporter, and I'd really appreciate it.'' He smiled Vinny's smile, but it didn't have the same effect.

  I shook my head. ''No, I don't think so.'' I climbed into the Accord and started it. He hadn't walked away, but I eased away from the curb and drove down Chapel Street, watching him in the rearview mirror.

  The Rolling Stones tape was sticking out of the tape deck like a plastic tongue, and I pushed it in, trying to forget about Rocco DeLucia, but it reminded me that Vinny had been there last night and I still wondered why. I hadn't bought Rocco's explanation that ''everyone'' turned out for a crime like that. And anyway, where had Vinny gone? If he was as curious as Rocco made him sound, then he should've stuck around.

  As I crossed over Temple and then College, I slowed down a little past the Yale Art Gallery on the right and all the little shops, Starbucks, and the British art center on the left. As I got closer to the Yale Rep, I could see the little bits of yellow tape littering the street and sidewalks. But today it was business as usual; people were bustling, Yalies l
ingering in knots, car horns honking as someone took a little too long at the light at York.

  I managed to make all the lights and got to my mother's in record time. The house loomed tall in front of me, and I pulled into the driveway, staring up at the window of my old bedroom. I hoped Bill Bennett wasn't going to make my mother sell this house and move in with him.

  I rummaged in my purse for the cheat sheet so I could disengage my mother's security system without having the entire New Haven police force turn out. I unlocked the side door that led to a mudroom and quickly punched in the numbers on the keypad, standing still for a few seconds just to be on the safe side. The little button was blinking, which meant I was okay, and I pushed open the door to the kitchen.

  A week's worth of mail sat on the kitchen table, and I leafed through it, but there was nothing interesting there. A Talbot's catalog, cable bill, phone bill, and a flyer for a new pizza place a few blocks away on Whalley.

  I made my way to my mother's den and found Ira Hoffman's fax sitting in the little slot where it should be. At least I didn't have to call her back.

  As I picked it up, I looked at it—she had to know I would—but all it was was a list of names. Hispanic names, I saw when I studied them more closely. She did pro bono work sometimes with Legal Aid, but since this came from Ira Hoffman, maybe it was something else. I'd ask her about it tomorrow, even though I knew she probably wouldn't tell me anything.

  I slipped the fax into the empty metal basket and figured, while I was here, I might as well make sure everything was in order. All the houseplants had been watered recently; the dirt was moist. Lourdes had obviously been here; the house was spotless. I wiped my dirt-coated finger on my jeans and started back out, but something wasn't right.

  I turned to face the kitchen. The pantry door was ajar. If my mother came home and saw that, she'd have a fit. In four strides, I reached the door and tried to push it shut. But it was stuck. I pulled the door open and looked inside to see what was jamming it.

  Lourdes was crouched on the floor, stuffed between a bag of potatoes and a six-pack of Perrier.

  Chapter 6

  I stooped down and gave her a nudge on the shoulder. She rocked back a little, then settled again in her original position.

  Goddammit. I didn't need this today. She didn't look dead, but her eyes were closed and the skin around her jaw was slack.

  Then I thought about the odds. The odds that I'd come in contact with three dead bodies within twentyfour hours. I felt like Bloody Mary.

  A soft moan interrupted my thoughts. She stared up at me, surprise imprinted on her pupils. Thank God she was alive, but hell, what had happened to her?

  ''Are you okay, Lourdes? Can you get up?'' I asked softly, holding out my hand to her.

  Lourdes tentatively took it. I yanked her arm, and she managed to pull herself up and out of the pantry.

  ''I'm sorry,'' she whispered.

  I frowned. ''For what? What happened?''

  Lourdes shook her head. ''I thought you were a burglar.'' She had that soft Hispanic lilt in her voice, but she'd been in the country for several years and her English was very good.

  I'd been accused of many things in my lifetime, but this was a first. ''I didn't see a car out front,'' I said. I had another thought. ''The alarm was set when I got here, so I didn't think anyone was here.''

  ''I like to keep the house secure when I'm here,'' she whispered. ''Just in case.''

  A little paranoid, maybe? But I didn't say anything.

  ''My cousin brought me,'' she continued, still whispering. ''He's going to pick me up in''—she looked up at the clock—''ten minutes.''

  ''If you want, I can stay until he shows up,'' I offered.

  She shook her head again. ''No, no. I don't want to put you out.''

  But I wanted to be put out. Something didn't feel right, and it wasn't just Lourdes' chilly fingers on my forearm. ''I'm going to stay,'' I insisted.

  Lourdes straightened herself up and smoothed out the front of her button-down white shirt. I was more than a head taller than she was, and I looked down on her sleek black hair pulled into a long braid that snaked down her back. My mother had told me she was Cuban and most definitely legal. I trusted my mother had checked that out, her being a thorough attorney and all. Another Westville lawyer had lost out on becoming the country's first woman attorney general because she'd neglected to pay her nanny Social Security wages. No way would my mother allow herself to follow in those footsteps.

  ''If you think someone's breaking in,'' I admonished, ''you might want to call nine-one-one.'' I indicated the phone that still sat in its cradle on the counter next to the pantry. ''You could've just brought it in there with you.''

  But Lourdes' eyes were skirting around me and out the window, where I turned to see a green Honda Civic pulling up against the curb. The driver's face was obscured by the shadow of a big maple tree with fledgling leaves, and a short honk indicated he wasn't going to wait long.

  ''He's early,'' I said, but she wasn't listening.

  Lourdes almost knocked me down as she squeezed

  past me. ''Thank you, but I'm fine,'' she said, her voice stronger now as she threw open the door and rushed to the waiting car.

  I watched from the window as she climbed inside. But the car sat there, idling, and I could see the driver's face was angry as his mouth moved. I could only see the back of Lourdes' head.

  Worried that it could get uglier, I stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind me and walking to my car in the driveway but not taking my eyes off the Civic. I took my cell phone out of my purse, just in case.

  The driver saw me then. He got out of the car. A bandanna was wrapped around his head and a scar ran down the length of his cheek. He wasn't very tall, but he was solid, like a Rottweiler, and his hands were knotted into tight fists that I was sure could do some serious damage. This was not a guy to fuck with, and my fingers moved against my phone, flipping the cover up.

  He took a step toward me, but before he could go further, a white BMW slid up behind the Civic and Rocco DeLucia threw his door open and got out, standing in the street, daring the guy to move.

  For a long second we all stared at each other, then, finally, Rocco said, ''Time to go, isn't it?''

  The driver scowled but got back in the Civic and peeled off, leaving a stream of exhaust behind him. Rocco beckoned. ''We don't have much time,'' he said loudly, opening the passenger door to his BMW.

  I had no idea what he was up to, but hell, why not? I sprinted to the car, slid onto the black leather seat, and closed the door at the same time Rocco floored it and we careened in the same direction as the Civic. I had managed to pull on my seat belt when I saw the Civic up ahead.

  ''There it is,'' I said, like I should be surprised the Beemer could move faster than the old shitcan I owned. Hell, the Civic we were following was newer than my Accord. I thought of Dick Whitfield's Prius and wondered what sort of financial choices I should be making these days. I wasn't getting any younger, and driving a fourteen-year-old car with over two hundred thousand miles on it indicated that I wasn't progressing the way I'd thought I would when I started out in my twenties.

  But instead of dwelling on what could be pretty depressing, I eyed the Civic and asked, ''What're we doing?''

  ''I don't like the look of him,'' Rocco said softly.

  No shit. Who would?

  ''Do you know him?'' Rocco asked.

  I shrugged. ''Lourdes says he's her cousin.''

  ''Who's Lourdes?''

  ''My mother's cleaning lady.''

  ''That's your mother's house?''

  ''Yeah.''

  He was quiet for a second. ''Do you think she's telling the truth? Lourdes, I mean, about him being her cousin.''

  I wasn't sure. Her reaction certainly didn't indicate there was any real familial love going around. ''What are we going to do when they stop?''

  Rocco grinned. ''Who the hell knows? All I know is, Arnie would follow them
after that.''

  ''Arnie?''

  He blushed a little. Really. ''Arnie Fawkes. He's the cop in my books.''

  ''Do you usually think he's a real person?'' I began to wonder about his state of mind.

  ''He is real,'' Rocco said, taking one of his hands off the steering wheel and tapping his head with his forefinger. ''He's up here. All the time.''

  Oh, Christ. Vinny never told me his brother was schizo. But then again, Rocco's books were on bestseller lists with regularity. I'd even read one after Vinny told me about his brother, and it was pretty damn good, although a little overwritten, in my own opinion.