Dead of the Day (2007)

by Karen E. Olson

''Your friend? No, it was the man who dumped the body. I started to run, and ran right into your friend on James Street. He asked me what was wrong. I told him. At first I didn't think he believed me, but we got in his car and he took me home. He said I should call the police.'' She was curling a lock of hair around her finger so tightly I thought she'd cut off circulation.

  ''Did you?''

  She shrugged. ''Why would they believe me?''

  ''Because a body was fished out of the harbor yesterday. You're a witness. You need to tell the police.''

  She shook her head. ''No, I can't.''

  I stared at her. ''Are you here legally, Marisol?''

  She frowned. ''That's what he asked me, too.''

  ''Who?''

  ''Your friend.''

  ''Why did you tell him what you saw?''

  Marisol sighed. ''I was afraid. I thought maybe he would call the police for me, tell them so I wouldn't have to be involved. He wasn't from the neighborhood.''

  Made sense. Everyone here seemed to know everyone else, not to mention that a lot of them were related to each other in some way or another. And if she wasn't legal—she hadn't answered my question— the last thing she'd do would be to go to the cops herself.

  I found myself getting pissed at Rocco. Even though he claimed he was following me so he could research his next book, he obviously had a big fucking story already. What did he need me for? Or did he have something even bigger in mind?

  ''Why did you tell him it wasn't safe at your house?'' I asked.

  ''Too many people might wonder how we knew each other.'' She gave me a small smile. ''And I didn't want Hector to start asking questions. He gets upset.''

  ''Your brother?''

  She bit her lip and shrugged.

  I wouldn't want to piss him off, either. She twisted another curl. This girl was wound tighter than a fucking clock.

  ''You should call the police, tell them what you saw, regardless of your situation,'' I advised. ''I have a friend who's a detective. He would make sure no one would know who gave them the information.'' I pulled my notebook out of my purse and wrote Tom's cell number on a sheet, ripped it out, and handed it to her.

  She shrank from it like I was offering her a goddamn poisoned apple.

  ''It's okay.'' I tried to sound reassuring. ''Tell him I told you to call.''

  Marisol reluctantly took the paper and clutched it. ''But what if he doesn't believe me?''

  ''He will,'' I said, then thought about something else. ''You didn't by chance see any bees down there, did you?''

  ''Bees?'' Her tone was incredulous, like mine would be if someone had asked me that.

  ''Forget about it,'' I said. ''Were you close enough so you could identify the man who dumped the body?''

  ''I don't know,'' she mumbled, her eyes moving past my face now, and I would be willing to bet she could pick him out in a lineup.

  I wondered what was up with Rocco. I hadn't had time to follow up on the floater, so I didn't know if he'd called the cops himself with this information after talking to Marisol. And if he hadn't, I wanted to know why not, because it would've been the civic-duty thing to do. I was going to have to track him down and grill him about this.

  She was asking me a question.

  ''The guy who's in the hospital? The one who shot at those police? Do you know anything about how he is?''

  The change of subject jarred me out of my thoughts about Rocco.

  I shook my head. ''I don't know his name, which is a problem. No one can get information about a patient at the hospital without a name, and the cops haven't told me anything.''

  There was something about her expression that made me ask my next question.

  ''You wouldn't know who he is, would you?''

  She chewed on her lip for a second and shrugged. ''I didn't know last night, when you saw me. Really, I didn't.''

  I felt my heart start to pound. Now this was more like it. This is how I should react when faced with the prospect of getting information that no one else had. ''I don't care about that,'' I said, although I did and wanted to get back to it after she told me what she knew. ''What's his name?''

  ''He's around the neighborhood,'' she stalled. I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her, but instead kept my hands folded in front of me and waited. ''His name's Roberto. Roberto Ortiz.''

  ''Did you call the hospital and ask about him?'' I asked.

  She shook her head. ''They wouldn't tell me anything except he's in critical condition.''

  They probably wouldn't tell me anything more, either, but I could ask Tom directly now, and he might be so surprised I had a name that he would tell me without thinking about it. At least I hoped so.

  ''So why were you there last night? You're sure you didn't know what your friend was up to?'' I asked, hoping to get even more out of her.

  But something happened—she'd seen something or someone—that made her push back her chair and stand up so quickly I hardly had a chance to react. I stood up, too, but it was like a time delay as I watched the fear cross her face. She turned and fled across the restaurant, down the stairs, and out of sight.

  I glanced around but didn't see anyone acting suspiciously or going toward her. So I figured it was up to me to find out what the hell had scared her so much.

  I turned in pursuit and was immediately blocked by two women dressed in identical purple sweat suits pushing a carriage piled high with pillows, a rather large wool rug draped over the side.

  I caught my foot in the rug and sprawled across the floor as they stared at me.

  ''Oh, did you trip?'' one of them asked.

  ''No, I always like to fall on my face in the middle of a Swedish furniture store,'' I growled, hauling my ass up, pissed, knowing I wouldn't be able to catch up with Marisol now.

  They didn't even ask if I was okay as they meandered away.

  I looked around again, but all I saw was the back of the purple sweat suits and a line of people waiting to pick up a meatball lunch. No one looked out of place; no one looked threatening.

  I pulled my bag up higher onto my shoulder and winced a little as I realized I'd twisted my arm in the fall. Great. I went down the stairs and forced myself not to think about the cinnamon buns at the snack bar. Why was I so hungry?

  I stopped on the sidewalk outside, staring at the Pirelli building—an odd-looking piece of concrete that was deemed too architecturally historic for anyone to tear down, even though it would improve the landscape immensely if it wasn't there anymore.

  I hated to do it, but I needed Dick's help. He had a source at the hospital, and my source was on maternity leave. This was one of the most unpleasant things I'd ever have to do.

  * * *

  Dick was in the newsroom, a big shit-eating grin on his face, basking in the glory that only a front-page exclusive story can bring. Kevin Prisley, our city hall reporter, was chewing on a pencil as Dick's arms flailed about, telling his tale. All he needed was a goddamn bullhorn and everyone in the building could hear him.

  I grabbed one of his arms and pulled him toward the cafeteria, apologizing to Kevin, who seemed relieved to have been released from the prison that was Dick's story.

  ''What are you doing?'' Dick demanded, wrenching his arm from my hand. But I didn't stop until we were alone in the hallway, and I noticed he continued to follow me. I had that sort of hold over him.

  Either that or he thought I was going to buy him lunch. Fat chance.

  I swung around suddenly and stared him down. ''Roberto Ortiz,'' I said flatly.

  His eyebrows crinkled into a frown. ''Who?''

  He didn't know the guy's name. I had him on that one. ''The guy the cops shot last night. That's his name. We need to find out how he's doing. An address would be great. Do you think you can handle it?''

  I'd thrown down the gauntlet, and the frown disappeared. ''Ortiz?''

  I nodded.

  The grin was back, along with the cockiness. Shit. But if I wanted the information,
I was going to have to put up with it.

  ''Don't worry, Annie, I'm on top of it.''

  That was exactly what I was worried about, but I couldn't let him see that. ''Let me know as soon as you get it.'' I turned to walk away, but I felt his eyes on my back. I glanced behind me. ''What?''

  ''What are you doing?''

  ''Me?''

  ''Yeah, what angle are you working on?''

  He knew better than that. ''Just find out about Ortiz, okay?''

  I left him in the hall as I made my way back to the newsroom.

  I needed to talk to Rocco about Marisol, but I wasn't sure how to find him. He could show up on my doorstep, but I had no clue where his doorstep even was. I vaguely remembered Vinny telling me something about Ninth Square, but there were too many new apartments and condos to start knocking on doors.

  Yeah, I could break down and call Vinny, but after a four-month silence he might get a little suspicious if I started inquiring about his brother's place of residence.

  A Yahoo! white pages search turned up nothing, not that I thought Rocco would be listed anyway.

  I could drive around and look for a white Beemer. There weren't too many of those in my neighborhood.

  I was grabbing at straws.

  But then I had another thought. Maybe Rocco DeLucia had a Web site with an e-mail contact. A lot of writers have those. I punched his name into Google, and wouldn't you know. There it was. A black-andwhite picture of Rocco in a leather jacket, the collar turned up in a James Dean sort of way, the Brooklyn Bridge his backdrop. Six book covers surrounded him, the most recent one larger and touted as a New York Times best seller. It had just come out, and I was tempted to procrastinate a little and read the first chapter. But Marty was wandering the newsroom and it wouldn't be easy to explain that if he snuck up on me. I found the ''contact'' page and sent a quick e-mail, putting my name in the subject line and giving Rocco my cell number, and asked if he could call as soon as possible.

  I logged off the Internet and stared at the phone on my desk, willing it to ring.

  After a few seconds, I knew I had to have another game plan. I wasn't quite sure just what that would be, so I shoved my notebook and a couple of mechanical pencils into my bag. As I stood up to go nowhere in particular, the shrill ring of my phone scared the crap out of me.

  I sat back down. Rocco couldn't have gotten his email so quickly, and I had given him my cell number, not my work one.

  ''Newsroom,'' I said when I picked up the receiver.

  ''Annie?'' Tom's voice was higher than normal. Something was wrong.

  ''What is it, Tom?''

  ''You'd better get over here to your mother's. There's been a break-in.''

  Chapter 9

  I tried to remember if I'd set the alarm when I left my mother's house. But with Lourdes in the pantry and then her creepy cousin in the Honda, I must have forgotten. This was my fault, and I just hoped there was nothing really valuable missing.

  Who was I kidding? My mother had valuable shit all over her house, and any thief would be an idiot not to take it.

  One cop car, Tom's Chevy Impala, and a private security agency car were sitting outside my mother's house when I arrived. I pulled into the driveway. Tom was waiting for me on the front stoop.

  ''How bad is it?'' I asked when I approached him. ''Did they clean her out?''

  Tom patted the step next to him, like he wanted me to sit down, so I did. He looked at me for a couple of seconds without saying anything, then, ''It doesn't look like anything's missing at all.''

  I frowned. ''What?''

  ''Okay, I'll start from the beginning. A call came in. A neighbor saw a brown car out front, a guy going into the house. Alarm didn't go off.''

  I was right. I did forget.

  ''Smashed the window in the door, just turned the knob and got in,'' Tom continued. ''TV's still there, stereo's still there, silver's still there, looks like jewelry intact. Nothing out of place, no signs of ransacking.'' He paused. ''Does your mother have a safe or anything?''

  I shook my head. ''She keeps all her papers in her office and copies in a safe-deposit box. She never liked keeping anything here.''

  Tom stood up, and I took that as my cue we were going in. I followed him through the open side door into the kitchen, taking note of the broken glass and being careful not to step on too much of it.

  ''Don't touch anything, just in case,'' Tom warned, like I would be stupid and start putting my fingers all over everything. I know better than that; I watch CSI.

  He led me through the kitchen and watched as I went into the den. Nothing was out of place, like he'd said. The fancy iMac G5 computer that my mother had just bought sat smugly on the desk.

  ''Nothing missing here,'' I said, and now it was my turn to take the lead. I went into every room, up the stairs, and into my mother's bedroom where I looked through her jewelry box. She didn't have much, but the few gold and silver pieces she did own were there. I closed the box, noting the TV in this room was still there as well as the one downstairs.

  Tom had gone into another room, and I reluctantly followed him.

  He stood in my old bedroom, the one my mother felt obligated to keep as it was when I was in high school. The rest of the house had been updated, but every time I went into my old room, it was like walking into a time warp. Why she never did anything with this room was beyond me—I didn't care about that stuff anymore—but she felt oddly sentimental about a time in my life that had been the worst time of my life.

  It explained a lot about our relationship.

  The poster of Jim Morrison and the Doors elicited a chuckle.

  ''Don't say a fucking thing,'' I hissed.

  Tom bit his lip, trying not to laugh, as his eyes scanned the room, falling next on my bookshelves that housed In Cold Blood, Helter Skelter, and—God help me—Love Story and Jonathan Livingston Seagull.

  A pile of record albums was stacked in a milk crate, and Tom glanced at the one on top. John Denver's Greatest Hits. He raised his eyebrows at me.

  ''Shit, Tom, I got that when I was twelve.''

  ''So your mother has been away how long?'' I was grateful he changed the subject, but he didn't leave the room. I was feeling some pretty bad karma in here, and I wanted to get out before my ghost of teenage past decided to come back and offer me a bong hit.

  I took a step backward, toward the door. ''They've been gone a week. They're back tomorrow.''

  ''They?''

  ''She's with Bill Bennett.'' I sighed, wishing it weren't so but not able to do anything about it. ''She called me this morning, asked me to come by and check for a fax. It was here. I saw her cleaning lady, and then the cleaning lady got in a car with a creepy guy and took off.'' I didn't want to tell him that Rocco was here, too, and we'd followed Lourdes. That might make it a little too complicated, and it didn't seem altogether relevant. I took another step toward the hall.

  ''You were here this morning? And your mother's cleaning lady?''

  ''Yeah, but obviously someone broke the window after we left.'' I paused. ''Did anyone call my mother?''

  ''I told the security guy to wait for you to get here,'' Tom said. ''She might not panic so much if you break the news to her.''

  I took a deep breath. ''I'd better call her then.'' I used that as my excuse to step out of my childhood room. Tom followed me back downstairs.

  I went into the den to call her. Tom went into the kitchen to talk to the security guard, tell him everything was okay and he could leave.

  As I dialed my mother's cell number, I realized that wasn't the number she'd given me this morning. And when the call didn't go through, I knew her cell must not be working in Aruba. I looked around on her desk to see if she'd left any numbers there, but didn't see any.

  The kitchen. She'd always left her contact numbers for me on the refrigerator, so I started toward the door.

  But my brain caught hold of something and made me stop and turn.

  The fax that I'd checke
d for earlier was gone.

  Chapter 10

  I tried to remember what had been on that fax. A bunch of names, that's all. None of them were memorable, except that they were all Hispanic. And I distinctly recalled leaving it in the metal basket. No one else had been here since then—except for the person who broke in and took nothing.

  Maybe.

  I got on my hands and knees to look under the desk, just in case it had fallen. But there was nothing on the floor. My knees creaked as I pulled myself back up—for Chrissakes, I wasn't that old yet, was I—and wondered why someone would break a window, risk setting off an alarm, to get a fax. The original was in Ira Hoffman's office; why not just go after that?