''Tom,'' I called out into the hallway. ''Come here.''
His face was flushed when he rushed in. ''What's wrong?'' he asked, worry lines creasing his forehead.
I told him about the fax.
He snorted. ''You called me in here over a fax?''
I shrugged. ''It's the only thing that's missing.''
He looked at me like I had three heads. Okay, so maybe it did sound a little crazy, but all I had to do was call my mother and ask her. Tom followed me into the kitchen, where the phone number of the resort was stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. My mother was a creature of habit.
When I got her on the phone, my mother's voice was relaxed, and she almost drawled her words. What the hell were they giving her in those little umbrella drinks, anyway?
''Hey, Mom, it's me.''
''Didn't the fax arrive?'' A twinge of anxiety tainted her vacation mode.
I quickly told her about the break-in. ''Tom called me right away,'' I said without giving her a chance to say anything. ''Everything looks like it's here. But the fax, well, it was here earlier, and now it's gone.''
''I'll call Ira.'' If she'd been taken over by a pod person earlier, she'd shaken it off now. This was the voice I knew, the one that won lawsuits and put criminals behind bars. It also verified my suspicion that the fax was what the burglar had been after. ''I want you to do something you might not want to do,'' she said then. ''But it's important that you do it. Immediately.'' She paused. I waited. ''Call Vinny. Vinny has to know.'' And before I could ask her anything, she hung up.
I stared at the phone in my hand.
''What'd she say?'' Tom's voice rang in my ear.
I put the receiver back in its cradle. ''She's going to call Ira Hoffman.'' I didn't know why I didn't tell him she wanted me to call Vinny, but something told me not to. ''This fax was what they were after. She thinks that, too.''
Tom ran a hand through his blond hair. ''Okay. If that's it, then I'm going to get going. I sent the security guard back. But you might want to get that window fixed up so no one else can get in.''
I nodded. ''Sure.''
I walked him out the kitchen door. ''Thanks for coming,'' I said. ''You didn't have to.''
''I heard the address on the radio when the security company called it in. Figured I might as well check it out myself. I wasn't too far away.''
Tom's apartment was on Fountain Street, just a few blocks from my mother's.
''Thanks again,'' I said as he climbed into his Impala.
But he didn't drive off right away. He sat there, looking at me for a few seconds before asking, ''You okay?''
All I could think about was how I had to get rid of him and call Vinny. Call Vinny. After four months, I had a direct order from my mother to do what I'd wanted to do for most of that time but didn't have the balls to after the scene I'd caused.
I thought quickly. ''What about you? What's going on with Rodriguez? Do you have any idea who might have killed him?''
The change of subject threw him. He shook his head, and I could see him trying to come up with something to say, but he finally just gave up. ''I can't talk about it. You know that.'' He started the engine and backed out of the driveway. I waved like fucking Donna Reed before walking back into the house, clutching my phone so tightly I was sure it would become embedded in my palm.
For some reason, I found myself climbing the stairs and standing in my old bedroom again. I glared at Jim Morrison, who looked at me with a sort of reproach, like it was my fault I'd grown up and left him behind.
I turned my back on the poster, staring out the window, listening to Vinny's cell phone ring.
''So to what do I owe this pleasure?'' Vinny must have seen my number on his phone. But he didn't sound pissed; his voice was playful, and it brought back a memory that I shoved out of the way. I had to stay focused.
''My mother asked me to call.''
''That's what all the girls say.'' He was teasing me, flirting with me, and I felt myself getting warm all over.
''No, really,'' I said, struggling to remember this was business. ''Her house got broken into.''
''Did you call the police?'' I could hear the sudden tenseness in his voice, the concern.
''Tom was here, but he left. I'm here. My mother said to call you. The fax is missing, the one Ira Hoffman sent earlier. She seemed to think you needed to know that, and you must know what I'm talking about, right?''
Silence for a second, then, ''Yeah, Annie, I know what you're talking about.''
''What was it, Vinny? Looked like just a bunch of names.''
''You saw it?'' His indignation came through loud and clear.
''My mother asked me to make sure it got here. What's it all about?''
''It's been nice chatting. We have to do this again sometime. See ya.'' And the phone went dead. I pulled it away from my ear and stared at it, like it would somehow miraculously bring Vinny back. But I would need Madame Shara, the psychic who rented an office above his on Trumbull Street, for that. I was a mere mortal.
I went back down the stairs and into the kitchen. The glass was scattered all over the floor. Who the hell was I going to find to fix that window? I had to get back to work, but Tom was right. I couldn't leave it like that.
I knew only one person who might be able to help me. Who might be inclined to help me. I flipped my phone open again and dialed a familiar number.
''Hey, Dad, it's me,'' I said when I heard his big ''Hello.'' He was in Vegas, but I knew he could still pull some strings in New Haven if he needed to. He knew everyone, everyone knew him, and someone usually owed him a favor.
''Hi, sweetheart, how's it going?''
I told him about the break-in.
''You're there now? And they only took a fax?''
''Yes to both questions. But I need to get the window fixed up so no one else can get in, and you know how handy I am with a hammer.'' I was referring to the time when I accidentally broke my big toe while trying to build a tree house with him.
He chuckled. ''I'll take care of it. Let me make a call, and I'll call you back.''
I still didn't like that my father could ''take care of'' things, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
Not even two minutes later, my phone rang.
''Louie and his boys will be there in half an hour. You can let them in, but you can leave them alone if you want. They won't do anything but fix the window.''
I knew that. That was the world my father knew and I'd come to know just a few months earlier. Louie and ''his boys'' would get paid well for their work, and my mother probably would never even be able to tell the window had been broken.
I said good-bye to my father and went into my mother's den to wait. I figured Marty probably was wondering where I was, so I punched his number into my phone.
''What's up?'' he asked.
''I should be there in half an hour, forty-five minutes,'' I said after explaining the situation as vaguely as I could. ''I talked to Tom, but he won't tell me shit about Rodriguez. I'll give it another shot later.''
His silence told me he was disappointed. ''Maybe you need to talk to Sam O'Neill on this one. He's acting chief now, and he was there. He could give you an eyewitness account.''
''Okay, I'll make some calls while I'm here,'' I said.
It was easier said than done. I struck out trying to get Sam on the phone and was mulling my next step when I saw the pickup truck pull up outside. Louie and his boys—all two of them—proceeded to clomp up the steps in their work boots and get down to business without much more than a nod hello.
I didn't want to stick around. They were measuring the door and I could hear mumbling about ''Home Depot'' and ''new door.'' I told them if they had to replace the lock, they should leave the new key in the bird feeder in the backyard and I'd come to get it later. I got a couple of nods, an ''okay,'' and I left them to their work.
Chapter 11
There was too much going on. First, the missing fax,
which was being attended to by Vinny, whom I'd seen at the shooting the night before, along with his brother, Rocco, who knew Marisol Gomez, who had seen a body dumped into the harbor—most likely the same body I'd seen later that had some sort of bee stings on it—and she also knew the guy who shot at Tom and Sam. And then there was the dead police chief.
I felt like I was playing Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon. Except I was missing Kevin Bacon.
I knew I had to go back to the paper and follow up on the Rodriguez shooting, but now my head was wrapped around my mother's break-in and the stolen fax. What the hell was so important on that fax? I wondered if a quick stop at Vinny's office might not be in order.
Granted, he could be at home—it was Saturday, after all—but as much as my mother was a creature of habit, so was Vinny, and all his investigative stuff was in his office. So even if he'd been home when I called about the fax, he probably went to his office after we talked.
I pulled in front of the brownstone on Trumbull Street, noting Vinny's Explorer in the lot in the back as I passed the driveway.
I peered out at the door, hoping that Madame Shara, who will read anyone's palm for a price, wasn't lurking somewhere. She'd managed to pull me up to her ''office'' a few months ago and scared the shit out of me. I still wasn't sure if her predictions had come true.
The coast was clear. At least I thought it was. So I got out of my car and ambled up the stairs.
I had to ring his bell, and through the muted glass I saw the door to his office open. He stopped when he saw me, but it was only a second of hesitation. I was watching for it, otherwise I probably wouldn't have seen it.
''I should've figured you'd drop by,'' he drawled as he held the door open for me.
He let me lead the way back to his office, which was as immaculate as usual. Vinny was a fucking neat freak. I was always half tempted to cart in some dust bunnies just to feel at home.
He stepped around me and behind his desk, where he dropped into his chair, leaned forward, and folded his hands in front of him. ''I can't tell you about the fax. So you wasted a trip.''
I sat on the leather couch across from him and tried not to remember a particular night when I had found myself in this exact spot after an evening of sidecars and music. And the way Vinny was smiling, I could see he was remembering, too.
But I wasn't here for that. At least not right now. ''Come on, Vinny, my mother got burgled, for Chrissakes. What the hell's going on?''
The smile disappeared, replaced by real concern. ''And the sooner you forget anything you saw on that fax, the safer it'll be for you, too.''
I frowned. ''Jesus, Vinny. Is my mother in danger?''
He shook his head quickly. ''Oh, no, don't worry about her. I've got it covered.'' And as he said it, I knew he was going to watch out for her. Like he'd watched out for me on a few occasions. But it only increased my worry and curiosity.
I decided to change the subject. ''What's your brother up to?''
He was genuinely confused. ''What do you mean?''
''He's been following me around.''
Vinny chuckled. ''Oh, that. He's got some ridiculous plot for his next book that has to do with a reporter. He's just doing his research.''
''I don't think that's all.''
''Why not?''
I wasn't sure just how much to say. Should I tell him about Rocco and Marisol Gomez?
Vinny saw my hesitation. ''Spit it out, Annie.''
I told him how Rocco had followed me to my mother's and then our trip into Fair Haven. But I only got as far as mentioning Marisol before Vinny slid back his chair and stood, his hand up, indicating I should stop.
''That doesn't mean anything,'' he said, but I could see something was going on in that head of his. It sure as hell meant something. ''I wouldn't worry about it. Like I said, Rocco's working on a book and he always gets a little weird.''
Vinny's hand was under my arm, lifting me up off the couch and moving me toward the door. ''I've got some work to do, and I think you probably do, too.''
He stopped then, his face inches away. I could feel his breath on my cheek, his fingers moving between mine in a more intimate way. And he kissed me. Really kissed me, like he used to. Like nothing had ever happened between us.
But as I moved into him—reflex, really—he pulled away. ''I'll call you later,'' he said, his voice gruff as he dismissed me, turning back to his desk.
I stood for a second, watching him, before I stepped into the hallway and back out into the day.
* * *
Dick Whitfield was at his desk, his fingers moving across his keyboard. Damn. While I was preoccupied with my mother's fax and Vinny's lips, Dick was going to continue to ride this train to its inevitable destination: more status in the newsroom for him, less for me.
I threw my bag on my desk and noticed the red light blinking on my phone. A voice mail.
''Miss Seymour, if you really want to find out who shot Rodriguez, you should talk to your boyfriend. He knows what really happened, even if he says he can't tell you.''
The voice was muffled, deep, and I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. But obviously it was someone who knew about me and Tom, and knew that Tom could give me some answers.
I saved the message and hung up.
''So where are we?'' Marty's voice startled me, and I stiffened.
''Jesus, Marty, don't sneak up on me,'' I said, stalling, because I really didn't know where we were or what we had.
''Dick's back from the hospital. The guy the cops shot is in intensive care in a coma.''
Go figure. Dick really did have a source at the hospital.
''What have you been able to find out?''
Marty's eyes bore into mine, and I felt like a loser. I hadn't found out shit.
''Maybe you need to go talk to Rodriguez's wife.''
This was the dreaded ''call the dead boy's mother'' request, the one every reporter hated but the one every editor had to make. He was right, but it sucked, and how the hell was I going to get in to talk to her since all the TV people were probably camped out on her doorstep, waiting for her to emerge?
''Just go see her,'' Marty said. ''Didn't you talk to her when you interviewed Rodriguez?''
I had, but he'd been alive then. She hadn't seen him gunned down in front of her. That changed things, but Marty didn't seem to think it was a problem, since he was heading back to his desk, confident in his assignment, confident that I could get her story.
I had my doubts.
Tony Rodriguez and his wife lived in a tidy condominium that backed up to the river in Fair Haven Heights on Quinnipiac Avenue. They didn't have any children, and I hadn't felt it was anyone's business why not so I hadn't asked. His wife, Lin, was Chinese and a scientist at Yale. She did something with bugs and genetics, but it was all over my head. I'd set a wastebasket on fire during my baby chemistry class in college—that pretty much summed up my science background.
The couple met at Woolsey Hall at a concert seven years ago and married only months later. I'd been struck by how comfortable they were together, but you never know what goes on behind closed doors.
And as I stood in the parking lot in front of their building, debating how I was going to present myself, I could see their door was most definitely closed.
Only one TV van graced the parking lot. Channel 9. Dick Whitfield's girlfriend, Cindy Purcell, was leaning against the side of the van, chatting with the camera guy as I approached. They both looked up at the same time.
''She won't come out.'' Cindy pouted, her bright red lips making her look like a deranged Marilyn Monroe.
''Have you said 'please'?'' I asked rather nastily. I went past them, noticing the smirk on the cameraman's face.
I rang the bell and heard footsteps, but the door stayed shut. I thought I saw a shadow cross the peephole. ''I'm Annie Seymour with the Herald,'' I said loudly. ''Mrs. Rodriguez knows me; we spoke last week.''
The curtain fluttered in the window next to the do
or. I waited for a minute or so, and just as I was going to call it quits, I heard the sound of the door unlocking. It opened a crack and two eyes stared out at me.
''You're alone?'' whispered a voice.
''Yeah,'' I said, glancing back at Cindy and her cameraman. They were watching me, but not attempting to come closer. I would've, and I knew then why Cindy Purcell was still in the station's New Haven newsroom and not at the main one in Hartford.
Dead of the Day (2007) Page 8