I plopped down in the chair, and as I did, knocked the base of my thumb against its arm. A thousand needles of pain shot through my hand and up my arm, and I felt tears run uncontrollably down my cheeks.
Marty and Dick just stared. Charlie sat back, a look of astonishment on his face.
''I didn't mean anything by that,'' he tried lamely.
I held up my hand, showing them the bandage. ''I hit my hand on the chair,'' I said. ''Yesterday, while Rosario Ortiz was getting stuffed in my trunk, I was in the emergency room getting stitches after falling on a broken bottle.''
''So you don't know what happened?'' Charlie asked.
I glared at him. He shouldn't even have asked me that. Marty knew what I was thinking. He was perched at the edge of his chair, and I could see the stress in his forehead. I didn't want to make Marty tense, but Charlie was new around here. He didn't know me yet, didn't know that I didn't lie and that I owned up when I fucked up.
''I don't think Annie would kill someone and put her in her trunk,'' Marty said slowly, as if to a child.
It was not lost on Charlie. He frowned at Marty, his attention now completely off me as he perceived insubordination.
''You know they were illegal,'' I butted in, owing Marty one for sticking up for me.
That got Charlie's attention. ''Who?''
''Rosario Ortiz and her brother. And something's going on down there in that warehouse. A sweatshop, I hear.''
Now all eyes were on me, but they weren't angry anymore. I'd piqued their curiosity.
''Where did you hear that?'' Charlie asked.
He was always asking things he shouldn't. I shrugged. ''Let's just say an anonymous source.''
''But we can't rely on that,'' he said. ''We can't have anonymous sources.''
Who was this guy? Anonymous sources were like gold to journalists, and we should be able to nurture them so they'd continue to talk.
Granted, I'd have to find out if Rocco could be believed, but between his information and my mother's questions the night before, I tended to think he wasn't bullshitting me.
''Let's just say it's a reliable source,'' I said. ''I'll make sure I get it confirmed.''
Charlie Simmons leaned back in his chair and studied my face for a few seconds. It was a creepy feeling to have his eyes running all over me, and I shivered on reflex.
''I've heard about you,'' he said then, breaking the silence. ''You'd better be careful.''
I wondered if he knew his boss was sleeping with my mother. I figured I had pretty good job security as long as I didn't screw up completely.
''What else do you know, Annie?'' Marty asked.
I thought a second. ''I know that Tony Rodriguez was working on something with Homeland Security down at the port.'' David Welden would kill me if I spilled the beans about the bees, so I only added, ''But I haven't gotten that confirmed yet. I'm working on it.'' I glanced at my hand. ''Well, I will be working on it.''
I was just about to tell them about Rocco's rumor about the raid, but a tap on the door made us all jump. I looked up to see my mother's boyfriend, Bill Bennett, our publisher, pushing the door open. He looked from Charlie to Marty and then finally at me. He tried half a smile but it turned out as more of a grimace. ''Am I interrupting anything?''
Charlie shook his head. ''Just asking Annie about why a body was found in her car.'' He said it so matter-of-factly.
And Bill just nodded, like all his reporters ended up with bodies in their cars at some point. ''Okay, but can I have a sec?'' he asked Charlie.
Marty and I stood up and filed quietly out of the office. Bill closed the door, and we were safe again.
I took a deep breath. ''He doesn't really think I had anything to do with that, does he?'' I asked Marty.
Now, finally out of the clutches of his new boss, Marty chuckled. ''Come on, Annie, that would be going too far, even for you.'' He paused. ''So can you get it confirmed? You know, about the warehouse being a sweatshop?''
I nodded. ''Sure,'' I said, even though I wasn't exactly sure how. I also wanted to find out about Rosario Ortiz and whether she was moonlighting over there when she wasn't working at the Herald. That could explain why her body was found there. Maybe she knew something about her brother and how he'd shot at the cops. Something that could've killed her.
But Marty's voice interrupted me, throwing me for a loop.
''You know you're off the story, right? Just get this confirmed for us; I can get Dick to work on it after that.''
I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. I knew he was right to take me off it, but it still felt damn awful. ''What about Rodriguez?''
Marty shook his head. ''The kid in your trunk was the sister of the guy who shot at the cops that night. Maybe he didn't kill Rodriguez, but it's too close for comfort for me. We can't have a conflict of interest like that.''
I took a deep breath. ''So what am I working on?''
Marty glanced at my hand, then shrugged. ''Take a couple of sick days, okay? Rest up and chill out. Dick can do the dirty work. Then, if you come back at the end of the week, maybe some of this will be resolved and you can get back to your job.''
I looked around the newsroom and saw Dick on the phone at his desk. Maybe I should just quit now.
But then I thought about Rosario—how pretty she'd been, how young. She'd had her whole life ahead of her. Yeah, she may have been here illegally, but she was working, waiting for her green card like so many were. Maybe I wasn't going to be writing the story now, but I had to find out what happened.
Because whoever killed her had made it personal for me. I may have had some issues with that car, but it was mine.
I wanted to talk to Marisol Gomez again. I needed to ask her about Hector. Since he'd been at the warehouse, she probably knew about the sweatshop, too. And while I didn't have her phone number, I knew where she lived, thanks to Rocco.
The rain was still coming down in sheets. April showers, my ass. More like April monsoon. It had only been two days, but I was beginning to hate that yellow slicker. Not to mention the fact that my hair, unruly at best, was looking like a real rat's nest with the humidity.
Marty had had a funny look on his face when I left; he knew I wasn't going to go home and learn how to knit or anything while I ''chilled out.'' But he also knew that if I found out anything, I'd call him and let him know. So he hadn't said anything.
The Kia's steering was a little loose. I wasn't used to an automatic; I kept trying to press in the clutch. And the White Stripes were getting on my nerves with all that drumming. I slipped out the CD and put in the other one Vinny had lent me. It was okay, but I missed Mick Jagger. Singing in my car calmed me down, and if I ever needed calming, I needed it today. Unfamiliar tunes meant no singing.
I turned off Grand Avenue and onto Blatchley, but slowed down when I saw another car in front of Marisol's house—a city car, I could tell by the license plate. I eased the Kia against the curb a block up and decided I'd wait and see who was making a visit this afternoon.
I didn't have to wait too long, and that was a good thing because this CD was less entertaining than the other. I was going to have to stop at Cutler's later and restock. It wouldn't be a waste, since I was going to have to buy a new car anyway and I might as well get a CD player this time around.
I squinted as I watched the front door swing open, and a tall figure stepped out on the stoop. But I couldn't see his face; it was obscured by a rain slicker not unlike my own except that it was olive green. He started down the steps, but suddenly a child darted out and scrambled down the stairs.
Marisol rushed out behind the child, caught it on the sidewalk, and picked it up. I'm not good about kids, guessing how old they are, but I figured this one had to be about two or so. Marisol cradled the child close—I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl, either, since it was wearing unisex clothes and had short hair—while the figure met her on the walk. Marisol didn't seem to realize it was raining as she reached up to the
figure's face.
In a swift move, the hood fell back and, before he kissed her—it was a pretty intense kiss—I recognized him.
It was Sam O'Neill.
Chapter 21
A million questions bounced around in my head. What was up with this? Obviously they had a relationship. Was he also the father of the child? And if they were a couple, why didn't she talk to him after she saw the body being tossed in the harbor?
Sam had been at the Yale Rep that night, too, with Rodriguez and his wife. It was a double date, wasn't it? But Marisol hadn't been dressed for a night at the theatre. Maybe he'd been stepping out on her and she was stalking him.
Problem with being a crime reporter is that I see the worst in every situation.
I didn't like all the loose ends. I also didn't want Sam to see me sitting here, spying on him. I scootched down in my seat, started to pull my hood over my head, then thought better of it. With the bright yellow I might as well just put up a billboard announcing my presence.
The kiss lasted a good couple of minutes, then Sam climbed into the car and Marisol dashed up the stairs and into the house with the child firmly attached to her hip. Sam drove away in the opposite direction; I was happy he wasn't going to pass me.
And, in an instant, I made a decision.
I started up the engine and pulled away from the curb and into the street after Sam.
Sure, he might just be going back to police headquarters. But it wouldn't hurt to find out.
And when he turned left, I knew he wasn't going back. Not yet, anyway.
At one point when I'd been following him, Vinny had told me I'd make a lousy private detective, so I tried to be a little more savvy this time around. Sam was a cop, after all. So I made sure I kept at least four car lengths behind him, and at one intersection even let someone get between us.
A few turns, a few stop signs, and a couple of lights later, I saw we were heading toward East Haven via the Tomlinson Bridge. This bridge ran parallel to the Quinnipiac River bridge, but below it. At this hour, there was little traffic, and I worried he was going to notice me. I stayed back even farther until I saw him hang a right, to the port.
I slowed down, since following him would be even more obvious here. But I was going too slow. An 18wheeler pulled out between us, and I lost sight of Sam.
I peered out through the windshield wipers and finally spotted him turning right into a restricted-access parking lot next to one of the terminals. The truck in front of me kept going as the Rio was now at a snail's pace going past the lot. I glanced down through the chain-link fence and saw the back of Sam's car disappear around the terminal building.
I wasn't going to find out shit now. I couldn't get past the gate, and if I tried going into the terminal, Sam might see me or find out I was here, and how the hell would I explain that?
There might be a perfectly good explanation as to why Sam was here. But I still couldn't figure out about Sam and Marisol.
As I drove back out toward the main road, I found myself glancing down toward the water between the terminals and the big fuel-storage tanks that dotted the landscape. A large cargo ship was docked at Gate way, probably unloading the fuel it was carrying. Piles of scrap metal rose like jagged hills.
Movement in the corner of my eye made me turn back to the road, and I slammed on my brakes before I hit another 18-wheeler—a different one this time— coming right at me. He honked, the sound reverberating through the cheap metal that now surrounded me, and I swerved to one side as he passed me.
I was too distracted, and I certainly didn't want to get myself killed.
I watched the road more carefully as I made my way back over the Tomlinson and headed downtown.
I had no idea what I should do first. I didn't want to go back to Marisol's until I could figure out the Sam situation.
I still had to confirm that the warehouse was a sweatshop. That was really the only official assignment I had. But I wanted more information about Rosario Ortiz.
A gunshot wound, according to Kevin Prisley's story. She didn't deserve that. I went over my conversation with her and remembered she'd mentioned Hector and a woman named Lucille. I wondered who Lucille was and if anyone would be willing to talk about her. Rosario hadn't wanted to talk about her.
It dawned on me that maybe someone found out Rosario had talked to me. Granted, she hadn't told me much, but maybe the third party didn't know that. While it was my job to get information out of people, I didn't like it that sometimes they got into trouble— or worse—for talking to me. I hoped that hadn't been the case this time. I didn't want to feel responsible for her death.
I decided to go back to the Herald's mailroom and see if anyone could shed any light on why someone would want to see Rosario dead.
I didn't take my usual route into the newsroom when I got to the paper—I didn't want Marty to catch wind that I was here—but followed another hallway around to the back of the mailroom. The machines were running, putting the inserts together, and the din filled my ears. I pushed the door open and it got louder. As I watched the workers silently pulling and pushing and creating piles, I wondered how they could stand it. But as I looked closer, many of them wore ear buds with white wires stretching down under their aprons. Probably iPods.
They'd all be deaf before they turned thirty.
Garrett Poore, the supervisor, saw me, frowned, and walked over to me as I stood by the door.
''What do you want this time?'' he asked, leading me back out into the hall where it was quieter.
''I was wondering if I could ask you about Rosario Ortiz,'' I said.
He shrugged. ''Too bad about her,'' he said, but I couldn't see any sign that he was really sorry she was dead.
''I heard she didn't have her green card yet,'' I said.
He narrowed his eyes at me, like he was trying to figure out if I had a tape recorder on me.
''I'm just trying to find out stuff about her, like where she was from, where she lived, what her situation was,'' I said. ''This isn't going into the paper.''
Garrett took a deep breath. ''No, she didn't have her card yet. But she was waiting. She had a sponsor. In fact, her sponsor has helped a couple of the girls here. But they have their green cards now, so when we hired Rosario, we knew it was just a matter of time,'' he added quickly.
''Was that Lucille?''
He seemed a little surprised that I knew her name, but he recovered quickly. ''Yes, that's the name.''
''You've never talked to Lucille?''
''No. I've just heard about her. The girls like her, say she's like their mom here.''
''Can I talk to them?'' I asked. ''The girls?''
He glanced back into the mailroom through the window in the door, then looked at me again and shrugged. ''Okay, sure, why not?'' And he opened the door, letting me walk through first.
Eyes followed us as we walked across the room, stopping at two young women, maybe in their early twenties. Garrett introduced them as Luisa and Carmen.
''Tell her about Rosario,'' he told them. I don't think he thought I saw it, but he gave them a wink before he turned away and went back to his post.
Wondering what that was about, I studied the women in front of me. Both sported thick, curly hair pulled up into ponytails, dark eyes, and olive skin. Luisa was painfully thin—bordering on a serious food issue it looked like—while Carmen was thick around the middle. Not in the way a pregnant woman is, but that apple versus pear shape thing you hear about. She probably had battled her weight her whole life.
''Do either of you know any reason why anyone would kill Rosario?'' I asked.
They exchanged a look, their eyes coming back to me at the same second. Luisa shook her head. ''She just wanted to work, get her green card, and find her own place with her brother.''
Carmen stifled a sob at the mention of Roberto. Was he more to her than just someone they worked with?
''Their own place?'' I asked. ''Where were they living?''
; Again with the look between them. They certainly weren't sure just how much to tell me, and I wondered again about Garrett's wink. Maybe it was him I should be pressing for information. He was watching us closely, even though he was pretending to be interested in one of the inserts coming through the machines.
''Where did Rosario live?'' I asked again when neither of them answered.
Carmen bit her lip and shrugged. ''Lucille takes care of us. She gets us a place to live, a job.''
''Does she help you get to New Haven?'' I asked.
It was Luisa's turn. ''I had a cousin here already.''
Dead of the Day (2007) Page 15