My heart began to pound in an unfortunately familiar way as I opened the car door. On impulse, I grabbed the flashlight. It could do some damage if I had to hit someone with it.
A shadow crossed the street as I made my way to Vinny’s building. My heart sped up even faster, my feet skipping more quickly, but then I realized a cloud had just passed over the bright moon for a second.
I took the steps two at a time and slid the key into the lock at the front door, opening it and making sure it was shut securely after I got in. As I climbed the stairs to Vinny’s apartment, relieved I was locked inside, exhaustion spread throughout my body. I hadn’t gotten much sleep the last couple of days, and I was ready to pass out.
When I opened the door to Vinny’s apartment, I was hit with a familiar scent. My mother used to take me to swimming lessons at the YWCA on Howe Street when I was a kid.
Vinny’s apartment smelled like a pool.
It was all the cleaning products. Vinny was neat, really neat. No dust bunnies at his house, unlike mine, where I had started to feed them and give them names until I realized how quickly they would multiply. But it still didn’t get me to pull out the vacuum more than every few weeks.
Vinny’s place, though, well, you could eat off the floor. The kitchen gleamed. No crumbs on his counters. The bathroom was spotless, not even a drop of toothpaste or one small hair in the sink.
When I’d first met him, I wondered if he was gay. But the kisses quickly assured me otherwise. He was just neat.
I unlaced my sneakers and walked barefoot through the dark living room, knowing I wouldn’t run into a pile of newspapers like I would at my place. I also knew that every book was alphabetized by author on the shelf, and even the tops of the picture frames on the walls would be free of dust.
Vinny’s king-sized bed beckoned, but I went into the bathroom first after dropping my bag on his couch. My toothbrush was in its slot next to his. He’d made a big show of buying me one to keep here, even though I lived just a block away. I was so nervous it would get all clotted with toothpaste and look out of place that every time I brushed my teeth, I spent ten minutes cleaning it afterward.
The idea of cohabitation scared the crap out of me. I could visit this life every now and then, but I didn’t think I could live with it every day. It was another reason why the "love" that had popped up so suddenly was giving me angina.
I pulled my T-shirt over my head and slipped off the capris, carefully folding them and placing them on Vinny’s dresser. I unhooked my bra and stuck it between the shirt and capris. A glance in the mirror reminded me that maybe I needed to start working out now that I was almost forty. But the idea of sweating on purpose was about as alluring as cleaning my apartment, so I quickly dismissed it.
While I liked being naked in Vinny’s apartment when he was here, I wasn’t sure I was comfortable about it when he wasn’t. This was the first time I’d let myself in without him already being here, and now I wondered if I shouldn’t call him to warn him he’d find me in his bed.
I took one of his T-shirts out of a dresser drawer and slid it over my head. My bag was still in the living room, and even though I could use his phone, I would call him on my cell before turning it off.
I still hadn’t turned on any lights, made a detour for the fridge, grabbed a Corona, and started toward the couch.
The phone rang.
I froze.
As the sound echoed through the room, I told myself I was being ridiculous. This was Vinny’s apartment; whoever was calling was calling him. I debated a second about answering. If it was his mother, she certainly wouldn’t be happy if I picked up the phone. She and I were not on the best of terms. On the other hand, if it was his brother, Rocco, I’d have someone to talk to for a few minutes while my heart started beating again.
I heard a click. Too late. The machine picked up.
"Talk to me." We may have been at opposite poles regarding cleanliness, but we had the same taste in answering-machine messages.
A second passed, then, "Vinny?"
It was a woman. A woman with a breathy voice. A woman with a goddamn sexy breathy voice. It wasn’t Rosie, his ex-fiancée. I unfortunately knew her voice too well. No, this was a stranger. And despite my noncommittal feelings, jealousy intruded, even though I tried to tell myself it could be a client. Vinny dealt with a lot of divorce cases when he wasn’t tracking someone down for my mother’s law firm.
"I just missed you. I’ll try you on your cell."
The machine clicked off. I grabbed a pen out of my bag, writing down the number listed on Vinny’s caller ID.
And immediately felt guilty. But I pushed aside the guilt and went to Vinny’s desk, where his laptop sat. I had a cheap Dell laptop; this one was a fancy Apple PowerBook. I turned on the small desk lamp, brushing the room with a soft yellow. The chair was cold from the central air, and I shifted a little so the T-shirt was farther under my butt.
I opened the laptop and found the power button. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this, but Vinny had access to an account where he could find out the name of someone living at a particular address using a reverse directory. I’d asked him to help me a couple of times when the cops wouldn’t oblige. This time, though, I was on my own.
I had to hook up to the Internet. Vinny had given me a short tutorial at one point, hoping I’d abandon my PC, so I found the little triangular thing up at the top left, clicked on it, and clicked again and there I was—the wireless AirPort was ready to go.
I found Firefox in the little bar across the bottom of the screen and clicked on it. Damn Mac, no right click, just one click. Vinny swore by the thing, but the price was still prohibitive for me.
Fortunately, his sidebar listed all his bookmarked places and I found the reverse directory site easily and clicked again.
I typed in the address of Ralph’s house and hit Send.
Immediately, the screen popped up with the information. Damn, but it was fast. I would have to think about getting DSL or cable Internet. My dial-up really was a pain in the ass, and I couldn’t download shit or watch videos or anything and I had to be tethered to the phone line.
The house listed the owner: Reginald Shaw. Okay, so that wasn’t a surprise. But it didn’t give me who lived there.
I hit the back arrow and found myself at the start of a new search. I typed in the phone number of the woman who’d just called. I told myself it was in my own best interest to do this.
It didn’t come up as residential or business, so I hit "cell phone" and hit pay dirt.
Ashley Ellis. The shot girl at Bar. The one whom Michael Jackson had shot at earlier today on the Green.
Chapter 25
My first thought was not what you’d expect, which should’ve been why Ashley Ellis and Vinny were playing phone tag. That was my second thought. My first thought was that I could call Ashley, get a few quotes from today’s shooting, and still make deadline for the final edition. I shut down the computer and closed the cover before rummaging in my bag. I pulled out my cell, a notebook, and a pen. I punched in Ashley’s number.
"Hello?" The voice wasn’t as breathy this time; she obviously didn’t recognize my number on her screen and probably thought I was a wrong number.
"Ashley Ellis?"
"Yes?"
"This is Annie Seymour, with the
Herald
. I saw you this afternoon, after the shooting. I was wondering if you could answer a few questions for me."
The silence was long enough for me to wonder if she’d disconnected the call. My pen was poised above the notebook, waiting.
"Hello?" I asked.
"Yes, I’m here." She paused again. "What do you want to know?"
"Michael Jackson, the guy who shot at you, what is the nature of your relationship with him?"
"What do you think?" she asked sarcastically.
Fair enough. "What were you arguing about when he pulled the gun?"
"Is this going in the paper? I don’t want anything in the paper," she said.
I wished now I’d paid more attention to her last night when I saw her at Bar with Vinny. "Where do you go to school?" I asked.
The change of subject threw her, but she sounded relieved when she said, "Southern."
"What year?"
"Senior."
"What’s your major?"
"Education." She seemed more comfortable now.
"How long have you and Michael been dating?"
"We’re not dating or anything. He’s still in high school." She spit out the last two words like they were poison.
"Why did he feel it necessary to shoot at you?" "He, well, wanted, well . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I really don’t want anything in the paper."
"Witnesses said you told him to fuck off." She hadn’t hung up yet, so I figured I could keep firing questions at her.
"He was annoying me."
And if she was stupid enough to keep answering, I wasn’t going to stop. "That’s pretty strong language for mere annoyance."
"Okay, listen, but you can’t put this in the paper. Okay?"
I figured I could eke something out of this conversation on the record, anyway. "Sure. What happened, Ashley?"
Silence for a second, then, "We met a couple months ago at Bar when I was working. He looked older—he didn’t tell me how old he was. We went out a few times. But he thought it was serious. I didn’t." Her voice was flat, her words sounding scripted. It was probably the same speech she gave the cops this afternoon.
"So that’s why he shot at you?" I tried. "Because you didn’t want to get serious?"
"Yeah."
"Someone told me that you screwed him over on some deal." It was a little bit of a stretch, but I wanted to see where it went.
"I, well, I don’t know what you mean."
I switched gears again. "I saw on the press release that his address was listed over at Brookside, the housing project." Brookside was just on the outskirts of the Southern campus. The city was trying to clean it up over there, closing a lot of it down because of the crime and trying to renovate. Problem was, the same people were moving back in; they were just moving into nicer places. I didn’t like covering anything at Brookside. There was just one road in and out. "There’s a lot of drug activity over there. Was Michael involved in that?"
"I’m not going to comment. I have to go." I could hear her anxiety.
"Just one more thing, okay? Nothing to do with Michael," I said quickly.
She was quiet a second, then, "What?"
"Felicia Kowalski. I know you’re a friend of hers. You worked with her. She’s missing."
"I know. I’m really worried about her." The anxiety was more pronounced now.
"You don’t know where she might be?"
"Last I saw her, she said she was heading for Rouge Lounge."
I took a breath. "When was that?"
"Thursday night."
The night Ralph died. "Was it to see Ralph Seymour?"
"Yeah." Pause. "Hey, didn’t you say your name was Seymour?"
Okay, so she wasn’t stupid. But I wasn’t going to be stupid enough to answer her. "How serious was their relationship?" I asked.
"Pretty serious."
"I heard she wasn’t on good terms with her parents."
Ashley snorted. "That’s an understatement."
"Did she live on campus?"
"Until about three weeks ago, when school let out."
"Where did she move to?" I asked.
She was quiet again. Damn.
"Ashley, do the police know where Felicia was living?" I prodded.
"With me." Her voice was so soft, I barely heard her.
"You’re roommates? Where do you live?" I wondered again about who lived in that apartment next door to Ralph.
"It’s a really nice place. We’re in a condo at City Point."
City Point was on the water. The condos there were pretty snazzy, gated and all that shit. I wondered how a couple of college students could afford that. Even college students who made a killing by being shot girls.
"Are you renting?" I asked as casually as I could.
"Oh, yeah." But the hesitation in her voice made me wonder.
"Did you call the cops when Felicia didn’t come home?" I asked.
"I guess I didn’t think too much about it, until her parents called looking for her. I guess she was supposed to go to some family reunion or something and didn’t show."
Like she hadn’t shown for that chamber of commerce meeting.
"So you have no idea where Felicia might be?"
"No. I wish I did."
A lightbulb went on over my head. "Michael Jackson, he knew Felicia, too?"
Again I thought I’d lost the connection; she was so quiet.
"Ashley?"
"What happened today had nothing to do with Felicia," she said. "Michael’s just, well, wound a little too tight sometimes."
Seemed like an understatement, but who was I to argue?
"Have you talked to Vinny DeLucia tonight?" I asked, switching gears.
"How do you know about him?" She paused. "Oh, shit, you’re the one who was with him last night, right, at Bar? That’s you, right? That’s why you’re asking about Felicia. He’s looking for her."
"Yeah," I said. "Did you talk to him tonight?"
"No. I can’t reach him. I’ve tried. He left a message for me. Listen, I have to go," she said. "I’m getting another call."
The connection ended.
I punched in the weekend late-night editor’s number at the paper.
"I’ve got some quotes from Ashley Ellis, the girl who was shot at this afternoon on the Green," I told him. "Can we still get it in?"
I dictated the stuff about Ashley and Michael dating briefly and her breaking it off. That was as far as I could go, I knew; otherwise she could sic a lawyer on me. With my luck it would be my mother. I could hear the night editor’s fingers on the keyboard. "Great," he said when I was done. "Thanks."