"You were inside?" he asked, the incredulity charging across his words like a fucking rhinoceros.
I tugged at the black skirt that was too tight and shifted on the red stilettos, all borrowed from my friend Priscilla, who owns such clothes. I could feel the blisters that already had formed on my feet, casualties of the fashionable "no hose" rule. What had I been thinking? With the exception of a tasteful little black dress my mother bought me at Ann Taylor, my closet houses jeans, khakis, button-down shirts, and T-shirts.
I reached for the bag slung around my shoulder—it was small, but I had managed to pack a tiny notebook and a pen along with a few bills and some change—and the strap of the lacy camisole that was doubling as a top slipped down.
As I slid it back up, Tom’s blue eyes lingered first on the shoes, then slowly made their way up my thighs to my hips, and finally rested on the V between the lace just over my breasts.
Goddamn but it was hot tonight.
I fumbled with the pen and managed to open the pad. "We heard the shots about five after ten," I said, moving into reporter mode.
"Then you know more than I do," Tom said.
"But I was inside," I repeated.
He couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across his face. "Dressed like that? Does your boyfriend know what you’re up to?"
"Jesus, Tom," I snorted. "Believe me, this wasn’t my idea."
He snickered. "Whose idea was it?"
I waved my hand in the air at a gaggle of women dressed like me on the other side of the crime-scene tape. "It’s a fucking bachelorette party. Renee Chittenden. She’s getting married in two days. Everyone said I should go, have fun. Priscilla lent me the clothes. I admit I got caught up in it. Let them dress me up." I shook my head. "Thank God there was a shooting. I couldn’t take it anymore."
"Did you see this guy in there?" Tom asked, all business all of a sudden.
I stiffened. How much should I tell him? "Yeah. He was there."
"Do you know who he is?" Tom was watching me, like he knew.
I paused, trying to figure out what I might say. But before I could open my mouth, I heard Tom’s name being called. Another detective was motioning him to go inside with him. Tom pursed his lips, nodded, then said, "Don’t go anywhere," as he followed his colleague.
I surveyed the body again, but this time had to take a couple steps to get a better view because the forensics guys had begun their work, taking photographs, sifting through the grit on the sidewalk around him. Someone put the olive in a plastic bag.
The eye I could see was open, staring straight ahead at a splatter of bird shit. If he were looking up, he’d see the tree branches over our heads. One of the things I like about New Haven is that it’s managed to keep its small-town feel with the trees and grassy areas throughout the city. Unfortunately, the city’s nickname of the Elm City doesn’t apply anymore because all the old trees died of Dutch elm disease way back when.
I’d hoped that thinking about the trees would distract me, but no dice.
He really did look peaceful, no hard lines in his face from years of living hard. His hair was still full and dark, no monklike bald patch, just a touch of gray at his temple.
I’d heard things, what he was up to, where he was, but I never thought he’d come back to where it all started.
As I studied his face—it had settled into itself as he’d gotten older, making him less awkward looking and more distinguished, sort of like what happened with George Clooney—I waited for some of the old feelings to emerge. But nothing. Time had turned him into a stranger; now he was just another crime victim. Well, maybe I wouldn’t go that far. I was glad he looked so good. He would’ve been happy about that.
One of the forensics guys bumped into me, and I felt myself succumbing to gravity as the stupid shoes I was wearing refused to steady.
"What the hell are you doing on the ground?" Vinny’s voice made me smile involuntarily as I tried to get up without showing everyone all my goods. It wasn’t easy, and I slipped again. His hands lifted me up, moved me backward, away from the body, and, unfortunately, onto the other side of the yellow tape. I savored the feel of his arms around me before they fell away.
"Shit, Vinny, now I’ll never be able to get back over there," I scolded, clutching my small wad of paper, knowing I could still get a story into the
New Haven Herald
if I could find Tom again. It was only ten thirty, and deadline was at eleven fifteen.
"Need my cell phone to call it in?"
I hadn’t thought I’d need my phone in the club, so I left it in the glove box of my car in the parking lot. Along with a pair of flip-flops that I could drive in. I shook my head.
"What happened? There was a tease on the news about a shooting. Figured I’d come over here and see if you were okay."
Vinny DeLucia pointed to the TV van parked across the street. Cindy Purcell, aka Lois Lane, was fluffing up her already-big blond curls with one hand, a microphone in the other; a cameraman scurried around, looking for the best angle. I shifted a little, not wanting to get in his shot. There’s a reason why print journalists aren’t on TV, and in this getup, I had even more of a reason to try to be invisible.
Damn, I needed to get my phone and call this in before Dick Whitfield, boy reporter, showed up. I knew he was on shift tonight.
"Thanks, Vin, I’m okay," I said, hoping he wouldn’t take it personally if I hightailed it to my car. I started to turn, then realized that in my fall, the skirt had twisted and was even shorter. I pulled it down as far as it could go, which wasn’t very far. I knew Vinny was watching me, much like Tom had just minutes before. I was glad Vinny hadn’t seen that. Even though Vinny and I were a definite item, Tom indicated he still harbored hopes, and Vinny could be a typical Italian male with territorial impulses. Call me fickle, but I liked the attention on both fronts. Sort of made up for high school, when I sat home on prom night eating ice cream and watching
Lou Grant
.
"What happened?" Vinny asked again.
I shrugged. "Beats me. I heard the shots and came out here. He was on the ground."
I stole another look at the body, but before I could excuse myself to get my phone, Vinny said, "There’s no blood."
I nodded. "I know."
We mulled that a few seconds.
"So, how was the show?" Vinny asked, his eyes dancing. "I mean, before this."
I rolled my eyes at him. "Awful. Disgusting. Fortunately, because it was so early, we only saw one guy."
"What was so disgusting?"
"He did his little dance, and then he brought Renee onstage." I shuddered, remembering how embarrassed I was for her, even though she didn’t seem to mind much. I think it was all those martinis her sisters had bought her beforehand. "He called himself Jack Hammer."
Vinny laughed out loud, and my eyes strayed over to Renee and her sisters and girlfriends. They had seemed like they were having a good time. Even when Jack Hammer proceeded to simulate fucking Renee in front of everyone. Even when he sat on her sisters’ laps and gyrated. They’d laughed; they hadn’t seemed disturbed.
"It’s not my crowd," I said. "I shouldn’t have gone. I shouldn’t have let everyone talk me into it."
"And miss a great crime scene? You? Hell, you’d be here anyway, and you know it." Vinny was only half teasing.
"Yeah, I’d be here, but not dressed like this." I did a little game-show-model wave to indicate my too-tight outfit.
Vinny’s smile was more of a leer. "But just think about how much fun we’ll have later when you get home," he whispered, his breath hotter than the air against my neck, giving me a chill down my back that was not unpleasant.
Tom came back out of the nightclub, and I gave Vinny a little nudge. "Go home, Vinny. I’ll call you when I’m done here and on my way back, okay?"
To his credit, Vinny took a step backward. He knew when to give me space to do my job. Unfortunately, now I had to get into Tom’s space and get enough information from him so I could make my editor happy.
The damn shoes made it hard to stoop under the tape, but somehow I managed it, making my way back over to Tom.
"I have to call the paper and give them something," I said. "Was he shot? Was it a drive-by?"
Tom took my elbow and led me up the three steps and into the club. The air-conditioning slapped me across the face, almost burning me with its intensity. Immediately I felt my nipples harden and hoped he wouldn’t notice.
Too late.
"You said you’d seen him inside?" Tom asked after a second.
I nodded, eager to distract him. "Yeah."
"He was the manager." He paused. "Anything you want to tell me, Annie?"
I bit my lip.
"You know his name, don’t you?" he prodded when I hesitated too long.
"Yeah. I do."
"Coincidence?"
I shook my head slowly.
His name was Ralph Seymour.
My ex-husband.
Chapter 2
Tom thought I was lying. I could see it in the way he stood with his legs apart, his hands on his hips, his head cocked like I was some sort of criminal. Like I should know how Ralph got gunned down in front of the Rouge Lounge.
"Fifteen years?" he asked me for the third time when I told him how long it had been since I’d seen Ralph. "You’re sure?"
"He didn’t even show up for the court date," I said, my voice loud to match his. "My divorce was really a solo act, not unlike our marriage."
Tom frowned. I knew he wouldn’t understand. No one had, especially Ralph. Which had been the problem. And I didn’t want to stand here, fifteen years later, and explain the complexities of how I knew after only a year, and at the young age of twenty-three, why I just couldn’t stay married to the man.
"The bartender says she saw you talking to him just minutes before he went outside." Tom’s voice was cold.
I sighed. "I saw him when I came in." He’d been groping the bartender while she shook someone else’s martini.
Tom waited for more.
"Okay, okay, he saw me when I tried to duck into the ladies’ room and figure out what the hell to do." I paused. "Jesus, Tom, it had been a long time. I really wasn’t sure how to react. It threw me a little."
"But you stood outside staring at his body and didn’t bother to tell me who he was."
"So sue me." I studied his face for a second. "He probably talked to a lot of other people besides me. Why aren’t you talking to them?"
"Because this is more interesting." A small smile played at the corners of his lips, and I wondered if he had started pursuing that psychology degree he’d considered at one time. "So, what was your conversation about?"
I shrugged. "He said hi, I said hi, he said fancy meeting you here, I said go figure, he said how’s it going, I said what are you doing in town?"
A few seconds passed before Tom asked, "What did he say to that?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. The bartender called him over. He said excuse me, we’ll catch up later, and walked away. That was it."
"So you don’t know why he went outside?"
"No. I was too busy in there"—I cocked my head toward the red beads, à la the 1960s, that separated us from the room where Jack Hammer had been grinding his hips just an hour before—"for the party."
The small smile turned into a grin. "Ah, yes, the party."
My eyes scanned the dark bar, the bloodred art deco round tables and chairs scattered about, empty glasses and beer bottles abandoned everywhere as the customers, ranging from scantily clad young women to women older than me who should’ve known better, were being interrogated by various uniformed officers. A half dozen reproductions of Warhol’s Marilyn Monroe hung side by side across one wall, splashing a startling bit of green and blue and yellow and black. I don’t go to clubs—I left those days long behind—but this was a pretty cool place. And it could go either way now: No one would come back because of the shooting, or everyone would come because of the shooting.
It was a crapshoot.
Speak of the devil, if it wasn’t Jack Hammer coming toward us. I had to admit the man was buff in all the right places, but he had that sleazy leer and slicked-back hair that made him a great candidate for the sequel to
Donny Does Dallas
rather than the cover of
GQ
.
"Hey, babe," he drawled at me as the uniform cop dropped him off at our side.
I wondered if Tom would arrest me for slugging him.
"This guy says maybe he saw something," the uniform told Tom, stealing a sidelong glance at me and my cleavage, not that there was too much of it, but there was a helluva lot more on display than normal. I couldn’t wait to get home and change.
I hoped it wouldn’t be much longer now. I could manage a quick stop at my brownstone and maybe even just call in the story to the night news editor. I thought about my cell phone in the car.
Tom saw me looking at my watch. "You’re not going anywhere," he hissed, his hand clutching my elbow as he turned to Jack Hammer.
"So what did you see?" he asked him, like I wasn’t even there. I was tempted to try to walk away, but I wanted to know what Jack Hammer had to say, too.
Jack Hammer looked from Tom to me and back to Tom. "I was finished with my set"—oh, Christ, was that what he called it?—"and I was outside for a smoke." Connecticut had banned smoking in bars and restaurants a few years ago, which helped my cause when I decided to quit. "Someone opened the door; I saw Ralphie talking to her." He tossed his greasy mane toward me. "Someone handed him a martini and he stepped outside, a few feet from me. He asked me for a cigarette; I gave him one. But I was finished with mine and had to get back for the next set, so I went back in. Next thing I knew, I heard the shots, came back out, and saw Ralphie on the ground."
I was trying to wrap my head around the fact that Jack Hammer was calling him Ralphie. Jesus, he would’ve hated that.