Shot Girl Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Praise for Karen E. Olson’s Annie Seymour Mysteries

  Dead of the Day

  "Like an alchemist, Karen E. Olson blends together wildly disparate elements into pure gold. Dead of the Day is a delightful dance with the devil—dangerous, dark, and romantic."

  —Reed Farrel Coleman, Shamus Award-winning author of The James Deans

  "Karen E. Olson knows this beat like the back of her hand. I really enjoyed Dead of the Day."

  —Michael Connelly

  "Dead of the Day takes the Annie Seymour series to truly impressive territory. Absolutely everything a first-rate crime novel should be."—Lee Child

  "Annie Seymour, a New Haven journalist who’s not quite as cynical as she thinks she is, is the real thing, an engaging and memorable character with the kind of complicated loyalties that make a series worth reading. Karen E. Olson is the real thing, too, a natural story-teller with a lucid style and a wonderful sense of place."

  —Laura Lippman, New York Times bestselling author

  "Olson’s second mystery hits the mark with setting, plot, and character. . . . Her lovably imperfect heroine charms, and the antics of her coworkers and the residents of ’da neighborhood’ will keep you intrigued and amused. Four stars."—Romantic Times

  "Humor, plenty of motives, and strong character development make this a fast, fun read."

  —Monsters and Critics

  "Humor enlivens this first-person account. . . . This remains a series with considerable potential."—Booklist

  "Olson’s characters are her own, and her fast-paced plot and great ending make it a perfect read for patrons who like a bit of humor in their mysteries."

  —Library Journal

  —Publishers Weekly

  "A boilermaker of a first novel. . . . Olson writes with great good humor, but Sacred Cows is also a roughhouse tale. Her appealing and intrepid protagonist and well-constructed plot make this book one of the best debut novels of the year."—The Cleveland Plain Dealer

  —Denise Hamilton, bestselling author of Savage Garden

  —Chicago Tribune

  —Chicago Sun-Times

  ALSO BY KAREN E. OLSON

  Sacred Cows

  Secondhand Smoke

  Dead of the Day

  OBSIDIAN

  Published by New American Library, a division of

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  First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, November 2008

  Copyright © Karen E. Olson, 2008

  eISBN : 978-0-451-22549-8

  All rights reserved

  OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  To Liz Medcalf and Kerri Pedersen

  Best friends, great journalists

  Acknowledgments

  I have to thank my editor, Kristen Weber, whose enthusiasm is so validating. I can always count on my agent, Jack Scovil, for his sage advice and droll sense of humor.

  Big thanks to John Ferraro and Peter Dalpe, who allowed me to steal memories of their years studying journalism at Southern Connecticut State University, and to Patrick Dilger and Joe Musante in Southern’s Office of Public Affairs.

  To all my journalist friends who are still in the trenches.

  To my fellow First Offenders: Alison Gaylin, Jeff Shelby, and Lori Armstrong. Words can’t express how I feel about you guys. And to all the FOFOs: You have made this such a great ride.

  First readers Liz Medcalf, Liz Cipollina, and Angelo Pompano, who critique with a great eye even though we’re good friends. Mary-Ann Tirone Smith for her friendship; it means the world to me.

  To Ranger Wray at the West Rock Nature Center for his patient answers about Judges Cave. There are no community gardens at the nature center like the ones on these pages.

  To the drivers of the M bus on my daily commute.

  To all my readers who’ve e-mailed to tell me how much they love Annie and her world.

  The "dancing man" is for Jackie Russell.

  And a very special thanks to Jan and Stu Hecht of the former Book Vault for their amazing support. It was a dark d
ay when those doors closed.

  I’ve made up some locations in this book, namely the Rouge Lounge and West Rock School. So don’t go crazy trying to figure out exactly where they are. They don’t exist.

  Last but not least, again, thanks to my husband, Chris, and daughter, Julia, for their unwavering support, love, and hugs. They make all of this so much sweeter.

  Chapter 1

  He looked better dead than alive. Can’t say that about many people.

  He seemed to be merely resting on his stomach on the sidewalk amid some cigarette butts and a broken martini glass, like he’d just lain down for a quick nap but hadn’t yet fallen asleep. His arms were twisted underneath him, his knees slightly bent in different directions, and his head was turned to one side; a green olive looked like a growth off the top of his nose.

  It creeped me out. But it was like one of those train wrecks people are always talking about—I couldn’t stop staring. And as I looked more closely, I noticed what was conspicuously missing.

  I tore my eyes away and glanced up and down the sidewalk and across the street, ignoring the police cars, cops, and throngs of people lined up outside the yellow crime-scene tape. I’d managed to stay just inside the tape as the young uniform unrolled it around me. In the pandemonium, no one noticed.

  I sidled up to the blond cop in the heavy tweed jacket, a poor choice for a hot summer night. "I heard the gunshots, but where’s the blood?"

  Detective Tom Behr was listening to me—I knew that only because we had a history and I’d learned how to read his body language, in more ways than one—but he was looking at the body, wondering what the hell had happened here.

  "You heard the shots?" Tom frowned; he still didn’t look at me.

  "I was inside, like everyone else."

  I saw his eyebrows rise slightly, the only show of surprise, as he studied the outside of the building in front of us. It was a nondescript reddish brown brick, with a long green and white awning covering a roped-off entranceway.

  Anyone could get into the Rouge Lounge, but it liked to give the impression that it was exclusive.

  A chuckle escaped Tom’s throat as he read the sign over the door: ALL-MALE REVUE, TONITE ONLY, LADIES ONLY.

  "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 territori
al 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.