Shot Girl by Karen E. Olson Page A

The questions swirled around me until I realized I needed to turn the car on and get some air-conditioning or I’d pass out.
    My cell phone rang just as I turned the key.
    I dug the phone out of my bag and saw Vinny’s number. "Hey," I said as I flipped the cover.
    "Where are you?"
    "Southern. Revisiting my past." I tried to keep the contempt out of my voice, but I wasn’t too successful.
    Vinny’s silence reminded me that he knew very little about my time at Southern and my history with Ralph. I needed to elaborate. "I know the head of the journalism department. I came by to see him about Ralph—we were all friends once." I paused. "Hey, how did you know about Felicia Kowalski?"
    "Did you find her?"
    "No. And you didn’t answer my question." But before he could, a goddamn lightbulb went off over my head. "Is it the grand jury investigation? Is she some sort of witness or something?"
    "Jesus, Annie, how the hell did you hear about that?"
    So I was right. And if I didn’t know about this, but Vinny did, it might mean only one thing. Which was not good. "Is my mother somehow involved in this? Are you working for her?"
    "How late are you working? Can I still pick you up at seven?" Vinny asked, avoiding the question and giving me the answer at the same time.
    "How is my mother involved, Vinny?"
    "Seven’s okay, right? Your shift is over then, right?"
    We could go around like a carousel all day.
    "Are you okay, Annie?" he asked when I didn’t answer. His tone was soft, and I felt myself getting all emotional again.
    "I’m fine," I said, but even I wasn’t convinced.
    "You didn’t get much sleep. Can you get a nap in before I get over there?"
    I looked at my watch. It was already three o’clock. "Maybe. Can you bring over some takeout from your parents’ pizza place?"
    "Let’s play it by ear," he said after a second or two, and I wondered what was up.
    We didn’t say good-bye, just both ended the call at the same time, and I turned the car back toward downtown and the newspaper building.
    I wanted to write up this community-garden story. At least then I could get it done and over with so I wouldn’t be brooding about it all night and I might be able to actually cover something more interesting on my weekend shift tomorrow.
     
Marty was thrilled with my story about Shaw and the gardens. It was like I was going to get a fucking Pulitzer or something.
    "Great job," he kept saying over and over as he pushed his glasses farther up his nose for the umpteenth time. "You’re a natural at this." He knew better than to ask me if I wanted to switch beats. It was probably the way I was glaring at him.
    "You know, Marty, a good reporter can write about anything," I said, noticing Dick Whitfield was watching the entire exchange. "Did that intern ever show up?" I asked.
    Marty cocked his head to one side and took off his glasses. "Why so much interest in her, Annie? Was she just a shot girl at the Rouge Lounge or is there more to it?"
    "Someone told me she was involved with Ralph," I conceded. "Did she show up today?"
    "No." He chewed on the end of his glasses. "Dick didn’t get much information out of the cops about what went down last night. We’re going to run a story updating that your ex died from a heart attack, but there were several witnesses who said they heard gunshots, too. Renee gave us the names of people who were there."
    His face showed his disappointment that I hadn’t been as forthcoming.
    "Shit, Marty, I spent the night at the police station. I wasn’t exactly thinking about witnesses and all that crap," I said. "And then you sent me off to see that charlatan and his hoodlum gardeners."
    Marty stood up, an imposing figure at six feet four, and led me by the arm to Charlie Simmons’ vacant office. Charlie must’ve had an early Friday night date. When the door was shut behind us, he turned to me.
    "Renee told me in confidence that you were seen talking to Ralph Seymour just before he was shot. And that you