Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(59)

“She said what?! Is this on the record?”

“No,” I say, throwing off the hotel covers and sitting up, trying to fling out the fear left in my stomach by the dream. I’m going to have to use the bathroom soon. Fucking anxiety. I always laugh when movies and TV shows portray mental illness as, like, glamorous. Oh, that poor, sensitive girl. I’ll tell you what’s not glamorous: diarrhea. “I was … I wasn’t sure it was, like, safe to say I was a reporter. I kind of just went poking around, trying to find the son or his boyfriend, Pessie’s ex.”

“Have you talked to him?”

“The son?”

“Or the ex.”

“Not yet. I’ve left messages but I haven’t heard back.”

“So, what do you have on the record?”

“I have that Pessie was still hanging out with her ex and that he spent time in prison. I guess I need to confirm that with the DOC. The girl I talked to used to live with the gay son and the ex and told me they used to deliver drugs for Connie. She said they all got arrested about four years ago. Plus, we have the license plate number of the truck a neighbor saw at Pessie’s. The cop told me it’s registered to Connie Hall, but that’s off the record. But if we could confirm on our end…” I trail off, hoping he’ll interrupt with an idea.

“His truck being seen at the apartment doesn’t mean he killed her, but clearly it means they have to talk to him—it’s not exactly his neighborhood.”

“Not at all. And if the Roseville chief is related to him, that’s a pretty major conflict of interest.”

“I can get the library working on confirming a family relation between a possible murder suspect and the chief supposed to be investigating the case. I think that’s the best lead. The whole gay son, ex-fiancé thing feels iffy. I don’t want to write about a relationship if we haven’t talked to either of the people supposedly in it. You make sure the State Police never got a call from the Roseville chief. You also want to get them to say that, yes, murders in towns with small forces are typically kicked up to them. Your first story already made the point that police didn’t seem interested. We need to advance that with specifics. Can you get the neighbors on the record saying they gave the plate number to the cops?”

“They didn’t actually give it to them—they gave it to my burial society guy and he gave it to the cops.”

“Is he on the record with that?”

“No.”

“You need to get this stuff on the record. I’ll try to confirm that the plate is Hall’s. Meantime, get the chief’s response as if we know for sure. Does he deny getting the plate? What’s his comment on it being Hall? Does he think he’s got a conflict of interest? And ask about Hall’s son. Does the chief know about this relationship with Pessie’s ex? I’ll loop in the city desk.”

“Tell them I have a photo of Pessie’s apartment.”

“Great. That’ll help. E-mail it to me.”

“What about the guns at the Halls?”

“Pessie wasn’t shot, was she?”

“No,” I say. “Well, I don’t think so.”

“No autopsy, right?”

“Right. But my cop and the husband both saw her and neither mentioned a gunshot wound or anything like that.”

“Okay, let’s keep the stockpiling in our back pocket. One thing at a time. Actually, now that we have all this new information, why don’t you go back at the husband. Get his reaction to her hanging out with these people.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Let’s regroup around noon.”

I head to the toilet and then turn on the shower. I breathe in the steam and close my eyes beneath the water, but the sharp fright of being shot at in my dream won’t dull. I’ve made myself a target again. I’ve pushed into another ugly little world that doesn’t want me.

When I get out of the shower, I take a pill to try to ease the terror that the water didn’t wash away. On my phone is a text message from Iris.

I love you, too. everything ok up there?? Call me I call immediately. I hadn’t been letting myself think too much about what it might mean if Iris really closed herself off from me, let alone if she moved to Asia. She is all I have in New York. Iris and the Trib. And only one of them gives a shit about me.

“Hi,” she says. “Where are you?”

“I’m at dumpy motel near Poughkeepsie.”

“Awesome. The Trib really lays out the red carpet for you guys, huh?” I hear a bus backfire. Iris is probably walking toward the subway from our apartment. She’s kind of living the dream. A working girl in New York City. A good-looking, gainfully employed boyfriend. She wouldn’t have dared dream it a year ago. Or maybe she did dream it. I look in the mirror beside the TV. I’m sitting on a motel bed wearing a towel. The motel room is being paid for by a newspaper. I am here reporting a story about the overlooked death of a young mother. I have a source in the police department. On paper, this is my dream. Maybe someday living my dream won’t make me feel sick.

“I’m lucky I got them to agree to cover an overnight at all,” I say.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. I just needed to, like, feel bad for a minute.”