Annie Seymour 01-Sacred Cows by Karen E. Olson Page B

Until then, it had been fairly civilized. Everyone started shouting questions at the same time.
    “Has anyone been charged yet?”
    “What about David Best? Is he going to be charged?”
    “Are there any other suspects?”
    “Was she sexually assaulted?”
    The last question was shouted from the back of the room, a deep baritone bouncing off the wall behind Tom. We all waited.
    The chief shook his head. “No.”
    “But had she had sex before she died?”
    It was the question we all wanted to know the answer to. I craned my neck to see who was asking the right things.
    The chief took a deep breath. “Yes.” He put his hand up. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for.” He ducked out through a back door, Tom not far behind. They left a roomful of hungry reporters very unsatisfied.
    “Who was that?” I whispered to the Channel 30 reporter next to me.
    “The guy from the Times, Richard Wells. Asshole,” he added before he turned back to his cameraman.
    I wondered if I was as beloved as Richard Wells. I wanted to think I at least had the respect of my peers.
    I pushed my way through the crowd and into the hall with Dick hot on my trail. “Where are you going now?” he asked.
    I successfully suppressed an urge to say something really out of line. “Have you ever met Richard Wells?” I asked him instead.
    “Sure. That’s him over there.” Dick pointed and I felt my mouth hang open down to my knees. This was the guy who bedded sources and wooed councilmen into telling him secrets?
    Richard Wells was at least a head shorter than me, balding with a comb-over that seemed to tuck behind both ears. His gray eyes were small, his nose hooked, his cheeks chipmunk-like. He was heavyset and wore a red plaid sport jacket over brown pants. He spotted me looking at him and grinned. It was like a train wreck. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. Unfortunately, it sent the wrong message.
    “You’re Anne Seymour, aren’t you? I’ve seen your byline.” He stuck his hand out and I felt compelled to take it. It was like shaking a dead fish. “I’m Richard Wells.”
    “Hi.” I must have sounded and acted like a giddy schoolgirl, but I was merely in shock. He wasn’t clever enough to see that.
    “Want to get some coffee? Maybe we can help each other out on this.”
    Help each other? How? I didn’t like the sound of that and it snapped me back into the moment. “Sorry, I don’t collaborate with the competition,” I said coldly.
    “We could still get some coffee.”
    I searched his face, his person, trying to find the charm. If it was there, it was not obvious. “I’m sorry. I’ve got an appointment.” I walked away.
    Dick was laughing behind me. “Shut up,” I said.
    “He hit on you.”
    “Yeah. But I shot him down.” Had I? I wasn’t sure.
    “He works at the Times. Maybe he could get you a job there.”
    “And maybe I could fuck a duck.”
    He was still laughing when we got out on the street.

CHAPTER 6
    I had to call Hickey Watson again, but this time I didn’t get a breathless “Come Together.” I got an answering machine, would I please leave my name and a message, we’re so sorry for the inconvenience. The cops got to them, and they were keeping a low profile, if not going out of business altogether. I left my name. It was the only option.
    Within minutes my phone rang.
    “I thought I gave you all the answers I could.” Hickey Watson didn’t waste any time. He was probably screening the calls.
    “I need some more. Can we meet somewhere?” We weren’t going to get anywhere on the phone, I knew that and he knew that, because I could hear him thinking, the wheels of his brain louder than a train whistle.
    “Would it get you off my back?”
    “Listen, I don’t give a damn what you do, but a girl is dead. You know, if you help out with this, the cops might look more kindly on you.”
    I must have pushed a button. We agreed to meet at the Twin Pines Diner in East Haven on Route 1, a