64. Riley
SIXTY-FOUR
I barely makeit over to the start of the news conference and worm my way to the front, ducking under the TV cameras and taking a seat on the ground, looking up at the podium. I”m not the only one in this position, because I see two other newspaper reporters doing the same.
The city”s police chief is at the podium with an angry, serious expression.
”Tonight at approximately six-forty-five, a man walked into the Casa Nostra restaurant, armed with a gun. He open-fired in the restaurant. There were twenty people eating inside, and an additional ten people working.” The chief paused as one of his top brass leaned in and whispered something in his ear.
I take this opportunity to check my phone. No texts from Gabriel, three texts from Helen. I surreptitiously type out a text.
At the news conference, here”s a video with a witness. I send her the interview with the waitress, and look up at the chief, who is talking again.
”I”m sorry, I misspoke. There were possibly twelve employees and twenty-two customers. When the man started firing his weapon, a patron who was also armed, returned fire. There was a brief shootout and the assailant was killed.”
I scribble all this down, hoping I can read my own handwriting.
The chief continues. ”We”ve determined that four people are deceased, and three others are critically injured. All four were declared dead at the scene. Two additional people were taken to Tampa General Hospital as a precaution. They weren”t shot, but they experienced cardiac issues. As for the shooter...”
The chief shuffles a piece of paper in his hand, flipping it over. ”We”ve identified him as a Russian national. We aren”t giving out his name yet, pending next of kin. We do have the names of the four deceased. They are...”
The chief squints and I hold my breath. Please don”t be Gabriel. Please, God. Please...
The chief ticks off four names, all Italian sounding. None are Gabriel. I exhale, but only a little. He could be dying in the hospital at this very moment.
”We don”t have the names of the critically injured,” adds the chief. ”We”ll try to get those to you by the next news conference, which should be in a couple of hours. Right now we”re chasing down the background of the shooter, and the motive for this incident. I”d like to ask the mayor to come to the podium now, to say a few words.”
While the mayor walks up, a TV reporter shouts, startling everyone with his deep baritone. ”Chief, is this a mob hit?”
The chief pauses and leans into the microphones. ”That”s an angle we”re seriously looking into. We”re not ruling anything out at this point.”
A non-answer? Or a clue? My heartbeat ratchets up. The mayor replaces the chief in front of the microphones and talks about the dangers of gun violence.
Thank you, captain obvious.
When he”s finished, all of the reporters shout questions at once. I rise to my knees and holler, ”Any details on the ages of the deceased? Gender? Anything?”
The chief glances down at me, probably thinking I look like a Goblin down here in my jeans, sneakers and blouse. He then looks to one of the TV reporters, a glamorous redhead in a tight black dress who asks a dull question about officer response times.
”To answer the question about response times, it took Tampa Police less than ten minutes to get here with ten cars. I know response times have been an issue in the city recently...”
He drones on about how he”s overhauling the system, and the mayor chimes in. I”m vaguely disgusted at how they”re using this as a campaign talking point when four people are barely cold inside that restaurant, but that”s politics for you.
The news conference finishes, with a promise that there will be another closer to ten. It”s going to be a long night here, and I need to call Helen.
”I got all that from the live feed on Facebook,” she says briskly. No hello, no, how are you doing? Just a curt response, followed by the sounds of typing.
”I”m thinking of going to the hospital to try to talk with relatives of the injured,” I offer. That”s the only way I”ll be able to find out if Gabriel is okay.
”No,” Helen barks. ”That”s a terrible idea. I”m calling in another reporter and I”ll send them to Tampa General. Stay there and keep trying for witnesses.”
She hangs up. I”m screwed. What can I do? Quit on the spot and go to the hospital? Go to Gabriel”s? Even if he”s not involved, he”s probably at his dinner. Maybe he knows nothing about this.
But I”d find that difficult to believe, given how he”s plugged into every socket in this city.
My insides feel like they”re inside a spin cycle in a washing machine, and for the first time since I became a reporter, I”m second-guessing my career choice.
But this is the life I”ve chosen, at least for now, so I power-walk across the street, where two men are talking. I introduce myself while clutching my open notebook and a pen.
”Do you live in the area? Work here? I”d like to get some info for my article and was wondering if you could help.” People usually took pity on me when I said things like that, because they always wanted to assist a young woman, it seemed.
The men nod grimly.
”We work here at this plumbing store,” says one of the guys in a Spanish accent while gesturing behind him. ”Garcia and sons plumbing. I”m the owner, this is my son.”
We all shake hands and I know they”re going to gossip. ”What did you hear and see tonight?”
The son scrubs his face with his hands. ”I was loading up the van to go home, right here in the front parking lot, and I heard a lot of gunshots. Like so many. I ran inside, and told my dad to get in the back and lie down. We didn”t know what was going on, but I knew it was coming from the restaurant.”
”So scary.” I shake my head. ”I”m glad you”re both okay.”
”Gracias a dios,” the father says, and we all nod.
”Have there been incidents at that restaurant before?” I ask.
The two men glance at each other, as if they”re trying to silently decide if they should say anything.
The father leans in. ”Off the record?”
I shove my notebook in my purse. ”Absolutely.”
”That place is so mobbed up it”s unbelievable. There”s gangsters in and out of there all the time. Great food, though.”
The son nods. ”Man, those meatballs are something else.”
The two talk about the meatballs for a second and I feel like I”m in a Quentin Tarantino movie. I need to steer this interview back on course. ”How do you know there are gangsters there? Do you see them? Meet them?”
The two men chuckle. ”That place was owned by a couple from Sicily, and everything was super calm for a few years. They didn”t get much business, and we thought that was a little weird.”
The son chimes in. ”We suspected it could be a front for money laundering, and we didn”t ask questions. Mostly because they gave us discounted food. They were also really nice.”
”And don”t forget about that cute waitress you dated for a while,” the dad says, elbowing the son, who rolls his eyes.
”Anyway,” the dad continues, ”Something changed about a year ago, and one of the dishwashers told us that a man invested in the restaurant. He took over the property mortgage and the title to the place. Since then, they”ve been pretty busy, but all of the customers seem to be men. All in nice cars. Look at them, all over there.”
He gestures and I swing around to look. Sitting in the parking lot of Casa Nostra are ten luxury model cars. To my relief, none of them look like Gabriel”s. But that doesn”t mean anything, because he sometimes has his driver drop him off.
”I see. Do you know who owns the place now?” Maybe if I could get to that guy now, I”d be ahead of the rest of the reporting pack.
The father”s eyes bug out. ”I don”t know if we should say.”
”How come?” I ask.
”He”s a pretty powerful guy.”
I don”t want to hear any more, because I know. I know who owns it. But I need to hear the name out loud, so I make another plea.
The dad shakes his head. ”I don”t want him to retaliate or anything. We”re not giving our names to you, you know.”
Great. Now I don”t have anything for my article. Only a few pages of notes of gossip — and a lot of unanswered questions.
”Off the record, can you tell me the name of the owner? It will really help.”
The dad leans in. ”Greco. The last name”s Greco. That”s all you need to know.”
I nod slowly, a chill spreading through my body.
”See, she knows,” the son grins and points. ”Everybody knows Greco.”
”Thanks, guys. I really appreciate this.”
I wander off, as if in a daze. Perhaps those men were lying, or uninformed. But I know in my heart they weren”t.
For the next hour, I feel like I”m operating in slow motion, doing the same three things: approaching anyone and everyone I can who isn”t a journalist, checking my phone for messages from Gabriel, and fielding calls from Helen.
Most of my time is spent in a scrum of reporters. We all descend upon the owner of the restaurant when he comes to the edge of the police tape. His name is Alfredo Romano, and he says he was in the back, working on the computer, when the shots rang out.
”I tried to get all of my employees into the office with me, and grabbed a few of them. It was just awful.” Mr. Romano says in a heavy-accented voice while wiping tears from his eyes. ”I could see people bleeding, lying there, moaning. It was the worst thing I”ve ever experienced. I don”t know how we”re going to go on.”
Fortunately, I”m at the front of the scrum, probably because I”m shorter than most of the TV cameras and reporters. I”m holding up my phone, recording everything on video.
”Do you know the people who were killed and injured?” One of the TV guys asks.
Mr. Romano inhales a shaky breath. ”Yes, quite a few of them. The men who were hit first always come here on Tuesday nights. It is Tuesday, isn”t it? These are a group of local businessmen who enjoy our food, and I”m just devastated.”
”Sir,” I interrupt. My curiosity has overtaken me, and I need answers. ”Are you the owner of this building? Of this business?”
”I run the restaurant,” he says, turning to me.
”But who”s the owner?”
There”s a groan from one of the other reporters. ”Who cares,” she whispers.
”I”m in a partnership with a local investor,” Mr. Romano says. ”Next question.”
He gives more details about his restaurant, how many employees he has, how he moved here from Sicily twenty years ago. His dream was to move to America and open a restaurant, and now the dream is dead, he adds.
It”s all excellent stuff for the article, but I don”t have it in me to care because a thousand emotions are swirling inside me. Fear, rage, confusion — if it”s negative, I”m feeling it right now.
Mr. Romano thanks us and walks away, and the scrum of reporters breaks up. I wander over to the side of the building, near the police tape attached to the stop sign, so I can have a moment to collect myself and send Helen the latest video.
When I look up, I stare at the restaurant”s front entrance. The door swings open, and the chief and the mayor walk out.
Behind them is a third man. A familiar man. A well-dressed man in an expensive midnight suit, wearing a hard, angry expression.
Gabriel.
I stand there, gaping at him in the distance while emergency lights swirl in the darkness, wondering what I should do. Call to him over the sound of paramedics and crying people dotting the street? Wave wildly to get his attention and risk letting everyone here know that we”re together?
Now that I think about it, the mayor knows. And so does the chief. Duh. Gabriel and I have run into them socially, only then, I”m dressed to the nines. Not wearing my grungy reporter clothes like tonight.
I”m like a fucked-up version of Lois Lane, if Lois was sleeping with Lex Luthor. Or is Gabriel more of an antihero Superman, and we”re living in some alternate, corrupt universe? It”s all bullshit, I decide, because I”m not living in a comic book or fairytale tonight.
It”s more like a nightmare.
What to do, what to do... maybe I should slink away and hope he doesn”t see me.
It”s impossible for me to decide and it feels like my feet are frozen to the sidewalk. Part of me wants to duck under this police tape and run to him, feel his arms around me.
Another part of me wants to throat punch him. Why hadn”t he told me he was okay?
At least he”s alive. Unhurt. That”s the only positive thing I can think of right now. Although the thought of him being in the middle of a mass shooting makes my blood run cold. Was he even in the restaurant when it happened?
What is his link to this place and to the people who were shot?
I watch him, the chief, and the mayor, stand in a cluster a few feet from the front door of the restaurant. The mayor”s gesturing wildly, the chief is nodding, and Gabriel is looking from one to the other with a flinty expression. To anyone else here, they”re three official-looking men handling a tragedy.
For an excruciating five minutes, I watch, silently hoping Gabriel will somehow sense my presence and come to soothe me. Ask me how I”m doing. Assure me that he wasn”t in the restaurant when the Russian guy opened fired.
Tell me that everything is going to be okay.
Finally, Gabriel nods slowly, as if he”s finally absorbing some information. I wonder what they”re talking about. What”s going through his mind right now? Does he suspect I”m here? He knows I”m working the crime beat tonight. Did he even get my message?
So many questions swirl in my mind, and none of them are good.
Gabriel puts his hands on his hips and looks around while the chief and mayor stare at a piece of paper. I”d give anything to know what”s being said.
Helen buzzes me, and I answer. ”Hey, I”m in the middle of something.”
”That”s okay, I wanted to tell you that the story”s looking great. Nice job tonight. We”ve got a full version with your byline on the website, and it”s going in the printed paper tomorrow morning.”
I”m so stunned I almost drop the phone. From the tone of every other conversation we”d had tonight, I felt like I was on the verge of being fired. Such is the news business, I guess.
”Thanks,” I finally manage to squeak out.
”I”d like you to stay there for a while longer, maybe get some more witnesses and the next news conference. Then you can head to the hospital. I don”t have anyone else to go there.”
”Absolutely.” I keep my eye on Gabriel. His back is to me now, as if he”s surveying something on the other side of the building.
A raindrop falls on my notebook, and I wait for another.
Helen hangs up, and I don”t move. Gabriel turns slowly, says something to the mayor and the chief, then faces me. He”s a few car lengths away, and for a second, I don”t think he sees me.
But from the look on his face, I know he does. His expression registers a brief shock, as if he”s surprised to see me here, then a fierce determination. He squeezes the mayor”s elbow and murmurs something against his ear, then stalks toward me, his long legs eating up the distance. A light rain has started to fall, almost a mist. Gabriel ignores it, as does almost everyone else in my field of vision.
I feel pinned, as if a predator has set his sights on me. Against the backdrop of the police lights, the sight of him walking toward me with his suit pants, formal shoes, and buttoned down white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, is enough to strike fear in me.
Is he a victim in this situation, or the devil who inspired this carnage?
He reaches the police tape and we”re just inches apart, divided by a barrier of plastic.
”I tried calling?—”
”I”ll see you at home.” His eyes shift from side to side, as if sweeping the scene behind me.
I rear back, startled and more than a little angry. This is the reception I get, after hours of worry? This is his attitude? ”Excuse me?” I say, the hair on the back of my neck bristling with indignation.
”Riley, I don”t have time to talk.” His voice is rough, almost mean. ”I”m in a world of shit, and I”ll explain everything later?—”
”No,” I interrupt. ”I need to know why you didn”t return my call. Why you didn”t text me. Why you didn”t tell me you were okay. I”ve been worried for hours, Gabriel, and it”s not fair.”
I”m on the verge of tears, a state I don”t want to be in while covering a crime story.
Gabriel hauls in a breath and continues to look everywhere but at me. ”Goddammit,” he swears under his breath. ”I don”t need this shit right now.”
”What?” I ask, fuming. ”How dare you blame me for wanting to know you”re okay?”
”That”s not it, babe.” His tone is low and has softened a touch, which makes my heart crack a little.
”Then what is it?” I”m thoroughly bewildered by his attitude tonight.
My answer comes a second later, when a crush of TV cameras, photographers and reporters join us, clamoring for an interview with him and nearly pushing me out of the way.