Remember Me, Irene

by Jan Burke

  She didn’t try to force any conversation out of me. I was grateful.

  A few minutes passed before I said, “Nothing went the way it should have gone for Lucas.”

  She just listened.

  “I don’t know how he ended up on the bus bench that day I saw him there,” I went on. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he was trying to make something of his life. He was trying to come back from that. I believe that with all my heart.”

  “Sure he was,” she said gently. “Everybody who knew him said so.”

  “I want to look around in there.”

  “You hired the wrong PI, then. I spent too many years as a cop to go in there and fuck with a crime scene. We’ll end up pissing off a bunch of people whose cooperation we’re going to need.”

  I sighed. “I suppose you won’t let me go back in by myself.”

  “No. Frank’s going to do what he can to make sure we don’t get locked out of this. My guess is they’re going to want to talk to us, because otherwise, they probably won’t have jack.”

  “Don’t try to convince me that this is going to be investigated with much enthusiasm. Lucas wasn’t exactly the biggest mover and shaker in Las Piernas.”

  “You’re wrong, Irene. All kinds of people end up as homicide victims. The press may treat them differently, but that doesn’t mean the cops will.”

  “Forgive me if I’m a little slow to buy that.”

  She shrugged. “Believe what you want to. Me, when I was working homicide, I didn’t care if the victim was a prince or a pauper. I wanted to nail the killer. I didn’t want that son of a bitch walking around thinking he was too smart to get caught, thinking he beat me.

  “Besides, if you don’t think the police are doing the job they should be doing on this case, you’ve got a powerful way to put pressure on them.”

  “Which reminds me of something, Rachel. Can I borrow your phone?”

  I dialed John Walters’s home phone number.

  John listened patiently as I told him about finding Lucas.

  “Well,” he said, “sorry about your friend. Sounds like you’ve had a tough day. Tell you what. Tomorrow, come in a couple of hours late if you like. But before the end of the day, I want you to do some serious work on Moffett’s resignation.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, take a couple of hours off. I do have a heart—no matter what you tell the interns.”

  “Serious work on Moffett? Is that what I heard you say?”

  “Exactly. You tell me some cock-and-bull story about some bum causing everything from Watterson’s suicide to Moffett’s resignation. You’ve pulled this kind of shit on me before, so I know to let you have a little time to spend the morning trying to find out what happened to your friend, or you’re not going to have your mind on your work.”

  “This wasn’t some ruse, John,” I said, trying to hold on to my temper. “I’ll admit, there have been times when I wasn’t exactly working on a story in the way you asked me to—”

  “—Oh, yes, Ms. Kelly. It has been known to happen. Like the time you spent the day sailing when you were supposedly doing an investigative piece on the harbor?”

  “That harbor piece won a CNPA!”

  “And the Express is proud of that award. But the California Newspaper Publishers Association didn’t give it to you for anything that skipper taught you on the way to Catalina.”

  Not for the first time, I cursed the storm that came up that day, trapping me in Avalon with a guy who turned out to be a bigger drip than anything that fell from the sky.

  “Look, John, I don’t have time to dredge up old history. This is different. Lucas Monroe is the key to all of this. You should have Mark down here on this.”

  “Mr. Baker is busy with other assignments.”

  “If not Mark, then—”

  “Then nobody.”

  “Nobody!”

  “Nobody. Irene, think like a reporter, will you? The death of your friend is not newsworthy.”

  “Why? Because he’s black? Because he’s homeless? Because he died in a part of town that everyone wishes would just sink into the core of the earth?”

  “You know what Wrigley’s going to say if I start printing stories about druggies OD-ing and bums croaking in abandoned hotels?”

  “This is not about—”

  “You’ve heard his speech. Right after he tells me that our subscribers do not want to open the morning paper and read about dirtbags dying—good riddance, etc.—he’ll ask me if I’d like to try another line of work.”

  “It’s a bullshit policy and you know it. If we aren’t going to print anything about ‘dirtbags,’ then pull Wrigley’s name off the masthead.”

  “I’ll tell him you suggested it. I’m certain it will cause him to reconsider his position.”

  “I hate this crap,” I said, my anger not lessened by defeat. “I absolutely hate it. The policy’s wrong. And you’re wrong, too, John. You’re wrong about Lucas. He wasn’t—” Something caught in my throat, and I couldn’t speak. I was thinking of the man who had patiently taught me one of the most difficult subjects I’d ever studied. A man who had given me a great gift, the ability to tell at least a few of the lies from a few of the truths—a man I respected, no matter what had become of him since those student days. That man, reduced to this.

  “Kelly, listen to me,” John said. “I’m not trying to insult the memory of this friend of yours. I’ve got nothing against him. I’m just trying to get you to see it from the paper’s point of view. I know you’re upset—hell, if I could, I’d give you the whole day off tomorrow. But I’ve got a nasty feeling that if we don’t get a handle on this Moffett thing, the Times is going to beat us in our own backyard.”

  “What, they’re going to put out an extra supplement this week? They care less about Las Piernas than Wrigley cares about the homeless.”

  “Maybe. But I wouldn’t like to see it happen, would you?”

  “No. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. This is about Moffett and Watterson. Too many coincidences. I’ve got to follow up on this, John.”

  “On your own time, Kelly. Like sailing.”

  I handed the phone back to Rachel. I knew she could tell that I hadn’t gotten very far with the paper, but she didn’t rub it in.

  A LITTLE LATER, we answered questions from a group of people who weren’t too happy about climbing up over a dozen flights of stairs. Reed Collins and Vince Adams had drawn the assignment; I had met them once or twice before, but didn’t know them well. Frank had spoken highly of them, though, and I wondered if this was part of what Rachel meant when she talked to Frank about TLC. Reed explained that Frank would be up in a minute, but procedure required them to talk to me alone first. We showed them where the body was; my second look wasn’t much longer than the first. Reed and Vince had us wait in the hall for a few minutes while they talked to a pair of technicians.

  When they came out of the room, they wanted to question us separately. Vince talked to Rachel, Reed talked to me—vacancy rates being what they were at the Angelus, we didn’t have a problem finding separate rooms.

  It took a while to explain to Reed why we had been looking for a homeless man, and why we had looked in this hotel. I could see that I was doing just as terrific a sales job on him as I had on John Walters—no one was buying that Lucas had influenced Las Piernas’s rich and powerful. Reed never said that he doubted my theories—which I admit were only half-formed at the time—but his questions all led away from any talk of Ben Watterson or Allan Moffett.

  “Can you describe this man Corky?” he asked.

  The other questions were in a similar vein—always returning to the other homeless men.

  “This Toes,” Reed said. “Are you sure this is what he said? It seems a little jumbled.”

  “Two Toes. He’s a little jumbled.”

  “So how can you be certain you’re remembering it correctly?”

  “I’m not. I didn’t ta
ke notes or record him, so it may not be absolutely accurate. But I’m pretty good at recalling conversations.”

  “Well, yes, I guess you need to be able to do that in your line of work.”

  We talked a little longer, then he walked out into the hall, leaving me alone. While the door was open, I saw Carlos Hernandez, the county coroner, go by. Hernandez was followed by two men wrestling with a stretcher.

  A few seconds later, Frank came in. He didn’t say anything, just walked up to me and put his arms around me. It was the best thing that happened to me all day.

  “POSTMORTEM LIVIDITY,” Carlos said. He was standing in the hall outside the room. I could hear the photographer at work, the quiet conversation of the men who were gathering physical evidence. “The patterns prove that someone moved his body after he died.”

  “The pennies on his eyes ought to be proof that someone else was in there,” I said.

  “The pennies tell you someone was here after he lost consciousness,” he corrected. “But the discoloration of postmortem lividity—the places where blood and other fluids settle after death—are on the front of the body. The body was moved after death.”

  “When was he killed?” I asked.

  “I’m not so sure he was killed.”

  “Not killed! But I saw blood—”

  “Yes, on the forehead and the radiator as well. I doubt that blow to the head killed him. I’ll know more after the autopsy, but my guess is that he fell against the radiator, perhaps after a …” He glanced at Frank. “Well, perhaps after a dizzy spell.”

  “What were you going to say?” I asked.

  “Dizzy spell will do for now,” Carlos said, then seeing I wasn’t satisfied, added, “I understand he had a history of alcoholism?”

  “Past history. He’s been clean for at least six weeks.”

  “You’re absolutely certain?”

  I hesitated. “No.”

  “Even if he was clean, as you say, there are no signs of a struggle, and the blow to the head was not too severe. There is bruising on his knees and the palms—the palms, not the knuckles or fingers—as if he fell.” He paused, glancing back toward the room. “It’s very early to say, of course. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

  “What about the time of death—can you estimate that?”

  “Time of death isn’t easy to judge under the circumstances. The room is very cold and dry. That has retarded the rate of decomposition. The weather has stayed cold, but there is no way to be certain the room has stayed cold—as I said, judging from postmortem lividity, we know someone was here several hours after the time of death, moved the body, and—well, before I say more, I have a favor to ask. Would you mind coming into the room, taking another look at the body?”

  “Of course not,” I said, not sure I really meant it.

  I was glad when Frank came with me.

  Carlos asked the technicians to step outside for a moment, making the room a little less crowded. The body had been bagged and moved up onto the stretcher. I felt Frank’s hand on my shoulder; Carlos moved over to the bag and unzipped it. The sound made me long for the days of sheets and shrouds.

  He beckoned gently. Frank stayed with me as I moved a step closer.

  “Now that you have a little more time to look,” Carlos said, “would you please make sure this man is …”

  “Lucas Monroe,” I said, my mouth dry. “Yes, it’s Lucas.”

  Carlos nodded, then began unbuttoning Lucas’s flannel shirt. I found myself concentrating on Carlos’s fingers and the buttons, the pattern of the flannel. Carlos pulled the shirt open.

  Lucas’s brown skin was darkly discolored in places, those on which a face-down body would have rested.

  “You see this?” Carlos said, tracing the outline of an odd-colored blotch on Lucas’s chest. He reached into the body bag and pulled out Lucas’s hand. A matching spot was indented into the lifeless palm. “Here and here?”

  I nodded.

  “Did Mr. Monroe wear jewelry?” Carlos asked.

  “His ring.”

  “No, not on his fingers, but—”

  “He didn’t wear it on his finger. He wore it around his neck, on a metal chain. Didn’t you find it on him?”

  “No. Can you describe it?”

  “It’s a gold Las Piernas College ring. Ruby or some other red stone in it.”

  “This man was a college graduate?” Carlos asked.

  “Yes. Probably bought the ring when he earned his bachelor’s degree. Sometime in the 1970s. The school could tell you.” I looked back to Frank. “I told you about it, remember?”

  Frank nodded. He called to Reed, who was out in the hallway talking to Vince. “You may be interested in this,” Frank said, and asked me to repeat the description of the ring.

  “It was removed several hours after he died,” Carlos added, as Reed took notes.

  “By the way, Irene,” Reed said, “any ideas on how we could contact his family?”

  I shook my head. “No, but you might try Roberta Benson down at the homeless shelter. She could probably tell you a lot more about him. He’s one of her clients.”

  At the word “client,” Frank and Reed exchanged a look, but Reed said, “Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”

  Rachel came in to see how I was doing. The room was fairly crowded then. There was nothing more that I could add to their reports, so I managed one last look at Lucas, said a silent good-bye, and asked Frank to take me home.

  “I’ll call you later,” Rachel said, and reached to give me a hug. As her arms came around me, I heard the body bag being zipped shut.

  15

  THE PHONE WAS RINGING when we came into the house. Cody was yowling and rubbing along my ankles as I tried to make my way to answer it. The dogs were barking greetings, and Frank went to let them in. Cody sniffed at my shoes with utter fascination. I slipped them off quickly as I lifted the receiver.

  “Irene? This is Claire.” There was a pause, then she added, “Have I called at a bad time?”

  The dogs had stopped barking, but Frank was saying, “Down, get down,” in the background as they let us know how happy they were to have us return.

  “That’s only our welcoming committee,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel into my voice. “We just walked in the door.”

  “You have pets?”

  “At the moment, about three too many. What can I do for you?”

  “I found the information on the boat. We bought it in 1974 and sold it in 1977. Does that help?”

  “And Ben never went out on the boat with Andre after he sold it to him?”

  “No, but why does that matter?”

  “You said he burned a photocopy of a picture of your old boat. It helps me to determine when the picture was taken. If Ben never went out on the boat after it was sold, the photo was taken sometime between 1974 and 1977.”

  “But couldn’t Lucas Monroe tell you more about the photo, anyway?”

  “Claire—I should tell you …” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. Or swallow. Or breathe. Claire said nothing. Frank stopped petting the dogs.

  “Irene?” he said. The dogs, Cody, and Frank all looked at me expectantly. I closed my eyes.

  “I should tell you,” I began again, “that Lucas is dead. We found his body a few hours ago.”

  For several long moments, neither of us said anything. I listened to Frank building a fire in the fireplace.

  “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “He was your friend.”

  “It’s strange,” I said. “You were right. I don’t know who he had become. Haven’t really known him for years now—I lost track of him a long time ago. Our lives obviously went in very different directions, but at one time we were friends. And I know he wanted to talk to me. The last time I saw him, he said, ‘You could help me—’”

  “Now you’ve lost the chance,” she said, filling in the silence. “Yes, I know.”

  I figured she did know. “I respected Lucas,” I said after a
moment. “That hasn’t changed.”

  “He was young, wasn’t he?” she said.

  I answered the real question. “The cause of death hasn’t been determined. The coroner hasn’t given an opinion yet.”

  “Coroner? Was Lucas killed?”

  “Hard to say. It will take some time. We found the body in an abandoned hotel. The coroner doesn’t even know how long Lucas has been dead.”

  “This must all be very difficult for you.”

  “Look, I’m still going to try to learn about the photographs.”

  “If you want to drop it, I won’t be angry with you.”

  “No. Tell me you won’t give up on this, Claire.”

  “Oh, I can’t, Irene. And now, I suspect, neither can you.”

  WE TALKED A LITTLE LONGER, moving to safer subjects as she asked me about our dogs and Cody. Just before we said good-bye, she said, “Oh, I just thought of something. Ben kept calendars. Should I look for the ones from those years?”

  “Calendars—you mean, something like appointment books?”

  “Yes, only more detailed.”

  “Well, yes,” I said, trying not to let my hopes soar. “I think they would be very helpful.”

  As I hung up, I turned to see that Frank had dragged all of our pillows and blankets out of the bedroom—and apparently from the linen closet as well—and arranged them in front of the fireplace. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and was mixing drinks.

  “Are you building a fort?” I asked, studying the pile of bedding.

  “Yes,” he said, “and here’s the ammo.” He handed me a Myers’s with a spot of orange juice in it, took up a scotch and water, then led me to the pillows and blankets. The dogs and Cody gathered around as I downed the drink. It was a stiff one, and I felt it burn its way from my throat to my chest.

  Frank watched me, took the empty glass, and set it aside.

  He pulled the blankets and pillows around us, dogs and cat protesting but resettling. He held my head on his shoulder and stroked my hair. I didn’t start crying until he said, “Whatever you do, don’t cry on my fort.”

  I AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, vaguely aware of troubling dreams. It was a relief to hear Frank’s soft snoring. My thoughts soon turned to Lucas, and the fact that his family might not even know he was dead. Where was his family? I thought of the envelopes Claire had shown me.