by Jan Burke
“So, like I said, no first base. I might have taken you up to a place like this.”
“Really?”
“No,” he said after a moment. “I was too shy around you in those days.”
I took his face in my hands and said, “It’s the top of the first, Frank Harriman. Play ball!”
30
THE HOUSE WAS DARK when we got home. Jack was asleep on our couch, surrounded by animals. The dogs wagged their tails, waking him. He smiled sleepily, said he was going home, and walked back next door without another word.
We went straight to bed, tired and happy.
Edison Burrows called way too early in the morn-ing—about five o’clock—but I managed to roust myself out of bed and arranged to meet him in an hour at the beach parking lot where I had last seen his son.
I was putting a piece of bread in the toaster when I noticed the glass bowl covering the note, the pager next to it. Through the bottom of the bowl, I saw these typewritten words:
Mr. Watterson,
This is a copy of a note Jeffrey McCutchen left for me just before he killed himself. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I think I understand it now. It might take me some time to convince others. Why don’t you save me the trouble? There is no point in fighting this; I won’t give up.
You were very generous to me once before. This photo proves I have not forgotten that.
“Frank!”
He came bounding out of the bedroom, half-asleep. “What?”
“Didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “What’s wrong?”
“This note—it fell out of Ben’s calendar. I think it’s the one Lucas sent him with the picture!”
“What makes you think so?”
I showed him Lucas’s distinctive typing trademarks. “It was a 1977 calendar,” he said, yawning. “Maybe it’s an old note.”
“You aren’t awake yet, are you?”
“No,” he answered truthfully.
“Claire said Ben had been getting nostalgic, remember? I think Lucas sent Ben a copy of Jeff McCutchen’s suicide note.”
“Hmm.” His eyes were drifting shut.
“Frank, wouldn’t the detectives investigating Jeff’s suicide make copies of the suicide note?”
“No.”
“No?”
“They’d keep the original.”
“Can you get a copy from McCutchen’s file?”
His eyes came open. “Huh? Oh. Maybe. Probably in storage by now.” He yawned again. “I’m going back to bed.”
I watched him pad back toward the bedroom, and wondered if he’d remember any part of our conversation. I recorded a memo for him on the answering machine before I left, and also included all the other items I had asked him to check on the previous night—asked before he hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth.
BEFORE I LEFT THE HOUSE, I took three months out of Ben’s calendar for 1977: July, August, and September. They made a thick stack of paper, which Cody eyed covetously. Before he could do more than that, I put them into a big manila envelope, along with my notes on Moffett’s secret meetings. I’d have to write the story on Moffett when I first got in to work—that was a bone that would hold the editorial wolves at bay for a while, give me more leeway to pursue the stories that interested me more avidly: stories of misrepresentation in redevelopment studies, suicidal bankers, and murdered friends.
IT WAS CHILLY AND GRAY OUT, the beginning of spring weather on the southern California coast: cloudy in the early morning clearing to hazy sunshine in the afternoon. Sometimes better, sometimes worse, mostly little changed. It made the drive to Blue’s section of the beach a cold one; I spent most of the trip trying to figure out when I was going to find time to have the window repaired.
Edison Burrows was waiting in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of a white Taurus station wagon. He was staring toward the ocean until he heard my car.
“Haven’t seen any sign of him,” he said, pulling his jacket up against the brisk breeze.
“It’s pretty early.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
There was very little activity around us—a few joggers, a walker or two. It was prime surfing time, but the surfers were all down at the other major section of the beach, nearer the house. Here, though, there were no real waves. My father once told me that before the breakwater had been built, this section of beach was a surfer’s paradise. That was in the pre–Beach Blanket Bingo days, not long after World War II. Annette was still in mouse ears. Surfers weren’t so numerous or organized here then, and they lost this beach to harbors and marinas.
I heard someone coughing, a deep, barking cough, and some loud swearing in response. I looked up and down the beach, but couldn’t tell where the voices came from.
A Parks and Recreation Department tractor started up, and we watched it move out to clean up the sand. I glanced at one of the closed-up lifeguard towers and saw four tousled heads rise above the railings around it, then four faces scowling at the tractor in annoyance. Looked like Blue and a few of his best friends had tried to get out of the wind the night before.
“Is that your son?” I asked Edison, nodding toward the man I had been thinking of as Corky.
He gave a nervous smile. “Yes, that’s Joshua.”
Joshua saw us in the same moment. He lifted a hand in a stiff wave, then slowly made his way down the tower ladder. A fit of coughing stopped him partway down. Didn’t seem to be doing too well. I figured that in addition to whatever was making him cough, he probably had a hangover.
I glanced at Edison and saw his mouth tighten.
Joshua Burrows carefully eased himself from the ladder to the sand. He rested his head against one of the rungs for a moment before turning toward us and beginning a slow trek across the beach. He was walking with a limp, holding his ribs on one side. Coughing. As he came closer, I could see that his face was bruised. His eyes were clear. Not hungover. Hurt.
“Hello, Dad,” he said in a raspy voice when he reached us, and then nodded toward me. Anticipating his father’s question, he said, “I got rolled a couple of nights ago.”
Edison looked down at his shoes, but his voice was calm, undemanding, when he asked, “Have you been to a doctor?”
“No, no. Not yet.” It seemed like he was worn out, out of breath. “Thinking of going, though. Maybe I’ll go later today.” He turned away as he started coughing again. When he stopped, he winced and shifted over to lean on the car.
“Ms. Kelly tells me you’ve met before?” Edison asked.
I felt like I had suddenly landed in a strange country where people have nothing left to live for but their manners, or think so. Sort of like the old movies where the aristocrats on safari stop in the middle of the jungle and have tea and crumpets, not realizing the local lions are planning a picnic, too.
Joshua nodded. “I’ve had the pleasure.” He seemed out of breath, and took a moment to add, “So what brings you here?”
“Something Lucas said in a note.” Edison started to reach inside his jacket, but paused and said, “Want to sit down? Out of the wind? We could sit in the car.”
“No, thanks,” he said, then looked at his father’s face. “Well, sure. Why not?”
“You two take the front,” I said.
“You take the front. I’ll get in back,” Joshua said.
Keep that distance, I thought.
When we were inside, the rank smell of Burrows the Younger’s clothes and body were nearly enough to make me want to go outside and try to read their lips through the windshield. He leaned back in the seat, glanced over at me, and smirked. “Better crack a window for Ms. Kelly, Dad. Her sense of smell is more acute than yours.”
Edison turned red.
“Forget it,” I said. “I’m fine.”
Joshua laughed and set off another coughing fit, this one doubling him over. “Hot,” he said, breathing in odd, quick and shallow breaths, holding his ribs. “Damn
, it’s hot in here.” It was quite cool, but a sheen of perspiration was covering his face. With clumsy fingers, he began unbuttoning his fatigue jacket. Beneath it, his clothes were stained with sweat.
Edison exchanged a glance with me. There was no confidence anywhere on his face.
Joshua leaned his head back again and closed his eyes. “So, you got a note from the Prof?” Back to talking like his street pals.
Edison pulled out the letter Lucas had typed at his home and handed it over the seat to his son.
Joshua read it, stared at it a long time. “Stupid damn thing for him to say. He should have known better.”
“Never mind the part about coming home,” Edison said, reminding me of what Lucas had written. “Just help Ms. Kelly understand what her part means.”
His eyes didn’t look as clear as they had a few moments ago. He closed them and murmured, “Too late. He could never get that through that thick skull of his.” He had another coughing fit, then said wearily, “Too late for him. Too late for Las Piernas, and sure as hell too late for me.”
I’m not noted for having a long fuse, so maybe it was my temper that made me say, “Edison, I can’t take this. Either you drive him to the hospital, or you sit on this side and let me drive him there.”
Edison looked startled for a moment, then locked the car doors and put his key in the ignition. Hearing them lock, I had a moment of panic as my claustrophobia kicked in. I looked for and found a release on my side. I moved my fingers over it, but didn’t press it.
Joshua saw the gesture and smiled. “You sure you want to be locked in here with me and my B.O., Ms. Kelly?”
“No, but I’ll live. You, I’m not so sure about. Start the car, Edison,” I said. “Take him to the hospital.”
“I don’t need a fucking hospital.”
“Joshua Burrows!” Edison said, just like a father. It was about time, though I would have picked a different issue.
“Sorry, Ms. Kelly, Dad. But I still don’t need a hospital.” There was no fight in it.
Edison drove off. We were closer to St. Anne’s, but he was heading toward Las Piernas General. It only took me a minute to figure out why. Las Piernas General was closer to his house.
Joshua was staring at the letter. “I won’t tell you, you know.”
He was talking so low, I barely heard him.
“I don’t need you to tell me, you spoiled brat.”
That brought his head up. I glanced at Edison. He was smiling in spite of himself.
“Sure you do,” Joshua said. He was wearing down, still having difficulty breathing, and he started to speak in short sentences, halting to breathe between them. “It says right here… ‘PS23’… You don’t know what it means.”
“Yeah, well even though you look more like something out of the valley of death than my shepherd, I shall not want. I was supposed to go to Lucas’s Bible, open to Psalm 23, and find the note. I hope he told you what that scrawl on the note meant, because I never would have figured out that it said ‘cherubs’ without help.”
He closed his eyes.
“The bar in the Angelus, right?”
He swallowed hard, nodded.
“Look, Joshua—”
“Forget it. Lucas said… you were a quick study.” He kept his eyes closed, but a slow smile crept up on his face, making him suddenly seem about fifteen years younger. “Ironic hiding place… for a guy in AA.”
I smiled back, even though he didn’t see it. “Yes,” I said. “It fits his sense of humor, doesn’t it?”
He nodded, opened his eyes, watched me.
“Is there more to the message?” I asked.
He started coughing again. Each time, it seemed to take him longer to stop. Edison kept looking in the rearview mirror.
“Secret panel in the bar… Lucas figured it out… said it was from… Prohibition days.” He smiled again. “Couldn’t fool him.”
“Do you know what he hid there?”
“Papers.”
“What kind of papers?”
He shook his head. “Wouldn’t tell me. He said it might not be safe to know… always watching out for me.”
He dozed most of the rest of the way.
“I think he has pneumonia!” Edison whispered to me. “I’m a terrible father.”
“This does some good?”
“No,” he said. “No.”
Joshua woke up when we were just a few minutes away from the hospital. When he stopped coughing long enough to speak, he said, “Don’t take me there. You can’t force me—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Edison said. “You’re going to the hospital and that’s that! Just because you won’t be able to drink for a few days—”
They started arguing loudly, saying pretty much the same thing over and over, with Joshua not sounding any better as it went on.
“You can keep tabs on a mutual friend,” I said quietly.
They both shut up.
“I’m assuming you know Roberta Benson?”
Joshua nodded. “We all do… runs the shelter.”
“She’s in Las Piernas General.”
“Why? She’s not sick, is she?”
I was expecting cynicism, some remark about her being a shrink—not this unabashed concern. “She’s in a coma. Someone bashed the back of her skull in.”
What little color he had beneath the bruises faded. He leaned his forehead against the window. “Why?”
“Walked in on someone robbing her office—that’s the official theory. But she knew Lucas, and saw him as a client. I think someone was looking for a file on him. Or just trying to make sure her mouth stayed shut.”
“Doesn’t keep files on people. Just shelter business. Her policy.” More coughing.
“She knew Lucas. You knew Lucas, too, and it’s no secret. You want to tell me who hurt you?”
“Doesn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Tell me anyway.”
He brooded for a moment, then said, “You don’t tell the cops?”
“No. That’s your business.”
He looked toward his dad and shook his head. “He’d tell.” But while Edison vehemently denied the accusation, Joshua held my attention, and very clearly held up two fingers, then pointed to the tip of one of his dirty running shoes.
Two Toes. My jaw dropped. Joshua was watching me. Watching me with bruises all over his face, maybe a few broken ribs, and God knows what else. Attacked in his sleep by the man who considered himself my guardian angel. “I thought Blue was going to protect you—”
“Blue wasn’t around,” Joshua said.
“I don’t know who attacked Roberta,” I said. “I don’t think it was—the one who attacked you, but I don’t know. I’m just trying to say that you and your dad need to watch each other’s backs—that’s too hard to do if you’re on the streets, Joshua. You’ll be safer here.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Maybe they can even help you get rid of that cough,” I said.
“Why should you care?”
“I owe somebody.”
“Lucas?”
“Yes.”
“You knew what the note meant… why’d you come looking for me?”
“Two reasons. I didn’t really know all of it, did I? And I’ve already told you the other reason.”
“You owe Lucas.”
“Right. So do you.”
“I’m so tired,” he said, but was completely docile after that.
31
NINA HOWELL, my pal in the Zoning Department, was delighted to be of help when I called her. Ray Aiken was acting city manager now, and her own boss was learning that administrative support personnel—which included secretaries—would be treated differently as long as Ray had anything to say about it. Nina’s work life wasn’t completely transformed but it had improved.
“How can I get in touch with Charlotte Brady?” I asked her.
“Allan Moffett’s former secretary?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Aiken asked her to come back. She’s one of his assistants now. Want me to transfer you to her?”
I said I did, and spent the next five minutes listening to Charlotte rave about her new boss. I was feeling a little impatient; I needed to get a story in on Moffett’s secret meetings, but I was also anxious to get back to following up on other matters.
“Ray Aiken always did all the real work around here anyway,” Charlotte said in what I hoped was conclusion.
“Workhorses don’t always make the best administrators,” I said. “I’m glad Ray is doing so well.”
“He’s great. Now what can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you might verify a few items for me.” I read off some of the information I had gathered from Ben’s calendar.
“So what you want to know is, did Allan Moffett call these meetings in defiance of the Brown Act?”
Can’t put anything over on Charlotte Brady. “That’s what I want to independently verify,” I said. “I already know it.”
“Until I talk to Mr. Aiken about this—hmmm. You know nothing will come of it, right? I mean, even under the terms of the Brown Act, there won’t be much you can do?”
“Of course not. In the first place, the law only concerns legislative bodies and their committees, not the city manager himself. But those meetings were held illegally, and Allan was the one who put them together. The public has a right to know that the man they entrusted over all those years abused that trust.”
“He’d never make a comeback, would he?”
“It would be doubtful at best.”
“Oh, I am so tempted! Tell you what. Off the record? You are right on target. That little bastard had more secret meetings than J. Edgar Hoover and his dressmaker.”
“Now, Charlotte …”
“But I can give you the name and number of someone who would probably love to verify it on the record.”
“Who might that be?”
“Why, Allan’s ex-wife.”
“I don’t know—”
“Are you kidding? Double check with whoever gave you those names in the first place. Nancy went to half of those meetings. She was a looker, and Allan liked to show her off.”