Remember Me, Irene ik-4

by Jan Burke

  The coroner might not believe that Lucas was killed, but I was nearly certain of it. Beyond a strong hunch, beyond bodies being moved and pennies and missing rings, there was the simple fact that he had been some sort of catalyst. Allan had felt threatened. So did half a dozen other men.

  Those men were linked before Lucas threatened them, and I became convinced that the more I discovered about their connections to one another, the more likely I was to learn not only why Allan Moffett had resigned, but why Ben Watterson and Lucas Monroe had died.

  I decided I needed to have a long talk with Murray Plummer, the real estate expert for the Express. I called his extension, but he wasn’t in, so I left a message on his voice mail. I wondered if he was in but not taking calls.

  I looked over the list of attendees at Allan’s dinner party. They came from three areas. From the college, from the city, and from local business. The businessmen were Keene Dage, Corbin Tyler, Roland Hill. Ben had belonged to this latter group.

  Roland Hill. Moffett may have called the dinner meeting, but years ago, Hill would have been the one who originally brought this group of people together. Whatever significance the picture of the boat had, it was apparently regarding something that was going on in the late 1970s.

  Like most newspapers, the Express had only recently started indexing stories on the computer, so I wouldn’t be able to look up stories from that decade at my desk. I was going to need to go to the morgue, or library, as we were now supposed to refer to it. With men as publicly prominent as Ben Watterson and Allan Moffett, the noncomputerized files would be huge, going back over several decades. Of the remaining men, Hill was a much more controversial figure than most of the others. His development projects had not been universally welcomed or successful. I decided he would be my best bet for a starting point in a search through the clipping files.

  It would help to have guidance from Murray. I tried calling him again. Voice mail. I hung up without leaving a message.

  My thoughts went back to Lucas. As far as I could remember, Lucas was working on his thesis when I left Las Piernas in 1976. He couldn’t have been far from finishing his master’s degree.

  John Walters’s shadow across my desk startled me out of my reverie.

  “Where in the hell have you been all day?” he growled.

  “I was only out of this office for an hour,” I said. I thought of telling him what I had done during that hour, but didn’t think he’d approve of the meager results.

  “Going to have anything for me by deadline, Kelly?”

  “Uh, probably not today, John,” I said, closing the drawer with the phone book in it.

  “Goddammit, why not?”

  “I need to talk to Murray, for one thing.”

  He scowled, but then apparently decided that working with Murray meant I wasn’t chasing after stories on Lucas. “Okay, Kelly. But one of two things is going to happen after a while. Some other newspaper is going to get the story first, or the story’s going to grow so cold that no one in this town will remember who Allan Moffett is, let alone care about why he resigned. Go look for Murray.”

  “Sure, John.”

  “And Kelly? Don’t forget to put that phone book back.”

  I scowled at Stuart, who was shaking his head.

  “I can still observe things on my own,” John said, and walked off.

  THE EXPRESS IS LAID OUT like a rabbit warren. Hallways appear where you don’t expect them, and a doorway that would seem to lead to a small office often turns out to be the entrance to a large room. Murray and I probably passed one another a couple of times without knowing it, but I finally caught up with him in the composing room. It’s called the composing room even though no one composes pages in it, and the machines in it are called typesetters even though they don’t really set type. Nothing wrong with tradition.

  Black and turquoise cubes, about four square feet each, the typesetters sit along one wall of the composing room. The typesetters are really gigantic film processors that turn out “film,” slick black-and-white prints which are a little larger than a newspaper page.

  Murray was standing at a dump, one of the counter-height metal tables in the room. I saw him reach into a pocket and pull out a thick packet of folded proofs.

  “Were you just downstairs?” I asked.

  He turned around and smiled. “Hello, Irene. No, I was scheduling something with a photographer until a few minutes ago. Now I’m waiting to sign off my pages for the real estate section.”

  As he spoke, he smoothed out the proofs, which had corrections and changes circled with red china marker here and there.

  “Here you go, Plummer,” the compositor said, handing Murray the film that had just dropped into the typesetter’s tray. I stayed quiet while Murray double-checked the folio — the upper corner information which includes the date and page number — and then found the corresponding proof.

  “So you’ve been looking for me?” he asked, uncapping a pen. It was the kind that marked in a special light blue ink known as “nonreproducing blue.”

  “I’ll give you a chance to check your page over,” I said.

  “Thanks.” I watched him check the headlines first. As they say, if you’re going to make a mistake, don’t do it in 42 point type. Next he went over the cut lines under photos, the jump lines and jumps, and then checked to see that all the corrections on his proofs had been carried out.

  “Turin is spelled wrong,” I said, looking over his shoulder. “Your reporter has this Italian architect coming from a soup bowl.”

  He sighed as he made the correction. “Do they teach geography in schools these days? Thanks for catching that — one of those words that makes it past the computer spelling-checker.” He noted the change from Tureen to Turin, sent the page back, then turned his attention to me.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’ve covered real estate since the early 1970s, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I saw a group of men having dinner together the other night — the night after Ben Watterson killed himself. Allan Moffett called the meeting.”

  Murray lifted a brow over the rim of his glasses. “Who were they?”

  I named them. “I know they were also meeting in the mid-to-late 1970s. Back in the seventies, Ben Watterson was meeting with them, too, and would have been invited for the dinner party, except—”

  “Except now he is permanently unavailable for dinner parties. How do you know about all of this?”

  “Another time, Murray.”

  He grinned. “Okay, okay. But before you turn in your story, help me to be ready with a tie-in for my section, will you?”

  “If it’s at all possible, I will. I’ll need your help on this anyway.”

  “Hmm. Yes. Let’s take a look at this group. Name them again for me.”

  I did. He noted the initials on a scrap of paper.

  “You want to know what projects they were involved in from, say, 1970 to 1980?”

  “Yes. Especially 1974 to 1978.” This time both brows went up, but then he studied the initials again. “Andre Selman has done many studies for the Redevelopment Agency, of course,” he said. “He’s one of their regular paid consultants.”

  “Yes, I know,” I said. “It all goes hand in hand.”

  He nodded.

  “I need a quick way to figure out which projects they worked on together. I can’t just go through four years of microfilm — not and keep my sanity or my eyesight, let alone make John happy. As you say, the college and city have worked together many times. So, for the moment, if we just stick with the private sector, we’re left with Tyler, Hill, Dage, and Watterson. Can you tell me about any projects they were working on back then?”

  “Off the top of my head? Lord. Dozens of them.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hill was putting deals together like crazy then. But you’re looking for redevelopment, right?”

  “Yes.” On a hunch I said, “Maybe something in the area
near the Angelus Hotel.”

  Murray frowned. “The Angelus?”

  The compositor came over with another page. Murray took it absently, still studying me.

  “Look,” I said, “I’d just as soon we kept this between the two of us, okay?”

  He chuckled. Hell’s bells. What could I offer Murray in exchange for keeping his yap shut?

  “Did I ever tell you that Jack Fremont is a good friend of mine?” I asked.

  He stopped chuckling. “Jack Fremont? The man who owns over half the beach property in Las Piernas?”

  “The very one. The one who’s been so media shy.”

  “You’re bribing me with an interview possibility?”

  “Emphasis on possibility.”

  “I would never betray you, Irene.”

  My turn to laugh.

  “Let me sign these pages off, then I’ll go back to my office and do a little research for you. I’ll have a list for you by tomorrow morning at the latest. Would that seal the deal?”

  “I’m only promising to talk to Jack about letting you interview him, right? He makes the decision on his own.”

  “Right.”

  “Murray, you’ve got yourself a bargain.”

  17

  I GOT BACK to my desk, ignored the message light, and called Jack. He agreed to do the interview with Murray.

  “I’m not going to tell him this right away,” I said. “I’ve got to make sure he comes through on his part of the bargain.”

  “Okay,” Jack said. “If he calls, I’ll just say I’m thinking about it.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “By the way, did Frank get in touch with you?” he asked.

  “No, but I haven’t picked up all of my messages. Why?”

  “Well, if you don’t have a message from him, give him a call, okay?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Oh, no. I’m not getting in the middle of this one.”

  I CHECKED MY MESSAGES. A few answering-machine Monroes saying they were sorry, but I had reached a wrong number when I had called. Nothing from J. Monroe. Two other calls, one from Frank and one from Rachel. I called Frank first.

  “Harriman,” he answered.

  “Me, too,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “I’m glad you called back. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

  “Stop the presses.”

  “I’m serious. There have been a couple of developments in this Lucas Monroe situation—”

  “Situation? It’s a little beyond a situation, isn’t it? The man is dead.”

  “Okay, have it your way. Something has come up in connection with the death of—”

  “Has Carlos finished the autopsy?”

  I heard a sigh of utter exasperation.

  “Okay, I’ll be quiet. Say what you have to say.”

  There was no reply.

  “Are you pinching the bridge of your nose?” I asked.

  “How the hell could you know that?”

  “You sometimes do that when you’re about to lose your temper.”

  “Call Rachel. She’ll fill you in on what’s happening.”

  “Whoa, whoa, wait!”

  He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t hang up, either.

  “Don’t be angry,” I said.

  I heard a little snort. We were getting somewhere. “Please,” I added.

  “This evening,” he said, in that quiet, measured tone he uses when most people would be shouting, “I would sincerely appreciate it if you went straight home.”

  I started to say that I already planned to, then remembered that I wasn’t going to interrupt.

  “Jack has promised to go with you when you walk the dogs, so just call him whenever you’re ready. Otherwise, please stay home. Humor me, if you will, and lock the doors. I’m working late, but Rachel will be coming over.”

  “Frank, dearest,” I said, “there’s just one teensy-weensy problem with all of these plans you’ve laid out for my evening.”

  “Namely?”

  “I’ve got others.”

  “Cancel them.”

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on, Frank?”

  “Two Toes is looking for you.”

  That surprised me, but I was too mad to let it register. “Oh, so what? He’s not exactly fully functioning. How would he ever figure out where I am? The guy spends his time on his knees in front of religious statues.”

  “So what?” That cool tone was going all to hell — he was starting to shout. “I’ll tell you so what. While he’s out looking for you, we’ve been looking for him. And guess where he was last seen?”

  “Where?” I said softly. He was scaring me a little, not with his shouts but with what I guessed the answer might be.

  He didn’t speak right away. He calmed himself, then said, “On Broadway, standing around outside the Wrigley Building. Maybe waiting for you to come downstairs, go out to lunch. Turns out a patrolman told him to move along before he learned we were looking for the guy.”

  “Let’s start this conversation over. The Las Piernas Police Department is looking for Two Toes.”

  “Right. Reed wants to question him. Based on what Two Toes told you, we think he might have been the last person to see Lucas alive. Then we picked up word on the street that the guy has Lucas’s ring and—”

  “His ring? Wait — Carlos said the ring was taken after Lucas died. So you think Two Toes was there when Lucas died?”

  “Maybe. If nothing else, Two Toes robbed a dead man. He also seems to hold you responsible for bringing the police into the Angelus. A couple of people heard him ranting that you had desecrated Lucas’s tomb.”

  I wasn’t paying strict attention to what Frank was saying. I was still wondering if Two Toes killed Lucas for a lousy college ring. “Has Carlos come up with a cause of death?” I asked.

  “He says Lucas had a heart attack, but—”

  “Heart attack!”

  “Hang on, let me finish. Carlos and Reed worked this out from the patterns of bruising. Carlos said Lucas might have grown dizzy, stumbled, grazed his forehead on the radiator, then collapsed to his knees, probably clutching his chest as he died. He said it would have been quick. There’s only one thing that’s bothering him.”

  “What?”

  “Lucas’s liver wasn’t in great shape. But his heart — Carlos can’t figure out why the heart gave out on him.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying,” he said, “that you might not have won Reed over, but Carlos was impressed by your concerns. With or without your concerns, he’s a very thorough man. He wants to make sure the heart attack wasn’t induced.”

  “Induced… you mean by some chemical means? A poison? Maybe a drug?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did Carlos check for injection marks?”

  “Yes. There were no injection marks. Not even old ones, so your friend wasn’t a junkie.”

  “The others said that. He hit the bottle, stayed away from drugs. He had real problems with booze, I guess, but even his street friends said he had been staying sober.” I thought for a moment. “He had a thermos with him in the hotel—”

  “Carlos has ordered toxicological reports on the body. I’m sure they’ll check any food or drink that was in the room as well.”

  “When did Lucas die?”

  “Carlos isn’t positive, but he thinks it was probably about three days before you found the body.”

  “The day Allan Moffett resigned.”

  “Yes.”

  I mulled this over. “Did Roberta have any information about Lucas?”

  “No, not that she’s sharing with us. She said he didn’t give any family information when he signed up with the center — claims confidentiality about anything else.”

  “Even though he’s dead?”

  “It’s still privileged. We may get a warrant.”

  I wondered if Roberta would tell me more about what was going on
with Lucas, then I remembered my last conversation with her. Roberta probably wasn’t willing to speak to me about anything. Maybe I could try mending fences. That brought my thoughts back to my husband.

  “Frank, about tonight—”

  “Look, before you make up your mind, let me apologize about coming on so strong. I guess I sort of panicked. This Two Toes has a reputation for using his fists. I didn’t want him using them on you. I couldn’t reach you, and I started making arrangements. I wanted you to be safe.”

  Safety. There’s no such thing, I wanted to say. Instead I said, “I understand, Frank. But Lisa Selman is coming over for dinner, remember? She’s coming over to the house at seven. I was going to cook dinner for the three of us.”

  “Hmm. I forgot about that. Look,” he said, “could you reschedule the dinner?”

  “I don’t know. Her dad’s in the hospital and—”

  “You’re right. So she meets Rachel instead of your domineering, overprotective husband.”

  “Somehow it won’t be the same. I’ll call Lisa and see if she’s willing to let Rachel sub for you.”

  “Thanks, Irene.” There was relief in his voice.

  NEITHER LISA NOR RACHEL objected to the change in dinner plans. That settled, I took out the photographs that Claire and Tyler gave me and studied them for the one hundredth time. I dialed Booter Hodges.

  “Hello, Irene! How nice to hear from you! What can I do for you?”

  “I was thinking about Allan Moffett. You’re old friends, right?”

  “Well, yes, although I hardly move in Allan’s circles.”

  “Oh, c’mon, Booter. You’re even fishing buddies, aren’t you?”

  There was the slightest pause before he said, “Oh, I may have gone fishing once or twice with him.”

  “When?”

  “Nothing lately. Five or six years ago we went once or twice, that’s all.” He forced a laugh. “Who has time to go fishing now?”

  “Andre Selman has a boat.”

  “No kidding? Well, what do you know about that?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “Oh, maybe I heard something about it. Why do you mention it? Did you want me to ask Andre Selman to take you fishing?”