by Jan Burke
Some of Roland Hill’s investors wanted to lynch him. Some wanted to lynch me.
Claire had thanked me. If I hadn’t come to know her, to see how courageous she was, I might have been surprised at her gratitude. She was more at peace for understanding what had been on Ben’s mind in those last days, she said. She thought no less of Ben. She had loved him. That’s all there was to it as far as she was concerned. A pity his demons hadn’t let him see that.
Word was, the college was awarding a posthumous master’s degree to Lucas. Too little, too late.
Barton Sawyer had earned my respect by not distancing himself from Lisa or joining the hoopla around the newly popular memory of Lucas Monroe. Instead, he privately sent letters of sympathy to June and Charles Monroe, to Marcy and Jerry. The only time he spoke of Lisa publicly was to say that he felt the same sadness he would feel if his own daughter was imprisoned, regardless of her guilt.
I had visited Lisa before her arraignment. Her face was black and blue and there were marks on her wrists from where I had tied the straps too tight. She saw me looking at them and said, “Remember the time you were teaching me how to ice skate? I fell and knocked you down with me, and you got a fat lip. I was crying, both because I had hurt you and because I was afraid you’d never take me skating again. You said, ‘Lisa, ice is slippery. People fall down on it. Get used to it.’ Remember that?”
“Yes,” I said, “I remember.”
She started talking of other things we had done together. They were good memories. Maybe we wanted to convince ourselves that things had been different then. I’ve come to believe they were, though I doubted it for a time. Before I left, I thanked her for keeping her promise to talk to the police. She asked me to come back. I told her I would.
I LOOKED OUT ACROSS the view from the solarium. In the distance, I could just make out the tallest buildings downtown. Keene Dage’s Las Piernas. Corbin Tyler’s. The sun glinted off the glass crown of the Haimler Building.
We all have to do something we can be proud of.
I heard the elevator doors open. My husband stepped out.
“Ready to go get your car?”
“How did you know I was here?”
“I know you. There wasn’t an ocean in the hospital, so I had to look for sunlight.”
“They call him Detective Harriman.”
He had reached me by then, lifted the hair on the back of my neck, put his mouth on it and blew, sort of a contact raspberry.
“Hey, that tickles,” I said, laughing and feeling shivers down my spine.
“It’s a neck fizz. It’s supposed to tickle. You’re supposed to laugh once in a while.”
“Sorry. I’ve been a sort of morose creature, haven’t I?”
He shook his head. “That’s okay, too. But once you’ve talked to June Monroe, we’re going to get your car, put down the top, and enjoy a beautiful spring day. Got it?”
“June Monroe’s looking for me?”
He fizzed my neck again. “You’re supposed to answer, ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’ As for June, you know she is. I told her I’d find you. And no Detective Harriman jokes, Ms. Kelly. You want to talk to her here?”
“Yes. We might have some privacy here, anyway.”
He gave me a quick kiss and went over to the elevator. Every few seconds he’d look over at me and make a completely clownish face. I couldn’t keep my own straight.
“Yes, doctor, her condition is improving,” he said when the bell for the elevator rang. I was gratified by the clown act, knowing only his closest friends—including his wife—ever saw this side of him.
When he left, I felt his absence so strongly I almost slipped back down into my funk. Almost.
He must have told June to wait on the next floor down, because she arrived just a moment later. I smiled at the thought of how sure of himself he had been.
“I said something you took the wrong way down there,” she said without preamble.
“No, you were right. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.”
“Too much, you ask me. Let’s sit down over here—just for a minute. You got that man waiting for you, and I don’t need a lot of time to say what I am going to say.”
Well, just try to argue against a will like that. We sat down.
“Do you know what Edmund Burke said about evil?” she asked.
This I was not expecting. But fortunately, my old friend O’Connor had been a walking quotation book, so I knew the answer. “‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
“Exactly right,” she said. “Not ‘everything.’ Nothing. You did something. You should feel good. But no, you’re too busy wishing that you were better than the rest of us.”
“What?”
“Oh yes. You’re up here wishing that you could be perfect. That your courage never failed you. That when some old drunk came up off a bench shouting crazy stuff at you, that you had been a perfectly charitable Christian soul and said, ‘How may I help you, brother?’”
“Well—”
“Well, nothing! Do you think no one forgives you for that? Do you think Lucas himself held that against you?”
“No.”
“So, then, quit wasting time with all this feeling bad about what you could have done, and just get out there and keep doing something. You don’t have to do everything. Just what you can.”
For some damned reason, I started crying. She put an arm around me.
“Oh, now Frank is really going to be after me,” she said. “Listen to me, Irene. I know my son lives. I don’t mean with Jesus, though I believe that with all my heart. I mean here. He lives, because he changed something. He made things a little better before he passed. And you helped him do that. You have done him a great kindness.”
“I would have preferred to have been kinder to him for five more minutes while he was alive,” I said.
“Of course you would have. But then, my son was a teacher, and you’ve learned something from him, haven’t you? We all only have five minutes to be kind to each other. So go on down there and be good to that husband of yours.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Go on,” she said. “Five minutes. Think of some little something. It all adds up.”
I could figure that much out.
I’m good at math.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I owe thanks to many individuals for their help with this book. They deserve applause; if I’ve erred, save the boos and hisses for me.
I’m especially grateful to Laurence Whipple, a man with courage and heart, who is the Director of the Seattle Food Bank; my friend K. C. Pilon, who has worked extensively with the homeless; Steven Kingston, the original Rockford, who helped Rachel to be a better private investigator and shared many insights into his work; Susie Gibbs, for answering endless questions about alcoholism recovery programs. Emergency department physician James Gruber, M.D., and orthopedic surgeon Ed Dohring, M.D., each took time from exhausting schedules to help me with medical research. Jacquie Prebich, R.N., and Mark Prebich, Administrator of Ancillary Departments at South El Monte Hospital, helped with coronary care information. Michael Burke helped with banking and finance information, as did Thomas Burke.
Debbie Arrington, who has contributed so much to this series, did yeoman’s work with this book, especially on the topic of redevelopment investments. Andy Rose and other members of the staff of the Long Beach Press-Telegram were also generous with their help.
Safe Navigation, West Marine in Long Beach, Charles Link of Performance Tackle, and Ron and Darlene Jack assisted with nautical matters. Professor Emeritus Rodger Heglar, who taught anthropology at San Francisco State University, Joan Parker of the Moss Landing Marine Laboratory, and forensic anthropologist Dr. Judy Suchey of California State University, Fullerton, contributed to my understanding of what happens to bones left in the ocean.
Fictional Las Piernas has fictional oil islands; Long Beach, California’s THUMS islands
are, in fact, found nowhere else in the world. I am indebted to Ed Fischer, Steve Marsh of THUMS, and Don Clarke, City Geologist for Long Beach, who spent lots of time talking to me about the real oil islands.
Ruthann Lehrer of the Neighborhood and Historic Preservation Office for the City of Long Beach helped me to see what the Angelus might look like. Jenny Oropeza, Cathy Keig, and Jim Hayes helped me through the political maze. Heather Cvar helped with the special expertise on pranks that only a thirteen-year-old can provide. Joe and Elaine Livermore of Footprints of a Gigantic Hound in Tucson, Arizona, are owned by the original model for Finn, a wonderful Irish wolfhound named Mr. Calder, who was gracious enough to allow his feet to be measured. That was probably one of the weirder calls the Livermores received this year, but I doubt they are surprised that I’m the one who made it.
I’m also grateful to Detective Bill Valles, Corporal Joseph Levy, and Officer Don Smith of the Long Beach Police Department, as well as Dennis Payne of the Robbery-Homicide Division of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Sharon Weissman and Tonya Pearsley provided extraordinary support, research, contacts with experts, and personal insights. Sharon even let me take her fax machine apart. Both read drafts and kept me from despairing during those days when I thought I’d never find time to get this one written. Sandra Cvar helped me find the time.
Special thanks to Michael Connelly, who helped me to keep my perspective and answered a number of pesky questions as well. (Lex and Nex are yours again, Mike.)
My family and friends are due many thanks, especially Tim, who had to read the manuscript two zillion times. Nancy Yost, superagent and Cosmo model, and Laurie Bernstein, the world’s most patient editor, provided insightful comments and unfailing support. Jim Timmie, Charles Roberts, Annie Hughes, Rochelle Garris, Holly Zappala, Michele Pipia, Virginia Clark, and Dominique D’Anna, and so many others at Simon & Schuster—thank you, thank you, thank you.
