Dear Irene,

by Jan Burke

  “He left it on the pier?”

  “He may not have left it. Probably dropped it when he ran off. There’s a partial print on it, but we can’t tie it to anyone with a sheet.”

  “Somehow I get the feeling that this is Thanatos’ first and only crime spree.”

  “For an amateur, he’s doing a bang-up job of it.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s had almost fifty years to plan it.”

  “So you’re convinced it’s this Grant kid?”

  “Think about it,” I said. “Some bully picks on you every day. One day while he’s punching on you, your mom comes along and sends him flying into a wall. But what should be the most glorious day of your life becomes the beginning of hell on earth. The other kids, who’ve never treated you right, all point the finger at your mother. Your mother is taken from you, and after being bounced around like a bad check, you end up under the thumb of the bully’s mother. Maybe you wait around praying for your mother to be released from prison, to come and rescue you. But instead she’s murdered. You never see her again. She’s murdered serving a prison sentence for protecting you from a bully.”

  “Yeah, I guess that isn’t so hard to buy. But why wait until now? Why not try this when you’re a younger man?”

  “I don’t know, Pete. I don’t know.” I switched to a lighter subject. “What’s Rachel up to these days?”

  “She’s getting ready to move here. Can you believe it? She’s actually going to be here all the time. I’m a lucky bastard.”

  I agreed with him. We said good-bye and I went back to work. I wrote up what I could, filling out some of the details and providing follow-up to previous stories. I spent a lot of time staring at the computer screen. I stopped by Mark Baker’s desk for a couple of minutes and filled him in on the slingshot development. He had heard of them, having already done a story on some kids being injured by them.

  The rain was still coming down at noon, so I was reluctant to go out anywhere to eat. I didn’t want to endure the long lines in the cafeteria, so I bought a crummy lunch from a vending machine down in the basement. At least I got a chance to watch them run the presses and to shoot the breeze with Danny Coburn for a while. He pulled out a new assortment of pictures of his grandchildren. “Suzanne’s going to have to buy a bigger wallet for you, Danny,” I told him. He grinned. Talking to him was a pleasant distraction from all that had happened in the last few days.

  That afternoon, scratching a mental itch I had about things that had been said to me over the last few days, I started doing some double-checking. I verified that Don Edgerton was an instructor at Las Piernas College, gathered the dates of his employment there, and asked about his teaching schedule. I called the Dodgers and verified what he had told us about being with the team.

  I called Las Piernas School District, and was told that Howard Parker did indeed retire after teaching for more than thirty years. “He taught math,” the woman on the other end of the phone said. “He won awards for teaching. We were very disappointed when he left, but he said that after his wife died, his heart wasn’t in it. She taught for us, also—computer science. Lovely woman.”

  Justin Davis, I learned, had designed security systems of one type or another for almost every government entity and major business in Las Piernas, including Mercury Aircraft itself. His company was highly regarded, and he had a reputation for personally following up on any job they took on, making certain his customers remained satisfied.

  I called Fielding’s Nursing Home, where Peggy Davis was indeed a patient. The lady who answered the phone had a honeyed voice that made me want to ask if she had ever considered a career in radio. She gave me polite attention, which is more than you can say for a lot of people who answer business phones.

  “Let’s see, Peggy Davis—here she is. Mrs. Margaret Davis. She’s fairly new here. That would be in Mrs. Madison’s group. Would you mind holding for a moment?”

  My God, asked if I would hold the line—and she waited for my answer! “Not at all,” I said, finding myself lowering the pitch of my own voice to match hers.

  Mrs. Madison’s voice and manner provided a stark contrast. “Yeah, Madison,” she answered. “Who is this?”

  “Irene Kelly with the Las Piernas News Express. I was wondering if I could arrange to talk to Mrs. Davis.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. Look lady, Mrs. Davis is a vacant lot, if you know what I mean. These old birds in here can’t hold a conversation, unless you count being asked the same question ninety times an hour a conversation. Old Mrs. Davis doesn’t even know who she is. She doesn’t recognize her own son. And she doesn’t hear so good, either. So no way is she going to talk to some newspaper reporter.”

  There was a click. “Thank you so very much,” I said to the dial tone.

  * * *

  “STORM DAMAGE” WAS likely to bump the Thanatos stories out of the lead position on A-1 by the time I was signing off the computer for the day. We had been getting calls on accidents, a roof collapsing, and road closures. Flood control channels, Southern California’s deep and wide concrete-lined river beds, were filling up. The nearly stagnant trickles one usually found in them changed into shallow but dangerous rapids within a matter of minutes whenever it rained hard. Every year, it seems we write at least one story about someone who decides to go rafting in a channel and drowns. Amateurs misjudge the speed of the water and the amount of debris that comes rocketing along with it.

  As evening fell, I decided I’d better hurry up and get over to the hospital to see Steven. I wanted to get home to Bea, also. I felt a twinge of guilt about leaving her alone.

  I was packing up when Mark Baker hurried over. “Guess what! They’ve taken Don Edgerton in for questioning.”

  “Why?”

  “They asked around at the sporting goods stores. Figured the clerks might remember someone older buying a slingshot. Turns out one clerk remembered him.”

  “A clerk knew him by name?”

  “No. He just remembered that he sold a slingshot to a customer of his who also bought a lot of archery equipment. The detectives remembered that Edgerton taught archery at the college. They brought out a set of photos and the clerk pointed to Edgerton in nothing flat. They got search warrants for his house and office. Guess what they found in his desk drawer at the school?”

  “The hammer that killed Edna Blaylock?”

  “No. One of those synthesizers for disguising a voice over the phone.”

  “Good Lord.” I sat down again, trembling. But as I thought about what he had said, something puzzled me. “Why would Edgerton keep those things in an office? Why not at home, where he has two Dobermans to stand watch?”

  “I don’t know. Could be he doesn’t think the house is all that secure, even with the dogs. But his office at the college is very secure. And it has one of those special electronic locks on it.”

  Pete had told me about the electronic locks on the campus. It occurred to me that I had seen that type of lock several times in recent days.

  “He’s got all kinds of sports equipment stored there,” Mark went on, “including a lot of his own personal equipment.”

  “Wait a minute! Now that you mention it, I realize we never saw bows and arrows or fencing gear at his house. Just the photos and the computer.” I shuddered. “Maybe that’s what he was doing with the computer—wiping out some records at Mercury that would have told us more.”

  “Maybe. But we didn’t see the whole house. Besides, the damning evidence is the slingshot and the synthesizer, not the computer. Lots of people have access to a computer. Even Howard Parker, right?”

  “I guess it doesn’t matter now. Don Edgerton. That sonofabitch. When I think of what he’s done . . .” I drew a deep breath and tried to calm down. “So now the problem is finding the link. The why.”

  “I’m going down to police headquarters and see if they’ll let me talk to him. Want to come along?”

  The phone rang befor
e I could answer his question.

  “Kelly,” I answered.

  “Cassandra.”

  Mark took one look at my face and picked up the extension. I couldn’t make myself answer. I couldn’t even see the room. All I could see was Steven Kincaid’s bleeding face.

  “Why so quiet, my love?” the voice said. “Surely Hyacinthus didn’t mean so much to you?”

  I tried to will my own voice to be steady and calm. “You’re blowing it, Thanatos. You’re either screwing up an effort to pin something on someone else or you’re wasting your phone call from jail—”

  He laughed. “Believe me, I’m not calling from jail. I just needed to keep your friends busy for a while.”

  “You screwed up anyway. You missed with Icarus. And you didn’t do such a great job on Hyacinthus, either. He isn’t dead.”

  “Not yet.”

  I felt a white-hot fury rising in me. “You’re going to be the first to go. I swear you will.”

  “Not likely. I say Kincaid, Harriman, and then—well, who knows?”

  “I’m Cassandra, remember? And I say it’s going to be you. You’re getting sloppy. You’re forcing it now—going to extremes—like this business with the Mercury computers.” I glanced over at Mark, who was frantically shaking his head at me.

  “That was not at all difficult for me,” Thanatos said. “Keep that in mind.”

  “Like I said, I’m Cassandra. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. It will happen. You’re next.”

  He laughed, then stopped suddenly. When he spoke, his voice was menacing. “You disappoint me.”

  “Pauline would have been disappointed in you, Jimmy.”

  “You—” he hissed angrily. “You’re no better than the others!” He hung up.

  Mark Baker looked like he was in shock. “Do you think that was wise?”

  I was shaking. “No, it wasn’t.”

  He came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry. You’ve had a lot to cope with lately.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “We better call Harriman.”

  I still didn’t say anything, so he dialed the number and asked for Frank. I sat and listened while he told Frank about the conversation. Mark was quiet on his end for a while, then said, “Look, Frank—” but was apparently interrupted. He reluctantly handed the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I took it from him. “Yeah?”

  “Irene? What the hell has gotten into you? Goddamn it, do you think you’re invincible? You drive me nuts when you pull shit like this!”

  “Good-bye, Frank. Call me back when you cool off.” I hung up. Mark looked like he was going to be ill. “Frank and I will be fine, Mark. It happens all the time.”

  He didn’t look convinced. My phone started ringing again. I didn’t want to talk to Thanatos or anyone else. It was probably Frank, but I knew he hadn’t had enough time to get back under control yet. I ignored it and left. I needed some air.

  * * *

  ST. ANNE’S IS a short walk from the paper, but I got soaked anyway. I didn’t have any trouble getting past the guard at Steven’s door. When I came in, Steven was sleeping. He roused himself a little, looked at me, and smiled. “Hi.”

  “Hello. How are you feeling?”

  “Better.”

  He had a smaller bandage on now, and his forehead had a large, dark bruise on it. The edges of stitches showed, making me wince.

  “Irene? Would you call my parents?”

  “Sure. You want me to call them now?”

  “If you wouldn’t mind. Maybe you could do most of the talking. Don’t scare them, okay?” He was still pretty out of it, but apparently this had been troubling him. I reassured him and dialed the number he gave me.

  “What are their names?” I asked as it rang.

  “Mike and Margaret Kincaid.”

  A man answered the phone. I explained that I was one of Steven’s friends and that I was calling at his request. “Steven has suffered a head injury. He wants me to assure you that he’s okay, but he’s in the hospital recovering. He wants to talk to you to let you know that he’s all right.”

  “The hospital?” There was a second of silence, and then he yelled, “Maggie! Pick up the extension! Excuse me, Miss—?”

  “Kelly.”

  “Miss Kelly.” There was a click of the other phone being picked up. “Miss Kelly, would you please repeat that for Steven’s mother?”

  I did. After he calmed his wife a little, Mike Kincaid asked me to put Steven on.

  I listened to Steven’s half of the conversation. He reached up and took my hand when I started to move away to allow him some privacy.

  “No, Mom, don’t cry. I’m fine.”

  He listened.

  “It’s okay, Mom . . . Look, I’m going to let Irene talk to you . . . No, no, she’s not. She’s a friend.”

  He handed the phone over and I reassured them once again that he was recovering and would be fine. “He just tires easily. . . . Travel out here to see him?” Steven looked a little panicked and shook his head no. “No, I wouldn’t come out just yet.” He relaxed. “Yes, he’ll call again soon.” I said good-bye and hung up.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  A nurse came in and saw us holding hands and gave me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve had in some time. Steven looked at me knowingly and smiled a little. I couldn’t resist. I bent over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good-bye, darling. Get some rest. I can’t wait to meet your parents.”

  Steven’s smile widened a bit and he squeezed my hand. He closed his eyes, still smiling, and said sleepily, “I’ll dream about you.”

  God, how I enjoyed that.

  I was striding down the hall, feeling my oats, when I happened to look up in one of those round mirrors that are sometimes placed at the intersection of two hallways. I saw the reflection of one very angry Frank Harriman making his way purposefully in my direction. I was fairly certain he hadn’t seen me yet, and I didn’t feel like facing his wrath. I looked to my left and saw a door marked “Chapel.” I ducked inside.

  It was dark and quiet in the small room. There were about six short pews and an altar with a large flower arrangement on it. Beyond the altar, a section of the wall held a large, stained glass crucifix, which was illuminated by a lamp of some kind behind it. To one side was a statue of St. Anne, Mary’s mother, a set of votive candles flickering below it. I lit one for old times’ sake, or perhaps for the comfort of ritual. I strolled over to the altar and read the tag on the flowers: Donated by Bettina Anderson. I’d have to tell Barbara about this.

  Hey, Barbara-Babs-Kelly-O’Connor, I just happened to see Lizzy-Betty-Bettina-Zanowyk-Anderson’s flowers while I was cowering in the chapel at St. Anne’s.

  That’s one thing about being an Irene, I thought. They can sing that old song to you every time they say good night, but Irene is Irene. Sort of elemental. Not like Bettina-Elizabeth or, say, like Steven’s mom, Peggy—no, Maggie-Margaret.

  Something nagged at me then, and it wasn’t just guilt over the fact that I was hiding from my fiancé. I sat down.

  Was it something I had heard earlier in the day? Or in the conversation with Steven’s parents? But when I started thinking of the Kincaids, I grew distracted, wondering if they would fly out to California anyway. A stranger’s reassurance that Steven was all right probably wouldn’t count for much against a mother’s worry.

  I sat stewing over that and Thanatos and Frank and—well, yes, religion. I can’t go into a church or chapel without trying to pin myself down on exactly where I stand on the subject. I’m not an atheist. Being an atheist takes more faith than I’ll ever have in any religion. It was also too late to make a good agnostic out of me—too much faith for that. And I wasn’t sure I could really count myself in or out as a Catholic. I wasn’t much at home in Catholicism anymore.

  But when you grow up in a religion that allows a day to honor someone
named “St. Christina the Astonishing,” it’s just not easy to make yourself feel at home any other place, either. I thought of all the Greek mythology I had been reading. Were there lapsed pagans in those days? Did they falter in their faith? Maybe faith was based on something different in ancient Greece and Rome.

  If one could base one’s faith on gratitude for unexpected help, appreciation for all life’s narrow misses and a sense that too much undeserved good had come your way, I supposed that I did have faith.

  “Hello, Cassandra,” a voice said behind me.

  And it was going to be tested immediately.

  26

  HELLO, JIMMY,” I said without turning around. I made myself stare at St. Anne’s beatific plaster smile; focused on that while I talked myself into not showing him how afraid I really felt.

  He reached up and touched my hair. I felt a shudder pass through me, but suppressed any other reaction. I thought of Edna Blaylock and Rosie Thayer and Alex Havens. I thought of Steven Kincaid and Johnny Smith and Rita Havens.

  He moved closer to me and whispered into my ear, speaking too low for me to recognize his unsynthe-sized voice. “I’m almost sorry that it has come to this, Cassandra. I had other ideas. You are the daughter of a champion of justice, and for his sake, I wanted more for you.”

  I was trying to think of how he had decided that I was the daughter of a champion of justice, when he solved it for me. “Oh, I know you weren’t his daughter by birth, but you might as well have been, you know. Your tributes to him—the articles you wrote about him after he was murdered—it was clear to me that no one else loved him as you did. I so appreciated it when you avenged Mr. O’Connor’s death. You really are Irene O’Connor in some ways. That’s why I thought you’d understand.”

  “What was O’Connor to you?”

  “Oh, so you don’t know everything after all, do you, Cassandra?”

  I didn’t answer. He laughed.

  “One of his very first stories was about my mother’s murder. Unlike those who just reported a ‘killing of a female inmate,’ he told her story. He knew how unfair it had all been. I saved it.” I heard a rustling sound and a fragile, yellow clipping was extended over my shoulder. It had O’Connor’s byline on it, all right. I couldn’t resist taking it from him. I read it, feeling Thanatos’ eyes on me as I did.