Remember Me, Irene ik-4

by Jan Burke

  Remember Me, Irene

  ( Irene Kelly - 4 )

  Jan Burke

  Synopsis:

  I’m not who I used to be.... The remark, whispered by a stranger on the street to Irene Kelly, becomes all the more unnerving when the newswoman realizes she knows the man. He’s Lucas Monroe, her former college instructor who had looked forward to a brilliant future. Now he’s a derelict in hiding, an unlikely suspect in blackmail and murder. What happened to Monroe’s life strikes Irene as bizarre. But it’s what happens to him in death that fills her with dread. Her long-lost mentor is found murdered, and whatever the picturesque town of Las Piernas is hiding has made some people very rich, very guilty, and very dangerous.

  Remember Me, Irene

  Jan Burke

  The fourth book in the Irene Kelly series

  Copyright © 1996 by Jan Burke

  To Thomas William Burke

  WHO WELCOMED A STRANGER

  There are three kinds of lies: lies, damned lies, and statistics.

  — BENJAMIN DISRAELI

  Over and over, they used to ask me

  While buying the wine or the beer…

  How I happened to lead the life,

  And what was the start of it.

  Well, I told them a silk dress,

  And a promise of marriage from a rich man…

  But that was not really it at all.

  Suppose a boy steals an apple

  From the tray at the grocery store,

  And they all begin to call him a thief,

  The editor, minister, judge, and all the people —

  “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief” wherever he goes.

  And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread

  Without stealing it, why the boy will steal.

  It’s the way the people regard

  the theft of the apple

  That makes the boy what he is.

  — EDGAR LEE MASTERS

  from “Aner Clute” in Spoon River Anthology

  1

  HIS LAST ADDRESS was his own body, and what a squalid place it was. Someone told me he cleaned up just before he died, and I now know it’s true. But when I last saw him, the place was a mess.

  He was sprawled on a bus bench, stinking of alcohol and urine, drooling in his sleep. He was an African American man, and while it was hard to guess his age, I judged him to be in his fifties. His skin was chapped and one of his cheeks was scraped and swollen, as if he had been in a fight. I took more than a passing interest in him: noted his matted hair, his rough beard, his rumbling snores, the small brown paper sack clutched to his chest like a prayerbook. The last prayer had been prayed out of it sometime ago, judging by the uncapped screwtop bottleneck.

  I stood to one side of the bench, studying him, thinking up clever phrases to make the readers of my latest set of stories on public transportation in Las Piernas smile at my description of my predicament, smile over coffee and cereal as they turned the pages of the Express at their breakfast tables. I would be ruthless to the Las Piernas Rapid Transit District — perhaps call it the Rabid Transient District. My small way of repaying it for forcing me to be two hours late getting back to the paper.

  I had been on buses all day. My back ached and my feet hurt, and one more ride would take me back to the Express. I was tired and frustrated. I felt a righteous anger on behalf of the citizens who had to use the system every day. I had yet to see a bus pull up at the time it was scheduled to make a stop. I could see exactly why the regular riders were angry. This was one day’s story for me; for them it would mean being late to work, to doctors’ appointments, to classes, to job interviews. One missed connection led to another, turning what was planned to be my four-hour, see-it-for-myself test ride into six hours of hell on wheels.

  My series of rides had taken me all over the city, and the man before me now was not the first drunk I had encountered, not even the first sleeping drunk.

  Perhaps the guilt I’ve felt since that day now colors my memory of my attitude at the time. There is, in any job that requires a person to observe other people and publish the observations, an aspect of being… well, a user. I used the man on the bench. Took notes on him.

  He awoke suddenly, and I took a step back. Awake, he was a little more fearsome. He looked bigger. Stronger. He yawned, wiped a dirty sleeve across his face, and moved to a slumped sitting position. When he noticed me, he cowered away, tucking the bottle closer, eyeing me warily.

  He was afraid of me. That startled me more than his abrupt awakening. I looked at the swollen cheek again as I stopped taking notes.

  “Hello,” I said, and stuffed my pen and notebook into the back pocket of my worn jeans. (No, I wasn’t wearing high heels and a tight skirt. A day on buses. I do have a little sense left, even if I am still working for the Express.)

  He just studied me, as if trying to fit me into the scheme of things, as if I were someone familiar and yet unfamiliar to him. His eyes were red and he blinked slowly and nodded forward a little, not past the danger of passing out again.

  After a time, I wished he would pass out. The relentless stare began to unnerve me. I stepped a little farther away, balanced my stance, looked for potential witnesses to whatever harm he might intend. No one. This stop was along a chain-link fence surrounding an old abandoned hotel. No cars in the parking lot. Windows broken. Redevelopment, almost.

  A few blocks down the way, Las Piernas could show off the benefits of its redevelopment plan. But at this end of the street, there were no polished glass skyscrapers, no new theaters or trendy nightspots. Just empty lots and crumbling brick buildings. Weeds pushing up through the neglected asphalt, curbs and sidewalks cracked. The sporadic traffic along the street moved quickly, as if the drivers wanted to get their passage along this blighted block over and done with.

  I watched longingly for the bus. No sign of it.

  “I know you,” he said, one careful word at a time. I looked back at him. “I know you,” he repeated. Some teeth missing. Knocked out or lost to decay?

  “My picture sometimes runs in the paper,” I said. “I’m a reporter.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “Yes, really,” I said, taking another step back. “I’m a reporter for the Express.”

  Shook his head again. Kept studying me.

  Where the hell was that bus?

  With fumbling fingers, he started to unbutton his worn denim jacket. I was mapping out the safest place to run to when he reached down beneath several layers of T-shirts and pulled out something truly amazing: a large, gold school ring with a red stone in it, dangling from a long metal chain. He held it out toward me, swinging it back and forth like a hypnotist’s watch, and beckoned to me.

  “Look at it,” he said.

  “I see,” I said, in the tone one might use in speaking to a child holding a jar full of wasps. I wasn’t going to venture close enough to see which school the ring came from.

  He looked up at me again and his eyes were misty. He turned away, curled his shoulders inward, as if afraid I might hit him after all.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, feeling as if I had hit him.

  He shook his head, still keeping his back to me.

  Where the hell was that bus?

  He turned around again, and this time, the look was pleading. “You don’t remember me. I’m… I’m…” He ducked his head. “Not who I used to be,” he mumbled.

  I didn’t say anything for a moment. “I’m not who I used to be, either,” I said, ashamed.

  “It’s okay,” he said in a consoling tone. “It’s okay. Okay. Okay.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “You didn’t change,” he said. “I know you.” He winked at m
e and pointed at my face. “Kelly.”

  It only took me aback for a moment. “Yes, I’m Irene Kelly.”

  He grinned his misshapen grin. “I told you!”

  “Yes, well, that’s what I was saying before. You’ve probably seen my picture near one of my columns in the paper.”

  He shook his head and batted a hand in dismissal of that notion.

  “I know you. You could help me.”

  Uh-oh, I thought, here it comes. “I don’t even have fare money,” I said, holding up the transfer that would take me back to the parking lot at the paper. And my beloved Karmann Ghia. My nice, safe, private transportation. I looked up the street, and to my delight, one of Las Piernas’s diesel-belching buses was in sight.

  “No, no,” he insisted, standing up. “I don’t want your money.”

  Yeah, right, I thought, moving to put the bench between us. “That’s good. Well, nice talking to you. Here’s my bus.”

  He glanced toward the bus, which was trundling slowly up to the stop. It passed us and stopped just beyond where we stood. I moved toward the forward door.

  “No, don’t go! You’re good at math.”

  I paused at the open door, staring back at him. Two passengers alighted from the rear door, ignoring us.

  “You’re good at math!” the man called again, as if it were a password between us, one that would cause me to embrace him as a compatriot.

  “You gettin’ on this bus, lady?” the driver asked.

  I nodded and started to step aboard.

  “No!” the man cried, stumbling toward me. I rushed up the steps, shoving my transfer at the driver, dismayed to find the bus so full that I could not retreat back into it. The man drew closer.

  “Not today, Professor,” the driver said, snapping the door shut in his face.

  But the “Professor” wasn’t giving up so easily. He pounded his fists on the glass, staring at me. “You’re good at math!” he shouted. “You’re good at math!”

  The driver pulled away.

  For a moment, my fear of the man turned into fear for him. But peering into the side mirror, I saw him stare after the bus, then turn away in defeat.

  “The Prof didn’t scare you, did he?” the driver asked. When I didn’t reply, he said, “I haven’t ever seen him like that. Usually he’s real easygoing, even when he’s drunk. I’ve never known the Professor to hurt anybody.”

  “Why do you call him that? Was he a professor?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. But he gives little informal tours to the passengers when he gets on the bus. If he cleans up a little, people enjoy it. Don’t let it out to my supervisor, but I sort of let the Prof ride around with me, you know, stay warm when it gets chilly out. Naw, he’s no professor. Just a bum. But he knows all about this area. Grew up in the neighborhood, back when it was one. You ask him about any building on this street, and he’ll tell you when it was built, what it was used for, how many people lived in it, all kinds of stuff like that. I think it’s the only part of his brain that still works. Remembers old buildings.”

  Remembers old faces, I thought. By then, the Professor seemed vaguely familiar to me. Why? I couldn’t have told you then.

  But he was right: I’m good at math.

  I just hadn’t yet put two and two together.

  2

  “A BOOB JOB, I tell you.”

  “Alicia,” I said, wishing for the one-millionth time that any other member of SOS — Save Our Shelter — would come along and distract her away from my side, “I really do not give an otter’s bottom what Helen Ferguson has done to her breasts.”

  “Not just her breasts, Irene.” She smiled wickedly over the brim of her glass of chardonnay. I blinked, once again blinded by a reflection off her rings. Alicia Penderson-Duggin’s fingers carry jewelry on them the way the walls of a hunter’s den display animal heads. “And speaking of bottoms,” she went on, “I’d bet hers has been lifted.”

  “I don’t care if it’s lifted! I don’t care if she’s got the ceiling from the Sistine Chapel tattooed on her buns!”

  “Tattooed? You think so?”

  Just as I was regretting making any remark that could become part of Alicia’s ongoing gossip marathon about Helen, the (possibly somewhat altered) woman who had been the subject of the discussion began to make her way toward us. A half-dozen or so other women followed in her wake. While I didn’t know all of the people who were at this fund-raiser for the local battered women’s shelter, I recognized every face in the group Helen brought with her — most of them had been part of SOS from its inception.

  “Irene!” Helen said, embracing me but ignoring Alicia, “I’m so happy for you!”

  “Thanks,” I said. Before I could say more, several of the other women greeted me in much the same way, adding “Great news!” or “It’s about time!”

  “About time for what?” Alicia asked.

  Seemingly oblivious to Alicia’s extended lower lip, Helen lifted her glass toward me and said, “I’d like to propose a toast. Irene, as most of you know, was recently married to Las Piernas Homicide Detective Frank Harriman. And even though she was rude enough to exclude us from the wedding, we wish them long life and happiness together.”

  The others gave a small cheer and laughed as they touched their glasses together. Alicia was staring at me, slackjawed.

  “First molar on the left,” I said to her in a low voice, causing her to snap her mouth shut. “If you want me to know about any other hidden gold, please just tell me about it.”

  “Irene Kelly — Irene Harriman — I will never speak to you again!”

  Oh, if only it were true. No chance. She didn’t even last two seconds.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t invite me to your wedding!”

  I could have told her that no one other than the witnesses (Pete Baird, who is Frank’s partner, and Pete’s own new bride, Rachel Giocopazzi) were invited. But I’ve never liked Alicia, so I didn’t make the clarification. We’ve known each other since Catholic school, and the relationship has not improved with age.

  Luckily, the others stayed to talk to me, even the ones who had previously ducked away when they saw Alicia standing near. Ivy Vines, who works at the college radio station, asked, “Are you going by Harriman or Kelly?”

  “Either one.”

  “Either?” Alicia said. “That makes no sense at all! You might as well go off and make up a name, like Ivy did.”

  “I didn’t make it up,” Ivy protested.

  Alicia made a sniffing sound. “You were Ingrid Vines when we were students.”

  “That was made up,” Ivy countered.

  “I’m using Kelly professionally,” I said, trying to turn my back to Alicia. “I’ve got over a dozen years of contact with my sources using that name. But I’ll answer to either Harriman or Kelly elsewhere.”

  “Sensible,” Ivy said.

  “Ridiculous,” Alicia declared from behind me.

  “Congrats, Irene!” a voice called. I turned to see Marcy Selman.

  “Hi, Marcy. Thanks. How’s your daughter?”

  “Lisa’s great,” the woman next to Marcy answered — Becky Freedman, an emergency physician at Las Piernas General. She grinned. “Lisa met me for lunch today. Does that mean I got to see her before you did?”

  “Lisa’s in town?” I asked Marcy.

  “Yes, in fact she’ll be here later. And she’ll probably hit you up for money, just like she did Becky.”

  “I didn’t mind at all,” Becky said. “Mark my words, Lisa’s going to be California’s first woman governor.”

  “Lisa’s running for governor?”

  “State Assembly,” Marcy answered, finally getting a word in.

  “For now. She’ll be governor someday,” Becky maintained. “I’ve never met anyone with more determination than Lisa Selman.”

  The possibility of Governor Selman didn’t seem farfetched. Lisa was only twenty-nine, but she had always achieved her goals faster than most of th
e rest of us. She had graduated from high school at fifteen, earned a master’s degree from San Diego State University before her twentieth birthday. Currently the top aide to State Senator Barton Sawyer, she was already experienced in the world of politics.

  “So, she’s making her move,” I said. “Let’s see. A San Diego State Assembly candidate… Doug Longmore’s seat?”

  Marcy nodded.

  Longmore, who had health problems, had recently announced that he would not seek another term. “Has Longmore endorsed her?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  “Well, it’s a little early yet. I suppose Bart Sawyer’s helping her out?” “Yes, he’s been talking to Longmore about supporting Lisa. And Bart’s being… very generous.”

  Lisa would need that generosity. A campaign for a State Assembly seat could easily cost half a million dollars — more than double that if the race was hotly contested. “She deserves Sawyer’s support,” I said. “She’s served him loyally for what, now, ten years?”

  “Longer than that, I think,” Marcy answered. “She was seventeen when she worked on his first campaign. I remember that, because she was just a little too young to vote for him, even though she was working for him. That frustrated her. But he really inspired her, even then. Bart’s been like a father to her.”

  There was a slight pause in the conversation, during which I suppose all of us probably had the same thought: Andre Selman, Lisa’s father, had never been much of a parent.

  “You going to fork over a few bucks for her, Irene?” Becky asked.

  I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. Can’t contribute to any campaign and keep my job.”

  “Really? Even if she’s running outside of the districts you cover?”

  “Really. The Express has a written policy on it. But with Barton Sawyer’s backing, Lisa should do fine. His constituents are in love with him, he’s a helluva fund-raiser, and he’s got one of the cleanest reputations in state politics.”