by Jan Burke
“Kelly, listen to me,” John said. “I’m not trying to insult the memory of this friend of yours. I’ve got nothing against him. I’m just trying to get you to see it from the paper’s point of view. I know you’re upset — hell, if I could, I’d give you the whole day off tomorrow. But I’ve got a nasty feeling that if we don’t get a handle on this Moffett thing, the Times is going to beat us in our own backyard.”
“What, they’re going to put out an extra supplement this week? They care less about Las Piernas than Wrigley cares about the homeless.”
“Maybe. But I wouldn’t like to see it happen, would you?”
“No. That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to tell you. This is about Moffett and Watterson. Too many coincidences. I’ve got to follow up on this, John.”
“On your own time, Kelly. Like sailing.”
I handed the phone back to Rachel. I knew she could tell that I hadn’t gotten very far with the paper, but she didn’t rub it in.
A LITTLE LATER, we answered questions from a group of people who weren’t too happy about climbing up over a dozen flights of stairs. Reed Collins and Vince Adams had drawn the assignment; I had met them once or twice before, but didn’t know them well. Frank had spoken highly of them, though, and I wondered if this was part of what Rachel meant when she talked to Frank about TLC. Reed explained that Frank would be up in a minute, but procedure required them to talk to me alone first. We showed them where the body was; my second look wasn’t much longer than the first. Reed and Vince had us wait in the hall for a few minutes while they talked to a pair of technicians.
When they came out of the room, they wanted to question us separately. Vince talked to Rachel, Reed talked to me — vacancy rates being what they were at the Angelus, we didn’t have a problem finding separate rooms.
It took a while to explain to Reed why we had been looking for a homeless man, and why we had looked in this hotel. I could see that I was doing just as terrific a sales job on him as I had on John Walters — no one was buying that Lucas had influenced Las Piernas’s rich and powerful. Reed never said that he doubted my theories — which I admit were only half-formed at the time — but his questions all led away from any talk of Ben Watterson or Allan Moffett.
“Can you describe this man Corky?” he asked.
The other questions were in a similar vein — always returning to the other homeless men.
“This Toes,” Reed said. “Are you sure this is what he said? It seems a little jumbled.”
“Two Toes. He’s a little jumbled.”
“So how can you be certain you’re remembering it correctly?”
“I’m not. I didn’t take notes or record him, so it may not be absolutely accurate. But I’m pretty good at recalling conversations.”
“Well, yes, I guess you need to be able to do that in your line of work.”
We talked a little longer, then he walked out into the hall, leaving me alone. While the door was open, I saw Carlos Hernandez, the county coroner, go by. Hernandez was followed by two men wrestling with a stretcher.
A few seconds later, Frank came in. He didn’t say anything, just walked up to me and put his arms around me. It was the best thing that happened to me all day.
“POSTMORTEM LIVIDITY,” Carlos said. He was standing in the hall outside the room. I could hear the photographer at work, the quiet conversation of the men who were gathering physical evidence. “The patterns prove that someone moved his body after he died.”
“The pennies on his eyes ought to be proof that someone else was in there,” I said.
“The pennies tell you someone was here after he lost consciousness,” he corrected. “But the discoloration of postmortem lividity — the places where blood and other fluids settle after death — are on the front of the body. The body was moved after death.”
“When was he killed?” I asked.
“I’m not so sure he was killed.”
“Not killed! But I saw blood—”
“Yes, on the forehead and the radiator as well. I doubt that blow to the head killed him. I’ll know more after the autopsy, but my guess is that he fell against the radiator, perhaps after a…” He glanced at Frank. “Well, perhaps after a dizzy spell.”
“What were you going to say?” I asked.
“Dizzy spell will do for now,” Carlos said, then seeing I wasn’t satisfied, added, “I understand he had a history of alcoholism?”
“Past history. He’s been clean for at least six weeks.”
“You’re absolutely certain?”
I hesitated. “No.”
“Even if he was clean, as you say, there are no signs of a struggle, and the blow to the head was not too severe. There is bruising on his knees and the palms — the palms, not the knuckles or fingers — as if he fell.” He paused, glancing back toward the room. “It’s very early to say, of course. I’ll know more after the autopsy.”
“What about the time of death — can you estimate that?”
“Time of death isn’t easy to judge under the circumstances. The room is very cold and dry. That has retarded the rate of decomposition. The weather has stayed cold, but there is no way to be certain the room has stayed cold — as I said, judging from postmortem lividity, we know someone was here several hours after the time of death, moved the body, and — well, before I say more, I have a favor to ask. Would you mind coming into the room, taking another look at the body?”
“Of course not,” I said, not sure I really meant it.
I was glad when Frank came with me.
Carlos asked the technicians to step outside for a moment, making the room a little less crowded. The body had been bagged and moved up onto the stretcher. I felt Frank’s hand on my shoulder; Carlos moved over to the bag and unzipped it. The sound made me long for the days of sheets and shrouds.
He beckoned gently. Frank stayed with me as I moved a step closer.
“Now that you have a little more time to look,” Carlos said, “would you please make sure this man is…”
“Lucas Monroe,” I said, my mouth dry. “Yes, it’s Lucas.”
Carlos nodded, then began unbuttoning Lucas’s flannel shirt. I found myself concentrating on Carlos’s fingers and the buttons, the pattern of the flannel. Carlos pulled the shirt open.
Lucas’s brown skin was darkly discolored in places, those on which a face-down body would have rested.
“You see this?” Carlos said, tracing the outline of an odd-colored blotch on Lucas’s chest. He reached into the body bag and pulled out Lucas’s hand. A matching spot was indented into the lifeless palm. “Here and here?”
I nodded.
“Did Mr. Monroe wear jewelry?” Carlos asked.
“His ring.”
“No, not on his fingers, but—”
“He didn’t wear it on his finger. He wore it around his neck, on a metal chain. Didn’t you find it on him?”
“No. Can you describe it?”
“It’s a gold Las Piernas College ring. Ruby or some other red stone in it.”
“This man was a college graduate?” Carlos asked.
“Yes. Probably bought the ring when he earned his bachelor’s degree. Sometime in the 1970s. The school could tell you.” I looked back to Frank. “I told you about it, remember?”
Frank nodded. He called to Reed, who was out in the hallway talking to Vince. “You may be interested in this,” Frank said, and asked me to repeat the description of the ring.
“It was removed several hours after he died,” Carlos added, as Reed took notes.
“By the way, Irene,” Reed said, “any ideas on how we could contact his family?”
I shook my head. “No, but you might try Roberta Benson down at the homeless shelter. She could probably tell you a lot more about him. He’s one of her clients.”
At the word “client,” Frank and Reed exchanged a look, but Reed said, “Thanks, I’ll give it a try.”
Rachel came in to see how I was doing. The room was fair
ly crowded then. There was nothing more that I could add to their reports, so I managed one last look at Lucas, said a silent good-bye, and asked Frank to take me home.
“I’ll call you later,” Rachel said, and reached to give me a hug. As her arms came around me, I heard the body bag being zipped shut.
15
THE PHONE WAS RINGING when we came into the house. Cody was yowling and rubbing along my ankles as I tried to make my way to answer it. The dogs were barking greetings, and Frank went to let them in. Cody sniffed at my shoes with utter fascination. I slipped them off quickly as I lifted the receiver.
“Irene? This is Claire.” There was a pause, then she added, “Have I called at a bad time?”
The dogs had stopped barking, but Frank was saying, “Down, get down,” in the background as they let us know how happy they were to have us return.
“That’s only our welcoming committee,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel into my voice. “We just walked in the door.”
“You have pets?”
“At the moment, about three too many. What can I do for you?”
“I found the information on the boat. We bought it in 1974 and sold it in 1977. Does that help?”
“And Ben never went out on the boat with Andre after he sold it to him?”
“No, but why does that matter?”
“You said he burned a photocopy of a picture of your old boat. It helps me to determine when the picture was taken. If Ben never went out on the boat after it was sold, the photo was taken sometime between 1974 and 1977.”
“But couldn’t Lucas Monroe tell you more about the photo, anyway?”
“Claire — I should tell you…” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. Or swallow. Or breathe. Claire said nothing. Frank stopped petting the dogs.
“Irene?” he said. The dogs, Cody, and Frank all looked at me expectantly. I closed my eyes.
“I should tell you,” I began again, “that Lucas is dead. We found his body a few hours ago.”
For several long moments, neither of us said anything. I listened to Frank building a fire in the fireplace.
“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “He was your friend.”
“It’s strange,” I said. “You were right. I don’t know who he had become. Haven’t really known him for years now — I lost track of him a long time ago. Our lives obviously went in very different directions, but at one time we were friends. And I know he wanted to talk to me. The last time I saw him, he said, ‘You could help me — ’”
“Now you’ve lost the chance,” she said, filling in the silence. “Yes, I know.”
I figured she did know. “I respected Lucas,” I said after a moment. “That hasn’t changed.”
“He was young, wasn’t he?” she said.
I answered the real question. “The cause of death hasn’t been determined. The coroner hasn’t given an opinion yet.”
“Coroner? Was Lucas killed?”
“Hard to say. It will take some time. We found the body in an abandoned hotel. The coroner doesn’t even know how long Lucas has been dead.”
“This must all be very difficult for you.”
“Look, I’m still going to try to learn about the photographs.”
“If you want to drop it, I won’t be angry with you.”
“No. Tell me you won’t give up on this, Claire.”
“Oh, I can’t, Irene. And now, I suspect, neither can you.”
WE TALKED A LITTLE LONGER, moving to safer subjects as she asked me about our dogs and Cody. Just before we said good-bye, she said, “Oh, I just thought of something. Ben kept calendars. Should I look for the ones from those years?”
“Calendars — you mean, something like appointment books?”
“Yes, only more detailed.”
“Well, yes,” I said, trying not to let my hopes soar. “I think they would be very helpful.”
As I hung up, I turned to see that Frank had dragged all of our pillows and blankets out of the bedroom — and apparently from the linen closet as well — and arranged them in front of the fireplace. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and was mixing drinks.
“Are you building a fort?” I asked, studying the pile of bedding.
“Yes,” he said, “and here’s the ammo.” He handed me a Myers’s with a spot of orange juice in it, took up a scotch and water, then led me to the pillows and blankets. The dogs and Cody gathered around as I downed the drink. It was a stiff one, and I felt it burn its way from my throat to my chest.
Frank watched me, took the empty glass, and set it aside.
He pulled the blankets and pillows around us, dogs and cat protesting but resettling. He held my head on his shoulder and stroked my hair. I didn’t start crying until he said, “Whatever you do, don’t cry on my fort.”
I AWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, vaguely aware of troubling dreams. It was a relief to hear Frank’s soft snoring. My thoughts soon turned to Lucas, and the fact that his family might not even know he was dead. Where was his family? I thought of the envelopes Claire had shown me.
Frank murmured something unintelligible as I got out of bed, but he fell right back to sleep. Cody followed me into the living room. I picked up the phone and dialed long-distance information for area code 909.
“City and listing?” a voice said.
“Riverside. Last name Monroe.”
“First name or initial?”
“I’m not sure.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, there are a large number of listings under the last name Monroe. I’ll have to have a first name.”
“Try Lucas.”
I heard the clacking of computer keys, then, “Sorry, no listing.”
THE NEXT MORNING, Frank escaped the house only after I badgered him into promising me that he’d find out if the family had been contacted. He called me at work to say that it would take a little time, since Lucas hadn’t given the shelter any information on his relatives.
That’s why, throughout the rest of the morning, whenever John wasn’t cruising by my desk in the newsroom, I was pulling a Riverside phone directory out of my desk drawer and hiding it on my lap.
After Frank’s call, I had skulked over and snatched the directory from the bookcase near Stuart Angert’s desk. It wasn’t Stuart’s bookcase; the items in it were for the use of the entire newsroom. But given John’s warnings and a lack of brotherly love among some of my coworkers, I didn’t especially want anyone keeping track of what I was doing. Bad enough that Stuart had returned to his desk, seen the gap in the directories, and glanced around the newsroom. His glance settled on me, picking me out the way Sister Mary Joseph used to be able to pick me out of a crowd of identically dressed Catholic girls whenever someone had pulled a prank on a nun. I smiled, he smiled back, and I knew that if he had indeed guessed what I was up to, he was one of the few people who wouldn’t rat on me.
On my twenty-third call to a Riverside Monroe, a woman answered the phone, and there was just enough of a pause before she said, “Nobody here by that name,” to make me call back after she hung up in my ear. I got an answering machine this time.
“This is Irene Kelly of the Las Piernas News-Express. I knew Lucas in college. I need to talk to you about him. Please. It’s very important. Call me at the paper, or later at home. Call collect. But please call me.” I left the 800 number for the paper and my home number.
I hung up, then stared at the phone for a few moments, willing it to ring. Nothing.
In between absolutely fruitless calls to my city hall contacts about the resignation of Allan Moffett, I also made twenty-six additional calls to other Monroes in Riverside. Either they weren’t home or they didn’t know a Lucas. I chatted with a couple of the more lonely Monroes, left messages for others.
Still, the only one I made a note of was number twenty-three: J. Monroe, no address.
The day had turned the corner past noon, the hours were galloping toward deadline, and I didn’t have a thing written
up. I could have blamed all the Monroes in Riverside or the people in city hall for my frustration, but I knew what was really irritating me. I wasn’t working on the story I wanted to work on — at least, not from the right angle.
I reached into one of my desk drawers and pulled out a pile of loose scraps of paper bound with a couple of rubber bands. It was a treasure I inherited when the contents of the desk were returned to the Express by the police, who had held them while trying to solve the murder of the desk’s previous owner, my friend O’Connor. In the bundle I found a scrap with a 619area code number on it, and written beneath the number, in O’Connor’s personal shorthand, symbols that meant “Dage’s Little Rancho.” I dialed the number.
“Keene? It’s Irene.”
“Oh, for Chrissakes—”
“Hold on, Keene. Just slow down and think for a minute. You have a chance to distance yourself from all of this, so you might as well take it. The pressure is on. You think all of your dinner companions are going to keep their mouths shut forever?”
“Assuming there was anything to talk about, you’d have to admit they’ve kept them shut this long. I’m not going to be the first to blab anything.”
I stayed silent.
“You don’t know what you’re after, do you?” Keene said at last.
“You’re forgetting that Lucas Monroe and I go way back.”
“You give Lucas Monroe the same advice I’m giving you: just forget it. Go on with your lives. No good is served by this.”
So Keene didn’t know Lucas was dead. Or was pretending he didn’t know. I postponed what had started to be a sense of relief.
“Have you seen Lucas lately?” I asked.
“No, apparently Mr. Monroe doesn’t know how to get in touch with me. So I guess he can’t threaten me the way he did some of the others.”
“How did he threaten them?”
“Shit. I should have known you were on a fishing expedition. You don’t know squat, do you?”
“Fishing expedition? Like the kind you used to take on Ben’s boat?”
