Dear Irene (10 page)

“I think I know who Thalia is,” he said. “A good candidate, anyway.”

“Who?”

“A woman by the name of Thayer. Rosie Thayer. Owner of Rosie’s Bar and Grill down on Broadway — about six blocks from the paper.”

“I know the place. I’ve never been in there, but I’ve walked past it. How did you come up with her?”

“I asked Missing Persons for a list of everyone reported to them since the day Edna Blaylock was killed. Thayer seems to be a good candidate.”

“Good Cheer — a bar owner?”

“Yes, and a couple of other things. Thayer sounds a little bit like Thalia, and she’s the same age as the Blaylock woman.”

“What?”

“Yeah, she’s fifty-four. I don’t know what to make of that; in fact, I don’t have the complete file on her yet. But I wanted you to know. If it checks out, do you think John would let you run something on her, help us try to find out if anybody has seen her?”

“I’ll ask him.”

“If he says yes, give me a call back. I should have the rest of the file by then. Oh — have you asked Lydia about Christmas?”

“Not yet. I’ll try to ask her on my way out of John’s office.”

But John was busy and I had to wait until a copy editor had finished talking to him. In the meantime, I told Lydia that we were staying in town and ready to invite ourselves to Christmas dinner. She was more than pleased with the news.

“Fantastic! We’ll all be together!”

“You’ll be able to feed two more people?”

“Both nights, without any trouble. Never worry about having enough to eat when a bunch of Italians are doing the cooking.”

Stuart Angert walked over and we started exchanging stories about oddball letters. “I’ve got a fish advocate now,” he said.

“Someone who promotes eating seafood?”

“No, just the opposite. Every time a photo of someone standing next to a big catch appears in the sports section, this woman writes in to say that fishing is cruel and immoral and that printing a photo of a fish carcass is demeaning to the fish.”

A couple of general assignment reporters gathered around us, and one of them urged Stuart to tell me about someone they referred to as Zucchini Man.

But before Stuart could reply, John yelled out, “Kelly? You want to see me?”

I went into his office and told him about Rosie Thayer and my conversation with Kincaid. He thought things over for a few minutes then decided he didn’t have a problem with my writing a story on Thayer. He also said I could go ahead and tell Frank what I learned from Kincaid.

I had just walked back out into the newsroom and was looking for Stuart when Mark Baker called out to me, telling me I had a phone call. I forgot all about Zucchini Man and hurried over to my desk and took the receiver from Mark.

“Miss Kelly? Steven Kincaid.”

“Hold on a minute.” I gave Mark a “get lost” look but he ignored it. I covered the phone and said, “Thank you very much, Mark, you can go back to whatever it is you do around here.”

“You’re starting to sound like John Walters,” he said, but moved away.

“Hello,” I said into the phone, “I’m back with you again. What can I do for you?”

“You mentioned wanting to talk about E.J.’s research. I stayed up last night and made a list of the things she had written and worked on. I thought you might want to have it as soon as possible and, well, I couldn’t sleep anyway. Would you like for me to bring it by?”

“Sure. Listen, did Dr. Blaylock know someone named Rosie Thayer?”

He thought it over before answering. “I can’t remember her ever mentioning anyone by that name.”

“Did she ever go to a place called Rosie’s Bar and Grill down on Broadway?”

“No, at least not with me. Why?”

“Nothing important — I was just thinking of trying it out for lunch, wondered if you’d heard of it. In fact, why don’t you let me buy you lunch, Mr. Kincaid? You’re doing me a real favor by gathering information on Dr. Blaylock’s research.”

“Sure, I’d like to have lunch with you. And please call me Steven.”

“Then I’m Irene, not Miss Kelly, okay?”

“Okay.”

I called Frank back.

“Hi. Christmas is all set. Tell me about Rosie Thayer.”

“First of all, turns out Rosie was a nickname. Her real name was Thelma. Thelma Thayer. Thalia from either one, I guess.”

“Any connection to Edna Blaylock?”

“None we’ve been able to uncover. In fact, they only share one or two similar traits. I mentioned the age business. Both longtime residents of Las Piernas. Both unmarried.”

“Blaylock was married and divorced.”

“What?”

“Didn’t the police find out about that? According to my source, she was married for about a year when she was at UCLA, during or immediately after grad school.”

“Your source?”

“That will have to do for now, I’m afraid.” It wasn’t the first time one of us had been forced to say something like that; I didn’t think he’d mind. We had agreed early on in our relationship to respect certain job-related boundaries.

“Who did she marry?”

“Don’t know. Think your guys could find something out? All I have is a first name — James. Apparently it was long ago and no ill-will remaining, at least not on Blaylock’s part.”

“I’ll check it out.”

“I’m thinking of going down to Rosie’s Bar and Grill for lunch,” I said.

“I’ve got to get down there myself. Want to have lunch together?”

“Uh — no, not really. In fact, could you be out of there by eleven?”

Dead silence.

“Let me rephrase that, Frank. I’m going to be having lunch with someone who won’t be comfortable talking to me in front of a cop. I’d love to have lunch with you, but I think this guy will speak more openly to me if there isn’t a third party involved.”

“Who is ‘this guy’?”

“Can’t tell you. Not yet.”

“A suspect in this case?”

“Frank, I said
I can’t tell you
.” I emphasized each word, wondering if my growing irritation would make any impression.

“Look, Irene, I know we’ve agreed to some limits, but just about anyone who has information about this case is potentially a murder suspect. And I don’t trust anyone who tells you they don’t want the police around. It’s a homicide investigation, for Christsakes. What if you’re meeting Thanatos for lunch?”

That really steamed me. The man clearly thought I was an idiot.

“Never mind who I’m going to lunch with,” I hissed from between clenched teeth.

“Who the hell is it, Irene?”

“Goddamn it, Frank, it’s none of your business. I’m not required to report every contact I have with another male in Las Piernas to the local police department. Or to you personally, for that matter.”

“Just tell me.”

“Just drop it.”

“Are you near your period?”

“No, Frank. Is someone pinching your balls?”

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Don’t be an asshole!”

He hung up. I slammed the phone down so hard, the casing cracked. I looked up to see Mark Baker a few feet away, trying desperately to stifle laughter. I stomped out of the newsroom, stringing swear words together under my breath. I went downstairs.

“Geoff, you know where I’ll be if anyone comes looking for me,” I said on my way past the security desk. I went down into the basement.

Geoff is a skinny old gem of a man, and he often looks out for me when I’m in hot water. He has known me for a dozen years, and that means he knows that when I need a break from the
Express
staff, I often go down to the basement to watch the presses run.

Danny Coburn, one of the press operators, smiled when he saw me, but quickly figured out that I needed to be given a wide berth. He let me go past him without doing more than handing me some ear protectors and saying, “Go on, just about to start them up.”

I knew my way through the maze of presses. I stood somewhere out in the middle of that web of machinery and wires and paper and ink. Just as Danny had said, they were starting up. Of course, the fact that I wasn’t really supposed to be there made it more enjoyable.

The growling start-up built into a roar, and I put the ear protectors on. Within a few minutes, the rumbling could be felt in the floor beneath my feet. The newsprint was moving faster now, flying past the place where I stood and weaving over, under, and between rollers. It came back up out of the presses in a blur, was cut and rolled and turned and folded. Knowing I’d never be heard over the presses, I hollered half a dozen obscenities at the top of my lungs. I breathed in the smell of the ink and the paper and felt better for it. I was at home there.

I have a fierce temper but I don’t usually stay mad for long. I know myself well enough to realize that one of my challenges in life is to keep it under control, to accept the fact that most of the things that make me angry aren’t worth the effort. It’s usually a matter of perspective.

But being engaged to be married does strange things to one’s perspective. Everything gets filtered through a sieve labeled “the rest of your life.” As I stood there watching the intricate network of paper and machinery do its work, I wondered if Frank and I could possibly overcome this particular obstacle.

There was an important principle being tested here, I told myself. As a reporter, I needed to be able to move among a wide variety of people — including unsavory characters. I didn’t believe I should be obliged to get Frank’s approval to talk to them. Frank’s protectiveness, so welcomed when I was injured, would suffocate me if it went too far where reporting was concerned. I needed him to trust me.

“No use asking anyone to trust you, Irene.” O’Connor once told me. “It’s like asking someone to love you. He either does or he doesn’t. The request doesn’t change a thing.”

The love I was sure of. The trust? Only a maybe. No matter what my sister had read while getting her nails done.

I looked up and saw Coburn waving me out from my hiding place. I took a deep breath and walked out to see why I was being summoned.

“Geoff says there’s someone here to see you,” Coburn shouted. I nodded and handed back the ear protectors. I glanced at my watch as I walked up the basement stairs. 9:30. Way too early for Kincaid. I reached the top of the stairs and Geoff motioned to me. I didn’t see anyone in the lobby.

“What is it, Geoff?”

“Detective Harriman is waiting to talk to you.”

“Look, Geoff—”

“I asked him to wait outside. Now, I ain’t so old I don’t see you two must have had a scrap of something — he don’t leave his police work to come down here all of a sudden-like just on a whim. It’s none of my business, but I’ve never seen you be a coward, Miss Kelly, so you better get on out there and talk to the man, or you’ll disappoint me.”

I had to grin. “Lord knows, Geoff, I can’t afford to do that.”

I went out the front doors and saw Frank leaning against the building, looking at the toe of one of his shoes like it held the secret of life.

“Crime on a coffee break in this town?” I asked.

“Hi.” He stood up straight, but didn’t come closer. Wise man.

“I’m under strict orders from Geoff to listen to what you have to say. Have you been bribing that old geezer?”

“No, but it’s a thought. I came down here to apologize. They told me your phone is out of order.”

I reddened a little, but held my ground. “I was just thinking about why you made me so angry.”

“Well, besides the fact that I insulted you, you probably think I don’t trust you.”

That floored me. I don’t know exactly why. He has this knack for getting to the heart of things that has unnerved me more than once. It’s a little disquieting to be with someone who can read you like a large-type book. I didn’t say anything.

He sighed. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. And I do trust you.”

“Do you? I could have sworn otherwise from the conversation we just had on the phone.”

He leaned back against the wall and went back to studying his shoe.

“Look,” I said, “I accept your apology. I owe you one, too. As for the trust issue, I guess we need to talk. What time will you be getting home tonight?”

“Late,” he said quietly.

He was unhappy and I knew it, but I fought the urge to say something just to make him feel better. This was too important. I repeated that to myself a couple of times.

“If you aren’t too tired when you come home,” I said, “let’s talk. I’ll try to stay up. Or wake me when you get in.”

“Okay, I’ll see you at home then.” He turned and walked off without saying another word.

Well, I had stood up for myself all right. Why did I feel so shitty?

I
TRIED TO CRAWL UP
out of my foul mood before Steven Kincaid arrived. He showed up a little early; I was still working on some notes, but I asked Geoff to send him up. I glanced up as he entered the newsroom, and noticed that every female within shouting distance was looking him over.

Then I noticed the men. Hostile doesn’t quite describe it. I expected to hear the cry of Tarzan any minute. It was apparently stuck in some newsman’s throat.

“Hello, Steven,” I said with a smile that was as much amusement at the general consternation he had caused as it was a welcome.

“Hi, Irene. I’m a little early.”

“O’Connor once quoted someone as saying that ‘the trouble with being punctual is that nobody’s there to appreciate it.’”

He shrugged and gave me a fleeting, disarming grin. “Evelyn Waugh said punctuality is the virtue of the bored.”

“I think I like that one better. But you don’t strike me as being bored.”

“No. Restless, I suppose. Who’s O’Connor?”

“I’ll tell you about him on the way to lunch. Do you mind a walk of about six blocks?”

He didn’t. I used the time to talk on and on about my old friend and mentor. It made me smile, but when I looked over at my companion, his brows were knitted in concern.

“You say O’Connor was killed?”

“Yes. He was murdered.”

“So you know what it’s like.”

I stopped walking. “Do you mean, I know what
you
feel like? I don’t. He wasn’t my lover, but he was a beloved friend. But if you mean, I know what it’s like to lose someone suddenly, violently… well, yes, I guess I do.”