Dear Irene (8 page)

“You’ve covered trials. I don’t need to tell you that sometimes an alibi can be pretty easy to come by.”

I shrugged. “Maybe so. But then again, maybe this kid is innocent and will end up telling me things he wouldn’t tell the cops.”

“And if he gives you any information? Is this going straight to Frank’s ears?”

“That’s why I came in to talk to you. I won’t talk to Frank if you tell me not to. I just need to know where the paper stands on all of this.”

“You’ve got an obligation to Kincaid. He can’t act as a source and not be made aware of what you plan to do with the information. If he asks for confidentiality, he should get it.

“On the other hand, I’m not overlooking our obligation to the community. Had a long talk with Frank about this, and later with his lieutenant — what’s his name?”

“Carlson.”

“Yeah, well, we’re all on thin ice here. And if Wrigley gets word of this, we could both end up sending out our résumés. For now, I’d prefer you talk things over with me before you say a word to anyone connected to the police —
anyone.
The only exception would be if you were fairly sure that someone might be physically harmed if you didn’t contact the police immediately. Can you live with that?”

“Sure. I’m going to be pestering you a lot, but I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”

“Well, let’s just play it this way for now. Now scram. You’re going to miss Kincaid and deadline both if you don’t get a move on.”

T
HE GARDEN CAFE
hadn’t changed much since the 1970s, other than the clothing and hairstyles of the clientele, and even some of those were the same. It was a college hangout when Lydia and I were students, as it had been twenty years before we started school. The walls were covered with photos of Las Piernas from about 1910 up to the present day. There was no particular theme, except that after the cafe’s founding in the 1950s, photos of alumni who had made good decorated portions of the wall behind the old-fashioned cash register. I wasn’t up there.

The “garden” was a small enclosure behind glass that featured a couple of ficus trees, a few ferns, and a small fountain. They used to have finches in there, but every once in a while they’d bang up against the glass and kill themselves, which didn’t do much for the appetites of the customers who saw it happen. So the birds had been gone for some time.

I stood by the door, catching snippets of conversations that ranged from the Lakers’ chances to go all the way this year to whether or not the Stanford-Binet tests were a valid measure of intelligence. There were one or two people who looked like they might be faculty members, but I was definitely an oldster in this crowd.

A few people turned my way when I walked in, but nobody seemed to take special notice. I was a few minutes early, but wondered if Kincaid was already there. I looked to see if anyone might be trying to attract my attention. I saw a self-conscious young man peering up at me over the rim of his glasses. He studied me for a while, and I figured him to be Kincaid. He was skinny and had that archival pallor that scholars develop. I decided that he looked to be the type that would take his fifty-four-year-old professor to bed with him.

“Miss Kelly?”

I jumped and turned to look behind me, where the voice had come from. I was almost nose-to-nose with one of the most gorgeous men I have ever laid eyes on. And he knew my name.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.” He extended a hand. “I’m Steven Kincaid.”

I decided to close my gaping mouth before I gave him enough time to examine my dental work, and reached out with my right hand. He glanced down and noticed the swelling, and gave me a gentle but warm handshake. I was still speechless.

He grinned. Goddamn. No wonder old Edna hadn’t been able to keep her mitts off him. I tried to imagine having this stone fox stare at my podium for an hour or two a day. I would have been sorely tried.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said, and led the way toward the back of the cafe. With his back to me, I was able to shake myself out of the daze I was in and follow him. I thought of Frank and felt a wave of guilt, then smiled to myself. I could enjoy looking at Frank for a hundred years, go blind, and still want to be next to him for another hundred. More than just another bonny lad, Frank Harriman.

Feeling my equilibrium return, I sat down across from Steven Kincaid in the last booth outside the kitchen. It was only then that I realized that conversations had been dropping off in volume or halting all together, and that some people were openly staring at us. Kincaid saw me looking around and said, “I’m afraid I’ve become notorious, at least around campus.” He swallowed hard. “Some of them probably think I killed E.J.”

“E.J.?”

“Professor Blaylock. Her name was Edna Juliana Blaylock. She was E.J. to her friends.”

“If you’re uncomfortable here, we can go somewhere else.”

He shook his head. “Might as well face up to it. I have nothing to be ashamed of. People think E.J. and I were trying to be clandestine. We were only trying to be discreet. There is a difference.”

A waiter came over and brought menus. I wasn’t hungry, so I used the opportunity to study the man across the table. I guessed him to be in his mid-to-late twenties. He had easy-to-look-at masculine features: a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and cobalt blue eyes with dark lashes. His hair was almost jet black. His skin had the kind of tan a person has in December only if they regularly enjoy some kind of outdoor activity. He wore blue jeans and a light blue shirt, and filled both of them out just fine. He had a broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped, athletic build. Probably could win an election for “defines handsome” without going into a runoff.

But there were dark circles under his eyes, and a kind of tiredness in his face that showed he had been under a strain lately. I noticed then that those eyes were avoiding my own, that he was pretending to be fascinated with a menu he had probably memorized. I realized that I might be making him nervous. People often are jittery around reporters, but I had been so dumbstruck by his appearance that I hadn’t made any small talk or other efforts to get him to relax a little.

“What were you expecting?” I asked.

“What?” He was startled into looking at me.

“You said I wasn’t what you were expecting.”

He looked down at the menu again. “Oh. I guess I was expecting someone — I don’t know — hard-boiled? Tougher?”

I laughed. “Don’t let my appearance deceive you.”

He looked chagrined.

“I’m afraid I’m not doing a very good job of putting you at ease, Mr. Kincaid. As I said, my main interest is in trying to learn enough about Dr. Blaylock to be able to make more sense out of this man who calls himself Thanatos. I’d like to try to figure out who his next victim might be — before it’s too late.”

The waiter reappeared. Kincaid ordered a piece of carrot cake, and it sounded so good I ordered one, too. I was going to have to get back to my running routine soon, or eating like this would become a real liability.

“You said he sent another letter?” Kincaid asked.

“Yes. It arrived at the paper today.” I hesitated.

“I’ve got to ask if you would mind my sharing any of the information you give me with the police. I wouldn’t have to disclose your identity; you could be anonymous as far as they’re concerned. And if you don’t want me to tell them anything at all, then I won’t.”

He sighed. His eyes suddenly reddened and he looked away for a moment. He took a deep breath and said quietly, “I don’t care who you tell. Like I said, I have nothing to be ashamed of. I want her killer to be caught, but I’d rather not have any more encounters with the police myself. You can tell them whatever I’m telling you. The police — well, some of them were quite considerate, others weren’t at all. Nothing has been easy.”

I waited while he worked to pull himself together. Our coffee and carrot cake arrived, and we spent a few moments fiddling around with cream and sugar as a distraction.

“Let’s get something clear from the start,” he said, surprising me with the sudden fierceness of his expression. “I was not in a relationship with E.J. while I was her student. I want it made clear that there was no ‘A for a lay’ or any of the other kinds of sordid, unethical behaviors that some people have been hinting at. It just isn’t true.”

“Listen, Mr. Kincaid, if someone from the paper—”

He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. “Yes, I took a graduate seminar from her. But nothing happened then. I found myself very attracted to E.J., and I restructured my whole master’s thesis committee and the classes on my program just so that I could be with her without there ever being a cloud over our relationship.”

“You don’t have to defend anything to me.”

“I know, I know. But let’s face it. Most people just don’t understand why a man my age would get involved with a woman her age. They figure I must have received some kind of special consideration as a student or that I was after something — her money or her house, I suppose. Well, she didn’t make all that much, and she had willed everything to the American Lung Association years ago — and I knew that. I didn’t need anything like that from her, anyway.”

“Why
were
you attracted to her?”

He drew a deep breath and lowered his gaze. I found myself silently urging him to confide in me. When he looked back up, he gave me a fleeting smile. “You know, I think you’re the first person who has asked me that recently who might actually believe the answer. I was with E.J. because she was wise and full of life and witty and strong and intelligent. She made me laugh. I could talk to her. And I found her beautiful. There was something very sensual about her. At first, I suppose it was a sort of animal magnetism. But it became much more. Much, much more.”

“And how did she feel about you? I mean, there seem to have been other men.”

“No one else for the past year. None of the men mentioned in the paper were involved with her recently. You can check that out pretty easily. No one since we got together.”

“You’re a handsome man. Were there other women in your life?”

“No. No one else. You look like you find that hard to believe, but it’s true.”

“I don’t find it hard to believe that you were devoted to her. I find it hard to believe that no one else expressed an interest in you.”

He waved a hand in dismissal. “So what? Most of them are a nuisance, if you ask me. At the risk of sounding like I’ve got a gargantuan ego, I’ll be straightforward with you, Miss Kelly. Many women find me attractive. They hit on me. They seek my attention. Why? Because of my face. I suppose a lot of men would say I have nothing to complain about, that they would love to have that problem. But they don’t know what it’s like. These women don’t give a damn about what I think or who I am — not really. It’s as if I’d be some kind of trophy. If all I wanted was a string of one-night stands, I’d be happy. I happen to want more.”

“And Dr. Blaylock was different.”

“Yes, she was. She took time to get to know me. She was very good to me. We wanted a future together… but now… God, now I’m just lost.”

He was starting to lose control again. I didn’t want to gratify the base curiosity of the people around us by having him break down in the restaurant, so I told him about the second letter from Thanatos. He knew all of the mythology, so at least I didn’t have to cover that again. It was a good distraction. For a few moments he thought about the letter more than about the loss of E.J. Blaylock.

His brows furrowed. “It sounds like he’s starving someone to death.”

“My theory exactly,” I said, noticing the carrot cake was no longer appealing.

“But you have no clues as to who Thalia represents?”

“None. But maybe if you tell me about Dr. Blaylock, I can begin to get an idea or two.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What do you know of her past?”

“Starting when?”

“As early as possible. Whatever you know.”

“Well, let’s see. She was born in Los Angeles in about 1936. She never really knew her dad; he was a sailor who was killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor. That was at the end of 1941, so she would have been about five years old when he died.

“Her mother got a job in an aircraft factory — Mercury Aircraft. She was sort of a Rosie the Riveter, I guess. She got transferred down here near the end of the war. Mercury had two factories in Southern California then. Now it just has the original plant, the one in Las Piernas.”

I made notes, not sure any of what he told me would help. I found myself circling the word “Mercury.” After receiving the letters from Thanatos, names and words associated with mythology often caught my attention. They were everywhere. Among other things, Mercury had lent his name to a planet, an element, an automaker, and a dime. I reminded myself that at this rate, if E.J. Blaylock had ever eaten a Mars bar, laughed at Mickey Mouse’s dog, suffered insomnia, or used a mnemonic device, it was all going to be Greek (or Roman) to me.

“That’s how E.J. first came to Las Piernas,” Steven was saying. “I don’t know too much more about her childhood, just that she was always good in school. She loved history. She got straight A’s in every history class she took, even through college and grad school. She got into Las Piernas College on a scholarship. She went on to UCLA for her doctorate. She met a man there and married him.”

“Hold on a minute — she was married?”

“Briefly. It lasted less than a year. James, I think his name was. She went back to her maiden name, and has — had — used it ever since.”

“She ever tell you why the marriage broke up?”

“Not really, just said it had been a case of two people doing what was expected of them and then learning it was a mistake. No details. To be honest, she never talked much about the men in her past, which was fine with me.”

“She didn’t stay in Los Angeles?”

“No. After she graduated, she had several offers to teach, but she took a job here in Las Piernas so that she could take care of her mother. Her mother was ill by that time. Some kind of lung disease. She had been a heavy smoker and worked around some toxic chemicals, but there was no way to know which gave her the problem, which was… let’s see…” He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “Emphysema, maybe? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten. Anyway, they lived together for about fifteen years. E.J. took care of her the whole time. Her mother died about ten years ago.”