Remember Me, Irene Read online

  Remember Me, Irene

  * * *

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter: 1

  Chapter: 2

  Chapter: 3

  Chapter: 4

  Chapter: 5

  Chapter: 6

  Chapter: 7

  Chapter: 8

  Chapter: 9

  Chapter: 10

  Chapter: 11

  Chapter: 12

  Chapter: 13

  Chapter: 14

  Chapter: 15

  Chapter: 16

  Chapter: 17

  Chapter: 18

  Chapter: 19

  Chapter: 20

  Chapter: 21

  Chapter: 22

  Chapter: 23

  Chapter: 24

  Chapter: 25

  Chapter: 26

  Chapter: 27

  Chapter: 28

  Chapter: 29

  Chapter: 30

  Chapter: 31

  Chapter: 32

  Chapter: 33

  Chapter: 34

  Chapter: 35

  Chapter: 36

  Chapter: 37

  Chapter: 38

  Acknowledgments

  “INTRICATE PLOTTING” (THE WASHINGTON TIMES) …

  “CHILLING SUSPENSE” (CLIVE CUSSLER) …

  “CRISP, CRACKLING PROSE” (LIBRARY JOURNAL) …

  THE CRIME FICTION OF EDGAR AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR

  JAN BURKE

  HAS IT ALL!

  “Jan Burke’s Irene Kelly stories [feature] tense and thoughtful plots, writing that manages to be sharp and sardonic without calling attention to itself, [and] a Southern California setting that skips all the clichés…. [An] excellent series.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “A skilled writer…. Jan Burke is on the fast track.”

  —USA Today

  “Gripping… compelling… Jan Burke doesn’t come up for air until every detail is nailed down.”

  —Michael Connelly

  “Spine-tingling, nerve-fraying, breath-suppressing suspense… in the mystery pantheon with Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, Robert B. Parker, and John Sandford.”

  —The Tennessean

  “I’ve always counted on Jan Burke’s Irene Kelly books as one of my favorite guilt-free pleasures.”

  —Janet Evanovich, author of Hard Eight

  “Ever since her auspicious debut, Jan Burke has raised the emotional ante with each succeeding book… a witty and resourceful writer.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  NATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR JAN BURKE’S IRENE KELLY NOVELS

  GOODNIGHT, IRENE

  “Readers who want nonstop action, spare dialogue, and a heroine who’s a combination of Nancy Drew, Katharine Hepburn, Lois Lane, and Lauren Bacall, should snap up Goodnight, Irene at the first opportunity.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “Jan Burke writes with a verve that makes this an eminently satisfactory debut, one that bodes well for the future.”

  —The San Diego Union-Tribune

  “Jan Burke has created a sharp, witty, and utterly endearing detective.”

  —Susan Dunlap, author of Death and Taxes

  SWEET DREAMS, IRENE

  “A compelling mystery… virtually nonstop drama. It’s hard to see how Burke can top this one.”

  —The Drood Review of Mystery

  “A highly readable mystery with a rapid heartbeat and a thoroughly modern point of view. [Burke’s] detective is a welcome addition to the world of the contemporary mystery.”

  —The Dallas Morning News

  “A joy…. A beautifully crafted book, played against an intriguing backdrop.”

  —Orange County Register

  DEAR IRENE,

  “Powerful… exquisite… entertaining… hard to put down.”

  —West Coast Review of Books

  “An exciting, well-plotted, edge-of-your-seat mystery.”

  —Indianapolis News

  “Top notch…. Action packed, riveting, and cleverly plotted.”

  —Booklist

  REMEMBER ME, IRENE

  “A splendid addition to an excellent series.”

  —Los Angeles Times

  “Burke is in top form here.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A deliciously tense mystery that hungry whodunit fans will devour.”

  —Colorado Springs Gazette

  HOCUS

  “[An] intelligent and deftly paced thriller.”

  —The Washington Post

  “A story that will grab you on page one and just won’t let go.”

  —Robert Crais

  “Heads above the average thriller…. Hocus shines with memorable characters… [and] tears through to its conclusion at a heart-stopping pace.”

  —Star-Tribune (Minneapolis)

  BOOKS BY JAN BURKE

  Nine

  Flight

  Bones

  Liar

  Hocus

  Remember Me, Irene

  Dear Irene,

  Sweet Dreams, Irene

  Goodnight, Irene

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of this “stripped book.”

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuter.com

  Copyright © 1996 by Jan Burke

  Originally published in hardcover in 1996 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc.,

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  eISBN-13: 978-0-743-46704-9

  ISBN: 0-7434-4450-7

  First Pocket Books printing May 2003

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information regarding special discounts for bulk purchases,

  please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-800-456-6798 or [email protected]

  Cover design by Ray Lundgren; photo credits: Ken Elliott/Index Stock

  Imagery, Coneyl Jay/Getty Images

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  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 me 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 p
eering 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.