Dear Irene ik-3 Read online

  I was having a dream about a giant with one hundred eyes when the phone rang.

  3

  FRANK REACHED OVER and answered “Harriman” while I tried to focus on the alarm clock. Five in the morning.

  “The zoo?” he said, then paused to listen, taking notes. “Okay, I’m on my way.”

  “The zoo? What’s going on at the zoo?” I asked sleepily.

  “Someone found a body there. Woman had her skull bashed in. Somebody tossed her into the peacock enclosure.”

  “Peacocks?” I was suddenly fully awake.

  His back was to me as he started to get dressed. “Yes, peacocks. God knows why.”

  “Argus.”

  “What?”

  “I think someone tried to tell me this was going to happen.”

  He turned around, stared at me.

  “I’m not certain about it, Frank. But let me show you that letter before you go.”

  I got up and fished it out of my purse. He read it and then listened as I gave him a quick rundown on the mythology references.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “So you think whoever sent this was telling you that someone was going to die in front of the peacocks at the Las Piernas Zoo today?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know what to think. But this is too much of a coincidence to just dismiss it.”

  “I agree. Thanks, I’ll take this with me. I don’t suppose you saved the envelope?”

  “Sorry. It was a light blue one, with a computer label and no return address. I didn’t pay attention to the postmark. I might be able to dig it out of the recycling bin at work.”

  “I’ve got to get going, but I’ll probably need to talk to you more about this later. Okay if you get into work late?”

  “I’ll see if Lydia can give me a ride if you’re held up. But I’ll either be here or at the paper.”

  He kissed me good-bye and headed out the door.

  I was wide awake by then and couldn’t get back to sleep. I waited until 6:30, then gave Lydia a call. She agreed to come by and pick me up. I figured that even if Frank got back sometime that morning, he’d want to get some sleep — although the first hours are the most important ones on a homicide case, so I doubted he would be back home until much later.

  At work, things were humming. Mark Baker was out on the story at the zoo. John Walters saw me limp in and waved me over to his office.

  “You hear about the body at the zoo?” he asked.

  “A little. Frank was called out on it early this morning. I didn’t learn much from him before he left, but he said something about the peacock enclosure. He said he might need to talk to me more about the letter.”

  John looked disgruntled, and I figured I knew what was eating at him. I used to cover crime stories, but getting together with Frank put me beyond the pale as far as the Express was concerned. Reporters are discouraged from dating cops; the potential for a conflict of interest led Wrigley to forbid me to work on any story involving the police. Frank and I each took some flak over our relationship at our respective work places. Mark Baker had taken over most of the stories I used to handle.

  As I watched John brooding at his desk, I wondered how they were going to keep me out of this one. Then I told myself not to jump to conclusions. The letter might not have anything to do with what happened at the zoo.

  “Let me tell you what we know,” he said after a moment. “The victim is Dr. Edna Blaylock, a professor of history at Las Piernas College. Current theory is that she was killed elsewhere, then the killer or killers took her body to the zoo. Death was apparently from a number of crushing blows to her skull.”

  “Clio, the history Muse,” I said softly, unable to deny the connection now.

  John picked up his copy of the letter and read it over. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. He calls you Cassandra, who is the woman who foretold things accurately, but whom no one would believe. He tells you that you will always be the first one to know, and calls you his beloved.”

  I felt a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. John went on.

  “He calls himself Thanatos, or Death. He says the first murder will take place on a Thursday. The weapon is a hammer. He writes that the eyes of Argus, which are in a peacock’s tail, ‘will be upon her.’ He tells us Clio, the Muse of history, will be the first to die.” John looked up from the letter. “In other words, if he didn’t kill Professor Blaylock and put her body in the peacock exhibit at the zoo, he sure as hell knows who did, and knew about it long before it happened.”

  Somehow having it all laid out this way made me stop thinking of it as a story and start thinking of it as personal contact with a killer.

  “You look like you just swallowed a dose of castor oil,” he said.

  “I guess some part of me kept hoping it was just another harmless nut. I’m not ready for this now.” I shook my head, trying to clear it of the kinds of thoughts I was still prey to; the fear that had been haunting me since I had been hurt.

  “Sit down before you pass out, Kelly.”

  I obeyed. I took a few deep breaths and felt better.

  “Maybe you’ve come back too soon.”

  “No!” John’s a big man and it’s hard to make him jump, but I apparently startled him with my vehemence. “Not on your life, John. I’m tired of giving up.” He started to interrupt, but I held up my splinted right hand in protest.

  “I’ve moved out of my house. I’ve given up my sleep. I’ve had nightmares on a regular basis for weeks. And there are other problems. I’m often afraid to be alone. I’m scared every time I venture outside of Frank’s house. If a stranger walks up to me, I find myself bracing for a blow. Well, hell if I’m going to just give in to all of that. I’m sure as shit not going to abandon my career. Coming back — even part-time and as useless as I am — is important to me, John. I have to try to get back to some kind of normal life.”

  He sighed. “I just don’t like the looks of this. Oh sure, it’s great for the Express. Wrigley will be beside himself with joy. We’ll sell a lot of papers. But you, I worry about. Those days you were gone were tough on a lot of people, Kelly, not just your boyfriend.”

  Coming from John, that was the sentimental equivalent of an orphan’s choir. I tried to lighten things up. “You know I hate the word ‘boyfriend.’”

  “Oh, excuse me, your fiancé. Pardon me, Miss Priss. Look, the point I’m trying to make is that — oh hell. Forget it.”

  He started stabbing his blotter with his ballpoint pen.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “In that list of things you’ve given up? You haven’t given up being bullheaded. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I ought to see it coming. I know when I’m wasting my breath. Go on, get out. Get back to work.”

  “I’m sorry you’re worried about me, John.”

  “Out.”

  There was no use trying to mollify him.

  I WENT OVER to the large recycling bin that sits in the newsroom and slowly started emptying it, looking for the blue envelope. The bin is about three feet tall, and an amazing amount of paper had accrued in it during the last twenty-four hours. I was bending deep into it when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

  “Stuart Angert sent me over. He’s concerned about your loss of dignity.”

  I turned to see Lydia regarding me with amusement. Stuart is a friend and veteran columnist on the paper. He writes a regular feature on the lighter side of life in Las Piernas. I glanced over at him. Judging from his grin as he waved from his desk, being on the phone was the only thing that had kept him from getting a staff photographer to capture the rather unflattering view I had presented to the newsroom. I could just imagine what a nice contribution that would have made to the office Christmas party.

  “What are you doing?” Lydia asked.

  “Trying to find the envelope my love letter arrived in yesterday.”

  “Let me help.” She made sure the City Editor could handle the desk alone for a while, then star
ted lifting papers out by the stackful. “What does it look like?”

  I described it. It took some rummaging, but eventually we found it. We were able to make out the zip code on its blurred Las Piernas postmark. Lydia looked it up. It was the zip code for the college post office.

  The phone on my desk rang. I limped over and sat down as I picked it up left-handed.

  “Kelly.”

  “Good morning, Cassandra.”

  I froze. The voice was not human. The caller was using some sort of device that masked or synthesized his own voice into an unearthly, low-pitched sound. Clearly understandable, totally unrecognizable.

  “Thanatos?” I asked it as calmly as I could. I stood up and tried waving my right arm in an attempt to get Lydia’s attention. It hurt like hell.

  “You will believe me next time, won’t you?” he said. His voice was almost whisper-soft, mechanical.

  “I believed you this time,” I fibbed, stalling, trying now to get anyone to look at me. For once, everyone in the newsroom was minding his or her own business.

  “You failed me. There wasn’t anything in the newspaper about it.”

  “I’ve been away from work for a while.”

  “Yes. You were hurt. Your foot is in a new cast. And although you’re out of the sling, there’s something wrong with your arm.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” I whispered. I tried tapping the splint on the top of my computer monitor to try to get someone to look my way.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I didn’t have time to get anything written up,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t figure out what I was trying to do.

  “Well, you’ll know better next time.”

  He hung up. Just then, three different people took notice, Lydia among them. Their expressions plainly said they thought I was having some kind of fit.

  I swore as I hung up the phone.

  “What’s wrong?” Lydia asked.

  “That was him!”

  “Who?”

  “Thanatos. The letter writer.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” I sat down and shook my head. Fought down nausea. The phone rang again and I just stared at it. Lydia picked it up.

  “Irene Kelly’s desk… No, she’s right here, Frank.” She handed the phone to me.

  “Frank? Frank, he just called me. He’s seen me. He knows I’m wearing a cast and that my arm is hurt—”

  “Whoa, slow down. Who called you?”

  “Thanatos. The letter writer. The killer.”

  “He called you at the paper?”

  “Yes.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then asked, “Did he threaten you?”

  “No. He just kept talking about next time—”

  “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  I repeated the conversation. This time, there was a long silence.

  “I don’t like it,” he said at last.

  “I’m not so hot about it myself. We found the envelope, by the way. He mailed it from the college post office.”

  “Are you okay? You sound upset. I can understand why—”

  “I’ll be all right. Just shook me up.”

  “How about if I come by in a few minutes? I need to talk to John anyway.”

  I felt some of my tension ease. “I’ll warn him you’re on your way.”

  We said good-bye and I went off in search of John. He was talking to Stuart but broke off when he saw me hobbling in his direction. He met me halfway. I told him what had happened. He was scowling when I said, “Frank’s on his way over. He said he needed to talk to you.”

  “Yeah, well, I need to talk to him, too.”

  I didn’t know what to make of that.

  I spent the twenty minutes or so that I waited for Frank trying to figure out why the letter writer had contacted me. I logged on to the computer and called up an index of stories I had written in the past six months. Nothing seemed to fit; no stories on ancient or modern Greece, nothing on mythology, nothing on the college or its professors. My stories mainly focused on local politics and government; outside of some implausible connection to ancient Greek city-states, it didn’t make sense that I should be the person he contacted. Why write to me? I wasn’t even well-versed in mythology.

  I made a note to ask Jack for recommendations on mythology books.

  I searched the computer for stories that might have appeared in the Express about Professor Edna Blaylock. Zilch. “Peacocks” didn’t pan out, either. There had been a few stories about the zoo itself, but unless Thanatos was upset about the zoo changing its hours or getting a new bear, I couldn’t find the connection.

  Although this first round of inquiries didn’t prove fruitful, it did have the effect of helping me to calm down. I was still unnerved by the idea that Thanatos had watched me, but by the time Frank arrived, I had stopped feeling like my knees were made of gelatin.

  Geoff, the security guard for the building, must have let John know that Frank was on his way to the newsroom, because he stepped out of his office just as Frank entered the room.

  “So, when’s the wedding?” he boomed.

  “It’s up to Irene,” Frank answered, making his way to my desk. John met him there with an extended hand.

  “I haven’t had a chance to offer my congratulations, Frank.”

  Frank thanked him and shook his hand. At the same time, he studied me.

  “I’m okay,” I said, answering the unspoken question.

  He didn’t seem convinced, but asked his other questions aloud. The first was, “Did the call come through the switchboard, or directly to you?”

  I felt like an idiot for not checking that myself, and started to call the switchboard operator when John said, “Never mind, Kelly. I already called Doris. She hasn’t transferred any calls to you today. Must have come through direct.”

  “Then it’s most likely someone you’ve met, perhaps given your business card to, right?” Frank asked.

  “Maybe,” John said, before I could answer. “But it’s not that hard to learn someone’s direct dial number. There are a number of ways to do it. You could ask the switchboard operator for the number; she’ll usually give it out for anyone who’s not in upper management. If you wanted to be a little more sneaky about it, you could call another department, say, ‘Oops, I was trying to reach Irene Kelly. The operator must have transferred me to you by mistake. Could you tell me Irene’s extension?’”

  “Even if it’s someone with a card — I’ve given out a lot of them,” I said. “I had a new direct dial number when I came back to the paper, so I had to let people know how to reach me. I had to re-establish contact with a lot of old sources, and I had to meet some new ones. And on almost every story, I end up giving a card to someone.”

  “Well, it’s something to think about,” Frank said. “Maybe you’ll recall someone who mentioned this history professor to you, or who seemed interested in you in some unusual way — or who just seemed odd.”

  “‘Odd’ will not narrow the list much.”

  “Probably not. You said you found the envelope?”

  I nodded, and handed it to him.

  “Lydia!” John shouted, startling me. “Find something to keep Miss Kelly busy for a while.”

  “Wait a minute—” I protested.

  “You can live without him for five more minutes, can’t you, Kelly? You haven’t gone that soft on me, have you?”

  I could sense something was up and that John was in a conspiratorial mood. But I couldn’t figure out a way to object before they walked off into John’s office, Frank turning at the last moment to give me a shrug of feigned helplessness.

  I practiced breaking pencils with one hand while Lydia tried to find something for me to do.

  4

  “IF HE DIDN’T KILL HER in her office, he made a damned good start there.”

  Pete Baird, Frank’s partner, had accepted our invitation to join us for dinner that night. While Frank acted as chef, Pete was filling me in on
the progress they had made in the Blaylock case. “There was blood splattered everywhere — over her desk, the windows, her books, the floor, her papers. The guy went nuts. Really sprayed the place. I doubt she walked out of there, anyway. We’ll know more when the lab and coroner’s reports come in.”

  You get two homicide detectives together, you have to be prepared not to let much of anything ruin your appetite.

  “She was killed there,” Frank said, coating some orange roughy fillets with a mixture of herbs and a small amount of olive oil. “All the blows were to her skull. He was hitting her hard.”

  “He?” I asked.

  “Figure of speech,” Pete said. “But didn’t you say the voice on the phone was a man’s voice?”

  “It was synthesized. No telling. But I admit the letter made me think the writer is a man. Thanatos is a male character in mythology, for starters. Clio is female, a woman was killed. Cassandra was a woman. But maybe the killer is a woman who wants us to think she’s a man, to throw us off her trail.”

  “If the killer’s a woman,” Frank said, “she’s a very strong woman.”

  “Why strong? You told me that you thought the professor was sitting at her desk, bent over some papers…”

  “Right. Her desk faces some windows. It was late at night. If she had been looking up, she might have seen his reflection in the windows. Might not have made a difference if she had seen him, but in any case, there was no sign of a struggle on her part. I think he got her with the first blow.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “One good blow to the head and she wouldn’t have put up much of a struggle. So the killer wouldn’t need to be strong.”

  “If the body had been left there, I’d agree,” Pete said. “But after making all that mess, the killer was very neat. Must have bagged her — or at least wrapped her head up, because there wasn’t so much as a drop of blood out in the hallway. My guess is that he was wearing something over his own clothing — coveralls, maybe — because he couldn’t have been in that room or picked her up and carried her out without getting anything on himself. The professor wasn’t a very big woman, but even if she only weighed about a hundred pounds, that’s a lot to lug around. He carried her downstairs, took her to a vehicle, drove to the zoo, and then dumped her over a fence and in with the birds. Leaves her wallet and all her identification on her, so that we know exactly who we’ve got.”