Goodnight, Irene

25

NOBODY SAID A WORD on the ride back to Gila Bend. When we reached the station, Pete looked up at Ramos. “You gonna tell her?” he asked.

“About the body? Yeah, I’ll tell her. But not right away. Let this sink in first. Hell, she’s over seventy years old. But she’s made of strong stuff, you know?”

We nodded. Pete asked if he could make some calls. I told him I was going to walk around a little, but would meet him back at the station for lunch in about twenty minutes. Ramos accepted our invitation to join us.

They went into the station and I walked across the street to one of the motels. This one was done up in a flying-saucer and rocket ship motif. Outdoors, it was like walking around inside a clothes dryer. But once I was back indoors, I got gooseflesh from the chill. I kept thinking that the local people must adapt to rapid temperature changes like nobody else on earth. I looked around and found a pay phone. I called the paper and asked for Lydia.

“City Desk,” came the response.

“Lydia? It’s Irene. I’m calling from Gila Bend.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Listen, are you near an open terminal? Or can you connect me to someone who is? I’m out here without a laptop or modem but I think I’ve got something that shouldn’t wait until I get back tonight. Can I give it to you over the phone?”

“Sure,” she said, “hang on.” She covered the receiver and I could hear her shooing people away from her desk. “Okay,” she said at last, “I’m all set.”

I gave her the story the best I could. I figured Wrigley would love touting the fact that largely through the efforts of O’Connor, a thirty-five-year-old mystery had been solved. We had found Hannah’s hometown just three days before the anniversary of her death. I briefly went over the work done by O’Connor, Hernandez, MacPherson, and law-enforcement officials in both cities that had led to the tentative identification.

More gingerly than I should have, I told as much as I could bear to tell about Mrs. Owens, trying to avoid feeling that I had taken advantage of being there at a time when she was vulnerable.

I also recapped the local angle: O’Connor’s death, his son’s beating, the deadly car chase and the sidewalk hit-and-run killing, all possibly linked to the old case. I wound up with the standard “investigations are proceeding” lines.

“That’s it, Lydia,” I said when I finished.

“Whew!” she said, “you’ve had a busy morning.”

“Yeah, I’ve got pretty mixed feelings about it, too.”

“You liked her mother, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. I guess I went too soft there. Hell’s bells, Lydia, you should have been there. I feel lousy about it. I haven’t gotten my hide thickened up enough yet. Give me another two or three interviews with parents of dead children and I’ll be able to do this kind of story without batting an eye.” I took a deep breath. I realized I was getting defensive. “I guess I can’t trade on anybody else’s misery right now. I’m too rocky myself.”

“Believe me, Irene, I understand. You know how I hate that ‘invasive-but-it-sells-papers’ stuff that Wrigley’s so in love with. Besides, Phoenix is less than an hour’s flight away, so if Big Bad John doesn’t like the way you wrote it, I’m sure he’ll send somebody out there tonight to steal a photo of Jennifer off that shelf and take a few pictures of Mrs. Owens crying. By the way-he put your piece from yesterday on A-one.”

“Slow news day, huh?”

“Where is this modesty coming from?”

“Must be the heat out here. Anyway, got a couple of other loose ends to take care of before I head back. Everything going okay with you?”

“Nervous about my hot date tonight, but okay otherwise.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“Hmm. I hope so. Well, I better flag John Walters down. I think he’ll be pleased, kiddo.”

“Hope you’re right.”

We hung up and I fished the number of the downtown branch of the Bank of Las Piernas out of my purse. I dialed and got through to the switchboard. “Ann Marchenko, please,” I said.

There was a pause. “May I ask who is calling?”

“Irene Kelly,” I said.

There was another pause and then a couple of rings. I was surprised when a man’s voice answered. “Irene?”

“Guy?”

“Yes, hello! Why didn’t you tell me you were a famous newspaper reporter? I saw your byline on the front page today. How are you doing?”

“I’m fine. And I’m not at all famous, but thanks for noticing the byline. I was trying to reach Ann Marchenko.”

“Yes, I thought you might call today, so I asked the switchboard to give your call to me. Irene, I’m sorry, Ann Marchenko phoned in this morning and quit her job.”

“Quit? Without notice? Why?”

“She wouldn’t say why, she just told us she wouldn’t be in again. It leaves us in quite a fix, I’m afraid. But as for you-perhaps someone else can help? Really, if there is anything I can do, please allow me to help. The bank isn’t about to receive some bad publicity, is it?”

“No, no, I doubt that’s the case. It was something else. Really, Guy, I can’t think of anything you can help me with right now. I really didn’t have anything specific to ask her. I’ll let you know, though.” I thought of Ramona Ralston. “Guy, I’m very sorry about-yesterday.”

“That was not your fault, Irene. It was terrible, I agree. A horrible, horrible thing that happened. But it was not your fault.”

“Thanks.”

“And now I have a special favor to ask of you-perhaps it will provide a small distraction.”

“Yes?”

“I would be honored if you would be my guest at a rather boring affair-I am invited to a political fund-raising banquet for one of our major depositors, Andrew Hollingsworth, the district attorney. If you would not mind being my guest, I’m sure the evening would pass less painfully. I’m giving you short notice, I’m afraid-it’s tomorrow night. As an added attraction, you can enter the hallowed Sheffield Estate overlooking the beautiful Pacific. All this and the polite attentions of a former hockey player with a charming accent. What do you say?”

I laughed. “It’s the best offer I’ve had all day. But I must warn you that I probably would have been sent along by the paper, so in turn you must warn the Hollingsworths that your guest is there as a working journalist.”

“Oh, so I have invited you somewhere you would already have gone on your own. That’s not so fun. Still, I think you are saying yes.”

“I am.”

“Can I pick you up about seven, then?”

“Fine.”

“Where?”

This posed a problem. I didn’t feel comfortable giving out Lydia’s address, even to people who probably weren’t at all involved in this mess. I was running low on clean clothes over at Lydia’s, and anything fancy enough to wear to a political fund-raiser would be back at my house. I hadn’t been there to collect my mail either. I gave Guy my address.

“Bien. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Guy, I do have a favor to ask. Would you please call Ann Marchenko at home and ask her to give me a call at the paper?”

“The bank is not involved?”

“I doubt it very much.”

“Well, I will ask her to call you then.”

I gave him the number at the paper and hung up. My twenty minutes were up, so I walked back to the sheriff’s station. Pete and Enrique Ramos were standing in the lobby.

“So,” Pete said, “think it will make page one?”

“Have you got that motel pay phone tapped?” I asked Ramos.

“Come on, old Pete here would be a pretty lousy detective if he couldn’t guess what phone calls a reporter would run off to make on a story like this.”

“Yeah, give me a break, Irene. Besides, I promised Frank I’d keep an eye on you. So who was the second call to?”

“Never mind the second call.”

“Oooh, aren’t we touchy?” he said.

I felt like bashing him one, but I figured he probably knew how to bash back. Besides, I was in a sheriff’s station.

He smirked. “I made four calls myself. One to the department, the second to Phoenix Homicide, and the third to St. Anne’s. Frank’s not there anymore.”

“Not there?”

“Nope, so I guess that eliminates St. Anne’s as your second call. Too bad. Anyway, they sent him home. That was the fourth call. They sent Mike Sorenson over to keep an eye on him, and the big lout answered the phone when I called over to Frank’s house. Almost wouldn’t put me through-can you imagine? Frank sounds a hell of lot better than he did yesterday. Says hello to you and wants to know if we’ll stop in if we get the chance-he’s already got cabin fever, I guess.”

“That would be great. I can’t believe he’s home already.”

“Pretty standard for his type of injuries, I guess. If it’s just a matter of hurting, they send you home to heal-better that way, you don’t have to keep eating hospital food. Speaking of food-Enrique here is going to show us where we can find genuine Mexican food. Right?”

We ate lunch at one of those hole-in-the-wall cafйs that are always the best for Mexican. Pete offered to drive back to Phoenix, so I had a cold cerveza with my enchiladas. Just knowing how hot it was outside made the beer taste better. The spicy sauce made it mandatory.

After a brief tussle over who would treat whom to lunch, Las Piernas hosted Gila Bend, and we thanked Enrique for all his help. With assurances that we’d keep each other informed, we drove off.

“Now,” said Pete, turning up the road to Phoenix, “we’ll go visit the City Mouse.”