Remember Me, Irene

26

ICALLED THE NUMBERJune had given me. A man answered on the second ring.

“Hello, is Edison in?”

“This is Edison. What can I do for you?”

“This is Irene Kelly. I’m a reporter with theLas Piernas News-Express. I’m calling you regarding-”

“Lucas Monroe!” he interrupted. “Lucas told me you might be calling me.”

“He did?”

“Sure. I’m retired now, but I can give you references if you need them.”

“References?”

“As a document examiner. Would you need to see my references before I go over his case with you? I won’t be insulted in the least. He said you would be cautious.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

There was a long silence. “Lucas told you about me?”

“No, not really. Mr.-Sorry, I don’t even know your last name.”

“Burrows.”

“Mr. Burrows, I’m afraid I have some sad news. Lucas died a few days ago.”

“Died? But-but how is that possible?”

“Apparently, he had a heart attack.”

I didn’t give him any other details. He was clearly shocked to learn of Lucas’s death, and the next few moments were largely spent convincing him that I was sure Lucas was dead.

“I really liked him,” he said. “And I suppose I kept hoping my son would follow his example.”

“Your son?”

There was a slight hesitation before he said, “Lucas met my son on the streets. Unfortunately, my son is still drinking heavily. But I guess my son told Lucas what I used to do for a living, because Lucas sought my help not long after he began fighting his own addiction.”

“If you don’t mind my asking, what does document examination have to do with alcohol addiction?”

“Oh, not with addiction. I’m sorry, I forgot-he didn’t have a chance to tell you. Oh, wait-there was the note-but you said it was a heart attack?”

“It’s being investigated. There are some questions about his death. What note?”

“Oh, well, I wonder if…” He paused. “Perhaps we could meet. I know he wanted me to show you the work I’ve done for him. And then there is another matter, although I’m not sure…well, this should be taken care of as soon as possible. Could we meet this afternoon? It would be easier than trying to explain over the phone.”

He completed this argument with himself by inviting me to his home, and not wanting him to argue himself out of it, I agreed to meet him there in an hour.

ITHOUGHT ABOUT my previous plans, which would now have to be canceled. I wasn’t going to spoil everybody’s fun, though, so I took out a sheet of paper and wrote Wrigley’s pager number on it about thirty times. Then I went over to the copier and made ten copies of that page, and finally made use of a paper cutter in the design department. I glanced at a clock and saw I only had about ten minutes to spare, so I hurried over to Lydia. “Can someone else cover the city desk for about two minutes?”

Stuart Angert agreed to catch the phones, and I could tell from his grin that Lydia had already mentioned Banyon’s to him. Lydia followed me into the women’s room. I checked the stalls to make sure we were alone and then said, “I have a huge favor to ask of you.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Lydia, this is not that bad, I promise.”

“Famous last words. Whenever you say ‘huge favor’ and ‘not that bad,’ trouble is coming at me downhill on roller skates.”

“Listen, I don’t have time to twist your arm, so if you don’t want to do this, just say so. I can’t make it to Banyon’s.”

“What! I just told everyone-”

“Something’s come up.” I told her about Edison Burrows. “I’ve got to meet him, but I can’t do that and be at Banyon’s. So I need you to explain my plan for the beepers.”

“I knew I wasn’t going to like this.”

I ignored that. I’ve been tempting Lydia to misbehave for about three decades, so by now I know what to expect in the way of protest.

“Just give out these slips of paper. See? My handwriting. It’s the number for Wrigley’s personal pager. I think it should be dialed. A lot.”

She took the slips, her look of trepidation now replaced with a mischievous smile. That’s my pal.

“How did you ever get this number?”

“The old boy thought I was going to set him up with Claire Watterson.”

“He must be out of his mind.”

“He will be, when we get done with him. Now, I’ve got to get out of here.” I started to walk out, then stopped and turned back to her. “Lydia? Tell them to be creative about the call-back numbers. The pound and the sanitation department are already spoken for.”

I hurried back to my desk and checked my voice-mail messages. One from Frank, one from Roberta. Frank had called me before I left my “beeper” message for him; he was letting me know he’d actually be home for dinner, so I didn’t have to call him back. Roberta just left her number. I debated for a second or two, but there had been an anxiousness in her voice, so I decided to go ahead and call her now. I could always call Burrows and tell him I’d be late. But when I called, I reached her secretary.

“She’s with a client,” the secretary said, “and she has a meeting across town this afternoon. I’m about to leave for the day, but can I leave a message for her? I know she’s anxious to talk to you.”

I gave her my pager number and my home number. I gathered up Ben’s calendars and left the office.

My curiosity was raging. Edison Burrows mentioned a note. Did Lucas leave a note about his activities? I was so preoccupied with trying to untangle my conversation with Burrows, I stood bewildered in the parking lot for a second before I remembered that I was still parked in the alley-or hoped I was. I rounded the corner of the building, greatly cheered to see the Karmann Ghia-until I saw the broken glass on the driver’s side. A brick lay on the ground near the door.

“Shit!” I slowed my steps, trying to brace myself for finding the ignition popped or the interior vandalized. This thief might have been frustrated to find the radio gone-long gone, thanks to the work of one of his predecessors, a knife-wielding asshole who had ripped his way through the ragtop. At least the glass wouldn’t be so expensive to replace. It would come out of my own pocket; the Karmann Ghia was too old to make comprehensive insurance worthwhile.

As I crunched my way closer to the car door, I noticed the hood of the trunk wasn’t fully latched. I peered into the car. No other apparent damage. I brushed beads of glass off the seat, hit the release for the trunk, and went to the front of the car to see if anything had been taken from there. But my earthquake kit, flares, beach blanket, and flashlight were still there. Even my gym bag, which had a set of running clothes and shoes in it, hadn’t been taken. On second thought, maybe my running shoes weren’t such a prize.

I shut the trunk and got into the car, shaking loose another spray of glass beads. I started the car, relieved that nothing seemed amiss with the engine, and drove toward Edison Burrows’s home.

At the first stoplight, I found myself inventing punishments for the vandal. I had a brief moment of mentally asking “What did I ever do to you?” to the unknown, would-be thief. Useless. As the wind came in through the shattered window, I clenched my teeth and told myself that I should be grateful the car was still there.

Should be.

Beyond contributing my input to local crime statistics, I knew there was no point in calling the police. Auto theft and vandalism in southern California is so rampant, those cities which don’t just take reports over the phone send officers out mostly as a public relations effort, not because there is any likelihood of finding the car-let alone the thief.

I haven’t owned many things as long as I’ve owned my Karmann Ghia, and have a sentimental attachment to even fewer. I’m not a car-worshiper by any means, but I’ve spent a lot of time in this one, and the broken window seemed like an injury to an old friend. But with the exception of allowing myself to engage in some rather unrealistic vigilante fantasies during the drive to Burrows’s house, I knew it was best to try to shrug it off.

EDISONBURROWS LIVEDin a quiet neighborhood where the branches of big oak trees were beginning to fill in their canopy above the streets with soft, bright green leaves. His house was typical of those built in the mid-1920s in Las Piernas, a small Spanish-style home with white stucco walls, a red tile roof, and arching windows. I parked on the street, got out with the calendars in hand, and caught myself just before I locked the car door.

Burrows opened the heavy wood panel door without bothering to peek at me through the small grilled window in it. The hour since we had talked on the phone seemed to have given him time to collect himself.

“Come in, come in,” he said, then spying the calendars, “What have you brought with you?”

“Oh, just some things I don’t want to leave in my car.” I explained about the window and received just the right amount of sympathy before he seated me in a sunny kitchen and offered coffee.

He was a slightly built man, a little under six feet tall, I would guess. He bustled about the kitchen and talked energetically. His skin was pale but his cheeks were pink, and his thick brows rose and fell as he spoke. He had the look of someone who has spent most of his life indoors. He reminded me of someone, but I couldn’t figure out who. The son on the streets? But which of many homeless men I had met in the last few days was Burrows’s son?

“I’m so sorry to hear about Lucas,” he said again, quiet for a moment. “He couldn’t have been more than forty-something, right? About my son’s age. I’m seventy-five-almost twice his age.”

“You don’t look seventy-five,” I said.

“I don’t act it, either,” he said with a wink. “And I’ve got at least another twenty-five to act ornery.”

He picked up a thick folder and a magnifying glass, then sat at the table with me. He set the glass and folder to one side and began to tell me of his years as a documents examiner. He was clearly going to go about this in his own way, and I decided that it would be better to let him do so, if the alternative was something like that phone call.

“I worked for the county for years,” he said.

“Las Piernas County?”

“Yes. About thirty years with them before I retired. Over that time, I had a few courses and studied with some interesting folks, and along the way I got to be pretty good at detecting forgeries and altered documents. I can tell you all about inks and papers. But my real specialty was typewriters.” He laughed. “Boy, has that end of the business changed. Technology went leaps and bounds just about the time I retired.”

“Computers and laser printers?”

He nodded. “That’s just part of it. Anyway, it was much easier in the old days, when all the office work was done on the kind of machine Lucas used. A manual typewriter.”

I thought back. “Yes, I remember now-what was it, a Remington?”

He shook his head. “Underwood. Lots of folks had moved to electric typewriters-IBM Selectrics, or Lanier word processors, if they could afford them. But to our good fortune, Lucas was used to this old Underwood. I guess he’d been using it since high school.” He paused. “I’m getting a little ahead of myself here.”

He patted the folder. “Lucas came to me with a challenge. He said he had some pages he had typed, and some pages someone else had typed. He said that Joshua-my son-had told him that I ought to be able to tell the difference.”

“Your son is here in town?”

He was suddenly less animated. His shoulders drooped a little, and he ran a hand over his short white hair. “Yes. It breaks my heart, but I’ve given up trying to get him to come home. I know people have lots of reasons for being on the street, but with him it’s the booze. I don’t know what other reason he would have for living out there when he could be with me. You know how many of those people living out there with him wish they could have a warm place to stay? He’s had all kinds of advantages most of them haven’t had, and it makes not one bit of difference. Why? The booze. I stopped giving him money. It just goes into the bottle with him. But every time it rains or gets cold, I’m sick with worry.”

“He told Lucas to go to you for help, though. So he still thinks of you.”

Edison smiled. “Do you know how great I felt the day Lucas Monroe called me and asked for my help-because my son had recommended me to him? I would have helped Lucas for free for the rest of his life…” His voice faltered. “Well, I guess I did help him for the rest of his life. But not for free. He did work around here for me. Painting, things like that. I told him it wasn’t necessary, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“What was it he asked you to do?”

“He said he had a document that someone had inserted some forged pages into. He had typed the original, someone else had typed the forgeries. They had used the same paper, and probably the same machine. Could I tell them apart?” He smiled broadly. “Of course I could!”

He picked up the magnifying glass. “He told me that he would want me to show the differences to you, that you worked for the newspaper and might be willing to help him.” He opened the folder and tapped on the top page. “These are photocopies-excellent copies, but copies all the same. I worked from his originals for purposes of the examination, of course. But I didn’t want to mark those, so I copied them and circled the places where the differences really stand out.”

“Do you have the originals?” I asked.

“Oh…oh no. No, I don’t. He didn’t bring them to you?”

“No.”

“I did have them for a time, but he took them with him the last time I saw him.”

“When was that?”

“Let’s see. He stopped by…not last Saturday, but the previous Saturday.”

“Ten days ago?”

“Yes. I had completed my work by then. It didn’t take very long. Here-I’ll show you.”