Sweet Dreams, Irene

7

BETWEEN MY EMOTIONAL STATE and the noise next door, I didn’t sleep at all that night. The two triple-sized scotches had apparently done the trick for the bastard next to me, although I noticed he was extremely restless even as he snored away.

I went from feeling extremely sorry for myself to being extremely angry with Frank. I was pissed at myself as well, for not having a car to make an escape in. I considered calling a cab. Maybe because it was a Holy Day of Obligation, I prayed for strength.

At dawn, watching Frank and wondering if I would ever watch him sleep again, something like sympathy found its way past my anger. I remembered how upset he had been earlier, how close he had been to Mrs. Fremont. I thought of the helplessness he must have felt when Carlson took him off the case. I didn’t like the idea that withdrawing from me might be his way of dealing with his own emotions, but I concluded that like it or not, I was going to have to give him the time alone he wanted. I reminded myself that he had said “a few days,” not “I never want to see you again.”

I’d been around too long to feel much comfort in this last thought. I hated being in the position of waiting to see if he still wanted me.

I decided the answer to my problems was to busy myself with the election and to do what I could to find out about occult groups in Las Piernas. If the paper raised a stink about it, I figured I could argue reasonably that I wasn’t working on a crime story – after all, I had already been contacted by someone who had indicated a connection would be made between Satanism and the D.A.’s race. Besides, who knew how much longer I’d be bedding a cop? It might only be a few more minutes.

Sometimes my own sense of humor backfires on me.

I decided that the odds of Frank waking up and taking me into his arms and murmuring, “Darling, how could I have been so wrong! I can’t live without you…” were slim to none. So I carefully slid out of bed and went down the hall to the bathroom and took a shower. Okay, so what if we usually took one together? That was just water conservation, right?

I was in a really foul mood by the time I dried off. Frank wasn’t awake yet. I carried my clothes into the bathroom and got dressed there. I was too restless to stay in the house, so I went out onto the patio. That wasn’t such a great idea. It made me think of standing in the backyard of Casa de Esperanza, hearing Mrs. Fremont tell me Frank was a keeper. Well, I apparently hadn’t set the hook properly – he was wriggling away.

I heard him moving around inside the house; heard the shower and later, kitchen noises. My own appetite was running around somewhere with my ability to sleep. I couldn’t take looking at the garden anymore, caught between the loss of Mrs. Fremont and the distance from Frank, so I left the yard through the gate. I walked past Mrs. Fremont’s house without more than a glance at the yellow police barricade tape that sealed it, and headed for the beach. It was only a short walk from the house.

I stood at the edge of a walkway that led down to the beach. The Pacific stretched out in dark gray, the autumn sky cloudy to match. As I stood there, it worked its magic, the rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore easing away my tension.

By the time I walked back to Frank’s house, I was calm. I had decided not to push him, and not to make too much of what he had said in bed. I had plenty to do between now and whenever he wanted to see me again.

I went into the house. I could hear Frank washing the dishes. I avoided the kitchen and gathered my things together from his bathroom and bedroom. That left Cody. When I walked out into the living room, Frank was holding him, scratching his ears. “We’d better go,” I said.

Frank put Cody in his carrier, then picked it up and came over to get my bag. “I can manage,” I said. He looked at me for the first time since the night before. He looked unhappy, more sad than angry, but he said nothing. We walked out to the car in silence.

The drive to my house was silent as well. He helped me bring Cody in, not trying for the bag this time. As he set the carrier down, he looked at me. I couldn’t stand the thought of him just driving off.

“Why?”

He looked away. “It’s not you.”

“If it’s not me, why are you shutting me out?”

“Just give me a few days.”

“Fine.”

He finally looked at me again. “I don’t want to hurt you, Irene.”

To avoid shouting “Too late!” into his face, I bent down to let Cody out of his carrier; by the time I stood up, Frank had left.

I looked out the front window; he was sitting in his car. He hadn’t started the engine. “Please come back,” I whispered.

He drove off.

I WENT INTO the office taking deep breaths and internally chanting something that went like this: I will not take it out on the people who work with me.

I met Wrigley on the staircase.

“Well, good morning, Miss Kelly. Just wanted you to know I took Miss Martin off that ridiculous little assignment you gave her last night. She had more important things to do.”

… Eight… Nine… Ten. Still pissed. Remembering the chant, I said, “You’re not doing her any favors.”

He laughed and shoved his way past me. I resisted the strong temptation to kick his double jugs down the stairs.

Just as I reached the newsroom door, Stacee Martin came flying out. She looked at me and burst into tears, then ran off down the hall.

For a moment I debated whether to follow her or mind my own sordid business, and decided that maybe John had given her a hard time about not covering the story. As I walked into the newsroom, a group of people were standing around John. Suddenly there was a burst of laughter, the kind of laughter you hear when a joke has been made at someone else’s expense. I decided not to join them, and walked over to my desk.

“What’s wrong with you, Irene?” one of the reporters called out.

“Police brutality,” another yelled, and there was more laughter. It was a stupid, worn-out remark, and usually I would have met it with a comeback of my own. I could see from the look of anticipation on most of the faces that they were waiting for just such a repartee, but I was too far out on the edge of my ability to keep my temper to respond. I glanced at John, and saw a worried look on his face. I turned and walked back out of the newsroom. As the door closed behind me I could hear John yelling at everyone to get back to work.

I went into the morgue, away from prying eyes, and used the computer there to open the file on the Gillespie murder. That was the case Frank was working on. I’m not sure exactly why I reviewed this particular file, except that I knew the case was bothering Frank; maybe I just wanted to try to understand what was going on with him. I realized that as busy as I had been with the election, I hadn’t paid much attention to this case. I did remember that Mark Baker, the reporter who covered the story, had been pretty shaken up by it.

Megan Gillespie was a beautiful four-year-old girl, the only daughter of Joseph and Elizabeth Gillespie. She had disappeared from a city park, where she had been attending a children’s birthday party one Saturday afternoon in late September. Her body had been found in a trash bin in an industrial park a week later, now about three weeks ago. She had been sexually molested. Cause of death was strangulation.

I closed the file with a shudder. Although Las Piernas was big enough to have its share of crime, including homicide, this type of case was rare. I didn’t need to read more of the file to know that although the case was being worked on actively, no suspect had been charged. The level of fear in the community, especially among people with small children of their own, was palpable. The pressure on the police was tremendous, but I didn’t think that was what bothered Frank. He had lived with that before. It was more likely that the very nature of this particular case had upset him.

“Excuse me, Miss Kelly?”

I know I must have jumped. When I managed to find my voice, I said, “What is it, Stacee?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“I’m okay. What do you need?”

“I just wanted to apologize. I wasn’t able to cover the coalition meeting last night.”

In view of what I had just read, I couldn’t have cared less. “I know,” I said.

“You know?”

“Yes, Wrigley stopped me on the stairs to gloat over it.”

“Oh.” Her eyes misted over.

I wish I could tell you that I was moved, but I wasn’t; I was just angry. The day was going lousy and I just didn’t have patience. But I held my tongue, because I remembered my chant.

Finally, she said, “Well, I apologize anyway. It won’t happen again.”

“Why should I believe that?” I said, nasty in spite of myself.

“I guess you don’t really have any reason to. I wanted to tell you that I learned a lesson – I really don’t think I want anything more to do with – well, I’ll just say Mr. Wrigley has made a first-class fool of me and I deserve it. If you’ll give me another chance, I won’t disappoint you.”

I was too tired and frazzled to argue with her, and God knows I didn’t want her to sit there and confess all the lurid details of her liaison with Wrigley. “I’ll see what I can come up with for you. Are you here to do more research?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Good. Come by my desk later and we’ll talk it over.”

She smiled a little and said, “Thank you, Miss Kelly.”

I logged off the computer and headed back to my desk. Compared to the pain the Gillespies were living with, I guessed I could cope with my little aches. I remembered O’Connor quoting something to me once. “Irene,” he said, “if everyone in the world could put all of their troubles in a basket, we’d each still want to pick our own problems back out of it.”

I’d take mine over the Gillespies’ any day.