Sweet Dreams, Irene (6 page)

A
S
I
WALKED BACK
into the newsroom, I could feel some tension, but no one came anywhere near me. I sat down at my desk and tried to shake off the cloud of depression that threatened to settle on me. There were three phone message slips waiting for me. The first was from a Julie Montgomery. No message, no number—would call back later. Monty Montgomery’s wife was named Nina. He had three daughters and a son. I pulled up a file on him on the computer. Yes, one of the daughters was named Julie.

The second was from Jacob Henderson. Will call back later.

The third was from Sammy Garden. Same routine.

Damn. While I was in the morgue listening to Stacee, half of Las Piernas High School was trying to get in touch with me.

I wondered if Sammy had tried to reach me at home. I’d been too distracted that morning to check my messages. I called my home number and entered the code to get the machine to play back to me.

“Miss Kelly? Are you there?” The voice on the tape sounded frightened. “This is Sammy. Look, I’ve got to talk to you. I’m leaving the shelter. Something awful has happened. I’ve got to go. I’ll try calling you at work tomorrow.”

I had a feeling in my bones that the “something awful” was the murder of Mrs. Fremont. If Sammy wasn’t in danger before, she probably was now. Where on the streets could she hide out? What place that other runaways wouldn’t know about?

I paced around my desk. I couldn’t leave—I couldn’t afford to miss a call from any of these kids. I started thinking about Julie Montgomery. She was about seventeen or eighteen. I remembered Jacob’s blush when I had asked him about his source inside the Montgomery campaign. Could Jacob and Julie be friends? More than friends? Considering the bitter rivalry between the two candidates, it didn’t seem likely. But it wasn’t impossible.

My thoughts were interrupted by Lydia, who was walking toward me with a piece of paper in her outstretched hand. “Have you seen this?” she asked. “It’s being hand-delivered to the homes of most registered voters today.”

“Stop Satanism in Las Piernas,” I read aloud, sinking into my chair. There was a dim photo of Jacob Henderson, dressed in black, his face lit by firelight, talking to a woman in a dark robe—she looked like Sammy, from what I could see. They were in a circle of other robed figures. The spiel below the photo was pretty much as Jacob had predicted. It didn’t look good.

“The phones have started ringing off the hooks,” Lydia was saying. “Looks like Henderson has had it. I think it’s going to get worse; the Fremont murder story has been on the radio, and Wrigley wants to tag it ‘The Satanist Murder.’”

I could see Mark Baker, who covered crime stories, starting to make his way over to me. The phone on my desk rang. I picked it up.

“Irene?” It was Pete Baird, Frank’s partner.

“Yeah, Pete.”

“I’m worried about Frank. You have a fight?”

“Not really. He’s upset—look, let me call you later, okay? I’m in a crowd here.”

“Okay, but let me call you instead. We’re on our way out.”

I hung up, noting the expression of extreme curiosity on Baker’s face.

“Was that Frank?”

“No,” I said, glad to be able to tell the truth. “What’s up?”

“It looks like there may be some tie-in between the D.A.’s campaign and the murder of the Fremont woman. You got anything that might help me?”

I was spared answering by John Walter’s booming “Kelly!”

“If I’m alive when I leave his office, I’ll find you, Mark.”

He nodded in sympathy, and I walked toward John’s office. Even though I could see John turning red, I stopped by Lydia’s desk on the way.

“Lydia, there are three people trying to reach me.” I handed her the message slips. “If any of them call, please get me out of John’s office.”

“Are you nuts?”

“Please, Lydia.”

I must have sounded desperate, because she nodded her head.

“Don’t let me interrupt your busy day, Kelly!” John bellowed.

I straightened up and said, “I appreciate your understanding, John.”

He turned on his heel and I made haste to follow.

I closed the door and sat down. He glowered at me.

“You know what, Kelly?” He held up a copy of the Montgomery flyer and waved it back and forth. “I’ve got an itch somewhere that tells me you knew something about this hit piece of Montgomery’s yesterday.”

“Almost right, John. Jacob Henderson met me yesterday morning, asking to talk to me off the record. He told me he had heard from someone in the Montgomery campaign that this was going out. He tried to explain why he was at this gathering in the photo. I spent yesterday morning trying to find out if there was going to be a hit, but although it was pretty clear some kind of mudslinging was going on, I couldn’t get anyone to confirm the nature of the piece. I spent the afternoon trying to confirm Jacob’s version of the story. He claims that he was there to talk a friend into leaving, and that he’s not part of the coven. I talked to the friend, and she backs him up.”

John stewed for a minute or two, then apparently decided that I had done my job. “You believe the kid?”

“Yes. I’d like to talk to other kids in the coven, but it’s going to be hard. My connection to them—-Jacob’s friend—has run away. She left a message on my machine saying she’d call me again. I don’t know if she will, but I asked Lydia to come in here and get me if she calls.”

He scowled. “This is all a bad business. I suppose you know our esteemed editor’s ideas on tagging the Fremont murder ‘Satanist.’ I don’t like the idea of playing right into Montgomery’s hands.”

“Wrigley’s just thinking of how many newspapers he can sell. It will help him sell them all right—at the expense of the Henderson campaign.”

“You’re going to write something up about the Henderson kid’s version of the story?”

“As much as I can. It will probably be pretty thin unless I can find somebody else who was there.”

He grew pensive again. He was watching me in a way that made me uneasy.

“Irene, what was wrong this morning?”

I looked away from him. “It’s a list of things, John.”

He waited.

“Mrs. Fremont was Frank’s next-door neighbor. He found the body. I was right behind him.”

“Jesus.”

“Frank really liked her, and it was pretty rough on him. It wasn’t too much easier for me. I had talked to her a couple of times yesterday. I didn’t sleep at all last night, I walk in here and Wrigley sneers at me, then Stacee runs past me in tears. I just wasn’t in the mood to take any crap about Frank from the laughing boys in the newsroom.”

“You okay now?”

“Not really, but I’ll survive.”

“You say you saw the body?”

I could see the wheels turning in John’s mind. I nodded.

“Cops wouldn’t let anyone past the door last night. But you were inside the house?”

“Yes,” I said, thinking of the pool of blood.

“Tell me what you saw.”

I could feel my hackles rise.

“Go to hell, John. If I can’t cover crime stories, fine. But don’t turn around and try to get me to be a spy for you or to compromise Frank. One way or the other—not both.”

“Goddammit, Irene, I’d ask any witness the same thing.”

“I’m not any witness.”

He was back up to the boiling point. “You’re biting the hand that feeds you, Kelly! You’d better give some thought to who signs your paycheck.”

“I’m not ready to make a whore out of myself for the lousy sum on that check.”

“Get out of here!”

“Gladly.”

I stormed out, only to be met by Lydia frantically waving me over to the phone. Would there be no relief?

“Kelly,” I snapped into the phone.

“Irene Kelly?” It was a young woman’s voice.

“Yes.”

“My name is Julie Montgomery. I’m Monty Montgomery’s daughter. I need to talk to you. Can I meet you somewhere?”

T
HIS WAS GOING TO BE
difficult. If I met her away from the paper, I might miss Sammy or Jacob. If I stayed, it was going to be hard to find privacy. I decided to try the storage room in the basement again. Even then, I wondered how I was going to sneak her into the building without anyone seeing us meet.

“Look, I can’t leave here right now, but I don’t think this is the best place for you to be seen, either. What are you wearing?”

She gave me a description. I described Stacee to her. “She’ll meet you and take you to a room. I know all of this sounds like some kind of cloak-and-dagger operation—”

“No, I appreciate it. I understand.”

We arranged to meet in half an hour. I corralled Stacee and found she was eager to be of help.

“Just meet her and take her to Danny Coburn. Have Geoff give me a call, then go on to lunch—don’t come back upstairs and don’t let anyone else know she’s here. I mean that. Not anyone.”

She nodded, obviously enjoying the intrigue. I called down to Geoff and Danny to warn them of what was going on. Then I looked around for Mark Baker. He was working at his computer, entering a story with lightning speed. I watched his long, black fingers flying over the keys. I always admire that kind of keyboard mastery. I don’t exactly hunt and peck, but I’m no speed queen either.

Mark looked up and smiled. “You lived!”

“Only a reprieve, not a pardon. John would like my head right now.”

“Why?”

“Same reason you’re going to, unless I can smooth-talk you.”

He laughed. “You know I’m helpless before you, you silver-tongued devil.”

“Bull. But thanks, my bruised ego needed that. Anyway, here’s the deal. I suppose you know that I’m not supposed to be doing any kind of crime coverage?”

“Because of Frank.”

“Right. Well, last night, in a purely personal capacity—not as a reporter—I followed Frank into the Fremont house—before the cops got there. He discovered her body. John wants me to tell all I know. My better self tells me if I had been there as a reporter, this would be no problem; but Frank was not dealing with me as a reporter.”

“No kidding,” he said with a grin.

“Mark, I need to talk this over with somebody who can avoid making double entendres out of everything I say.”

“Sorry. I could tell you were upset this morning. I like Frank, you know that.”

I nodded. “I suppose this rule on crime stories is set up so that I don’t give Frank information on what the paper is doing, or try to write pieces that might end up being too pro-police or whatever. But I think it ought to be a two-way street. I don’t think it’s any more ethical for me to hand out information to the paper, if that information happens to come my way as a result of my relationship with Frank. It would be abusing our relationship. Am I wrong, Mark?”

“You’re in a pickle, that’s what you are.”

“Very helpful.”

He grinned. “I thought you had ink in your veins.”

“Maybe so, but I have to pump it through a heart.”

“No wonder Walters can’t relate—don’t think he has one.”

“Oh, it’s not John’s fault. In fact, I see his side of it all too clearly. I don’t like doing this. It really goes against the grain.”

“He must have pitched a real hissy fit.”

“To be honest, I don’t know how long it’s going to be before he really loses it with me. Anyway, thanks for listening. As for what I can tell you, I can give you some information, so long as we’re talking as friends and no one has any wrong ideas about me getting involved in crime coverage.”

“Why, Irene—I just figured it out. You’re interested in this Fremont case, aren’t you?”

“For a whole lot of reasons.”

“I can imagine. Frank working on this?”

I felt myself wince, and saw him look at me with curiosity.

“No, he’s not. He’s busy with the Gillespie case. Anyway, you asked if there’s a tie-in. The Montgomery campaign claims Jacob Henderson is a Satanist and published a photo. You’ve seen the flyer?”

He nodded.

“Well, first of all, we have nothing that really proves that the people in the photo are engaging in Satanism, witchcraft, or a weenie roast, for that matter. No credit is given for the photo, so we don’t even know where it came from or who took it. No date or location. So I’m not saying right at the moment that the photo shows much of anything.

“As for the Fremont murder, there was a drawing of a goat’s head on the door, and that’s supposedly a symbol connected to satanic cults. There might be other reasons that a person would conclude that it was an occult group of some kind.”

“So a certain person might have seen other signs of a satanic cult at work if she happened to see the inside of the house?”

“I’m not saying that at all, Mark. In fact, something really bothers me about this whole satanic business. I don’t know, there’s something not quite right about it.”

“What?”

“Well, maybe Mrs. Fremont’s death is the work of Satanists or some other offbeat group, but it could also be a pretty straight-ahead murder made to look like a ritual killing.”

“Why Mrs. Fremont?”

“It’s so hard for me to imagine anyone wanting to kill her, I honestly can’t give you much help there. But I think we should look at old-fashioned motives, not just bizarre cults.”

“So is there a tie-in with the D.A.’s campaign or not?”

“Hard to say. There are apparently a number of members of an occult group of some kind living at the runaway shelter Mrs. Fremont started. They’re kids, and I can’t imagine why they would ever want to harm her, but you might want to see if you can find out more about the coven they’re in—something tells me there may be some kind of offshoot group that’s into the really weird stuff.”

“How do you know about it?”

I told him about my basement conversation with Jacob and the talk I had with Sammy at the shelter. “Sammy has taken off from the runaway shelter. She left a message on my machine that sounded like she knew something was up last night. I’m worried about her, Mark.”

“I can see why. Well, thanks, Irene. Maybe I can talk to some of these other coven members.”

“That would be great.”

“And I’ll put in a good word with John—I’ll let him know you’ve helped me out.”

“Thanks.”

I went back to my desk. A few minutes later, the phone rang. It was Geoff, letting me know my visitor had arrived, and that Danny was taking her to the same place I had met Jacob.

When I entered the storage room downstairs, the young woman who was sitting there waiting for me jumped out of her chair. She had that look one sees in those who have begun to lose their innocence, but who have not yet entirely relinquished their hold on it. No longer an angel, but not yet damned by any means.

“Miss Kelly?”

“Yes. Julie? Have a seat.” I pulled the other chair up next to her. The presses were running, so it was hard to hear.

“I’m here because I have to do something to help Jacob.”

“Does your father know how eager you are to come to Jacob’s aid?”

“No. Well, maybe. I begged him not to put that flyer out, but he never listens to me anyway. He doesn’t know I’m here, if that’s what you mean.”

“Are you and Jacob seeing one another?”

She looked down. “Off the record?”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! You political brats are going to drive me wild!”

She looked so taken aback, I realized my lack of sleep was starting to affect my self-control. “Forgive me, Julie. I’m a little edgy today. Yes, okay, off the record.”

“No one can know.”

“It’s hell to try to keep that kind of thing a secret.”

“No kidding. But we’ve managed to keep it quiet for almost a year. We met at a Christmas party they held last year, for all the families in the D.A.’s office. Jacob and I talked, and it just seemed like we both had something in common—you know, our dads and all. Like you said, political brats.”

“You have sisters and they don’t know about it?”

“My sisters and I don’t get along very well. They couldn’t care less. In fact, most of the time, everybody in the family is so wrapped up in their own problems, they don’t even notice whether I’m there or not.”

It was hard to imagine anyone not noticing her. Julie Montgomery was a beautiful, dark-haired girl with large brown eyes. She had the kind of figure that causes morning traffic to slow down in front of high schools.

“You said you wanted to help Jacob. What did you have in mind?”

“I know he isn’t a witch or a Satanist or any of those things.”

“What am I supposed to do? Write that Jacob Henderson’s anonymous girlfriend swears he’s just not that kind of guy?”

She looked down. “We’re going to tell our parents after the election is over. Right now it’s impossible. I can’t.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that even if you let me use your name, I have to have more than just your affection for him on the scale. I need something that will have a little weight with the public. Were you around the night the photo was taken?”

“No, Daddy took us with him on his rounds of meetings that night.”

“Is that usual?”

“Not really. He brings us to the really big stuff—you know, fancy dinners and all of that—but mostly I think he wants us out of the way.”

“Do you know any of the kids in this coven?”

“No, just Sammy. She knows about Jacob and me, but I haven’t spent much time around her. She kind of—well, she hangs out with a different crowd. But she’s been good about not telling anyone about us.”

“Do you know who took the photo?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know how your father found out about this coven?”

Again, no.

“I’m sorry, Julie. I think it’s great that you’ve risked talking to me and that you’re trying to be of help. But I just don’t see what it is I can learn from you that will counteract what’s in that flyer. I like Jacob, too, but I can’t just make things up; I’ve got to report the facts as clearly as I can.”

For a moment, I thought I was going to be three-for-three in teenage crying jags, but she surprised me. Her disappointment couldn’t be hidden, but she held back the tears. “Jacob really likes you,” she said. “It’s funny, he’s all excited about being on the paper at school. I think it’s the only good thing going for him right now.”

“I suspect you’re on the list of good things going for Jacob Henderson. As far as the flyer goes, I’d suggest you try not to take all of this on your own shoulders. It’s something your fathers are going to have to fight about; it’s not anything you have any control over. Just try to hang on until next Wednesday.”

“By then the whole county is going to believe Jacob worships the devil.”

“By then the whole county will have forgotten about it.”

She shook her head. “I can’t stand watching him get hurt like this. By my own father!”

Were the tears going to fall after all? No. Determined streak in this one.

She stood up and reached out a hand. “Thanks for meeting me.”

“Thank you. Sorry to disappoint you.” I pulled out a business card. “Give me a call if you think of anything or hear anything that might be of importance, okay?”

“Okay.”

I led her out to the main lobby and watched her leave.

Not half a minute later, Mark Baker came running past me. He stopped at the door and turned toward me.

“SWAT teams are out down at the harbor. Couple of cops barricaded in a building with a suspect in the Gillespie murders. I think it might be Pete and Frank in there with him. Want to come along?”

Before I could answer, a voice boomed behind me, “She’s got her own work to do, Baker. Get your ass down there!”

I turned on John Walters. All the fear that had hold of me a split second before had turned to a blinding rage. He saw it in my face. He mirrored it in his own. Just as I was ready to start screaming at him about finding a small, dark lodging place for this job, a soft voice spoke up.

“Why, Mr. Walters, I can’t believe you meant to say that. If it weren’t for Detective Harriman, we wouldn’t know who killed Mr. O’Connor. And I hate to think of what would have happened to Miss Kelly. You don’t mean to keep her here while he’s being shot at?”

It was Geoff. Blessed Geoff, who will someday inherit the earth. He somehow took the wind out of our sails.

John sighed. “Shit. Come on, Kelly. I’ll take you there myself.”

This was startling. John didn’t go out on stories. I just stood there, feeling numb.

“Well, for godsakes, Irene, you don’t think I’m going to let you go down there to face that alone, do you?” he said gruffly, taking my elbow and propelling me toward the door.

I turned and shot Geoff a look of gratitude, but the anxious look on his face made me suddenly feel the impact of every word I’d heard in the last few minutes.

I let John pull me out the door.