Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

“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?”

THIS 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?”