Jan Burke - Sweet Dreams, Irene

I stood up and cleared my desk, and left without so much as a “toodleloo” to Stacee. Frank got up and followed in my wake, puzzled.

When we got to the car, he said, “What’s eating you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re jealous.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You are jealous!” The bastard was laughing.

I started up the car. “I am not jealous! I’m embarrassed that a man who is close to forty sat there and mooned over a twenty-year-old twit.”

At this, he only laughed harder. I fumed silently.

Eventually he was subdued enough to find his voice. “Irene, she can’t hold a candle to you.”

My jaw was clenched too tightly to respond.

WE PULLED UP in front of the house, and I looked over to see he was still very much amused, but was wisely maintaining silence. Outside the car, the air was chilly and clouds rolling past the moon threatened rain.

I stomped up the walk, but came to a halt about five feet from my front porch. There was blood on the steps. And there was some object on the porch itself, a lump. I felt fear clawing at me, taking me down into some welcomed oblivion.

As if from far away, I heard Frank moving up quickly behind me, felt him grab my shoulders, heard him say, “Oh, for Christsakes…”

The lump was a human heart.

MY STOMACH CHURNED and I ran to the side of the house, where I vomited. I heard Frank come up alongside me and ask if I was okay, but I couldn’t answer. I leaned against the house, shaking. I reached down and turned on the garden hose, and rinsed out my mouth. I splashed some cool water on my face. I felt a little better. Frank held me. “I have to get out of here,” I said, feeling as if I were in a small box instead of outdoors.

He walked me over to my next-door neighbor’s house, carefully steering me away from any view of the porch. He rapped loudly on Mr. Hottlemeyer’s door. Mr. Hottlemeyer and I had a nodding acquaintance – we were pleasant but anonymous to one another. I’m sure it was quite a surprise to have us at his door at midnight. He ran a hand through his rumpled gray hair and asked politely what he could do for us.

I heard Frank explain in his most authoritative voice that this was an emergency and that he needed to use the phone. He also said that I had received quite a shock and asked if Mr. Hottlemeyer would sit and talk to me while he called.

I know we had awakened him, but Mr. Hottlemeyer was as pleasant as he might have been if we had come to pay a Sunday afternoon visit. He brought me a small glass of sherry and sat down next to me. It’s not my favorite drink, but it helped to steady my nerves. Frank came back from using the phone, and asked if I could stay while he waited at my house for investigators to arrive. Mr. Hottlemeyer was agreeable, and Frank left.

He made small talk, asking me questions about anything but what had happened next door. Did I have a garden? What sports did I enjoy? Had I seen the new comedy program on television last Tuesday night? At first I was irritated; invading images from the front porch made his questions seem inane. Soon though, I understood he was trying to distract me, and so I cooperated by forcing myself to concentrate on his voice and what he was asking me. I’m sure his efforts were all that kept me from becoming hysterical.

Soon we saw the flashing lights of squad cars, and I began to feel as if I were back at Frank’s house the night Mrs. Fremont died. But Mr. Hottlemeyer was never out of questions for me. After what seemed like a long time, Frank came back and asked me if I thought I could handle going over to the house.

I felt panic, which had never been far away, rise within me. Frank took my hand. “They’ve taken it away,” he said quietly. I bit my lower lip and nodded my consent to leave this neighbor’s safe haven.

We thanked Mr. Hottlemeyer, who shrugged as if to say, “It was nothing.” I knew better. To his credit, he had kept at bay any curiosity of his own about the events which had frightened me. For that alone I would be grateful for a long time to come. As we left, I wondered why I had not tried to get to know him better before that night.

Outside, before we crossed the yard, Frank held me for a long moment, then asked me if I was sure I was ready. I nodded, and leaving an arm around my shoulders, he led me back to the house.

In my front yard, several people were bending over the front stairs, and I felt bile rising in my throat again. I stopped moving.

“Irene?”

I shook it off. “I’m okay, Frank.” And I started asking him the questions that had been creeping up on my mind. “Is the rest of…”

“No. There wasn’t anything else,” he said firmly. He paused, then added, “It might not be a human heart, Irene.”

I shuddered, but said, “It’s human.” Something told me Frank knew that as well as I did. “Is Cody – is he okay?” Horrible visions crossed my mind.

“I couldn’t find him,” he said. Feeling me freeze up, he added quickly, “I haven’t really had a chance to look. If they had done anything to him, they would have made sure we could see him. All of this activity has probably scared him. I’m sure he’s just hiding. Maybe you shouldn’t do this yet.”

“I want to look for Cody. I’ll be okay.”

Somehow I made it past the front steps. Once I was inside and away from where I could see that porch, I was better off. There were cops everywhere; I noticed Lieutenant Carlson talking to Jake Matsuda, one of Frank’s friends in Homicide. Frank watched them, but didn’t participate or comment. I wondered if it was hard on him, but he seemed to take it in stride. He told me they had found signs of a forced entry at the back door. So much for my new lock.

Matsuda walked over and asked me to look around to see if anything was missing. The first thing I noticed was that Sammy’s clothes and journal were gone from the couch. I casually looked around the rest of the house before glancing over at Frank.

Reading his face, I knew he hadn’t said anything yet about the clothes and journal, that he was waiting for me to give out whatever information I had on my own. He was trusting me. I was grateful.

“As far as I can tell,” I said to Jake, “my cat is missing, and some items I had brought here from Casa de Esperanza earlier today. I went to the shelter to pick up some clothes and a journal belonging to a young girl who had been staying there. They’ve been taken from my couch. She ran off from the shelter a few days ago, but she’s contacted me by phone twice. I wanted to try to find out where she might have gone.”

Before Jake could ask me more, a startled look crossed his face. I turned and saw Captain Bredloe walking toward us. “Hello, Frank, Miss Kelly,” he said easily. Bredloe doesn’t usually get involved in investigations at this level, and so it was surprising to see him there.

I thought there might be animosity between Frank and Bredloe, but if there was, they weren’t letting it show. “Don’t let me interrupt,” he said to Jake, who nervously glanced over to where Carlson stood talking to a forensics man, then back to me.

“You said some clothes and a journal belonging to a young runaway were taken tonight?” Jake asked.

I explained the whole Sammy story to him, starting with Jacob’s contact with me and ending with that evening, leaving out only the fact that Frank had known about my activities for a few hours. He had enough problems with the department.

Bredloe exhaled loudly when I finished. “Why didn’t you contact us about the girl? I suppose you’re aware that what you’ve done isn’t exactly legal?”

“Are you going to press charges?”

“I ought to.”