Jan Burke - Remember Me, Irene

“Carlos is pretty certain on that one, you know. Lots of people wanted to implicate your friend Claire-rich young widows don’t get a lot of genuine sympathy. The note, the powder residue on Ben Watterson’s hand, the angle of bullet wound-lots of other things make that one hard to question.”

I shrugged. “Claire just admitted to me today that he was subject to depression-although she immediately minimized it. You think about Ben, how he usually did business, the reputation he had built. A leading citizen in every sense of the word. But if Lucas could prove that Ben knew Andre’s studies were phony, Ben’s reputation would go into the toilet.”

“And the confidence of the bank’s board of directors would probably go right with it.”

“Yes.”

“‘There is no cure.’ Isn’t that what the note said?”

“Yes. And he added something about avoiding days of pain.”

“What about McCutchen?” Frank asked.

“Ivy said he used drugs and alcohol, left notes, looked like a very depressed individual when he visited her-a loner whose closest friend had run off with his girlfriend-and he made her say something that he referred to in his note. I guess it’s hard to question. But just to make sure…”

“Yeah, I’ll look into it.”

“Thanks. One other thing.”

He raised a brow. “Just one?”

“For now. Seeing Becky reminded me of it. If Andre Selman didn’t have his heart medication with him, maybe it’s because he gave it to someone else.”

“Hmm. You think he slipped heart medication to Lucas?”

“Admit it’s possible.”

“Andre climbed all those flights of stairs with a heart condition?”

“No. He didn’t have to. He just had to give the thermos to Lucas.”

“Lucas wouldn’t be very trusting of Andre, would he?”

“Probably not. Still, I think Lucas was seeing all of those guys who were hanging out with Moffett. I’m not sure what he said to them. Maybe he was trying to work his twelve-step program this way-you know, forgiving people. Maybe he was blackmailing them. So what if, on a cold night, someone makes a peace offering. A thermos full of nice hot coffee?”

“I’ll talk to Carlos. He’s undoubtedly asked them to look for those kinds of drugs in the toxicology screen.”

I sighed and leaned my head back. “Thanks, Frank.”

“Don’t thank me. Theories are one thing, proof another. Conviction…well, don’t get me started.”

I thought he would head home then, but he took another detour and headed up the highest hill in Las Piernas, a hill that leads to a place called Auburn’s Stand.

Auburn’s Stand is what locals call the hill itself, but it’s actually the name of a house that a rich guy owns. Halfway up the road to the house, there’s a turnout that faces the ocean. Las Piernas becomes a sea of lights from this vantage point, which was the really hot makeout spot when I was in high school. Not that I was ever taken there, but I drove up there once during my junior year and had some pretty great daydreams about this guy who was a couple of years ahead of me in school. That was before the road was closed, and before the kid got drafted.

These days, the road is private, and to get to the turnout, you have to pass a security guard at a gate. So making out on Auburn’s Stand has gone downhill, you might say.

We drove right up to the gate, though, and when the security guard stuck his gray head out of his booth, Frank rolled down the window and said, “Hi, Mackie. How have you been?”

Mackie smiled and said, “Not bad for an old coot. Long time no see, Harriman. Never expected to see you here this time of night. How’s it hang-ooops, didn’t see your lady friend there. Come back and talk to me some other time, Harriman.”

The gate arm lifted and we drove through. Frank waved and rolled the window back up.

“You know I’m going to ask,” I said.

He smiled. “Mackie’s a retired cop. You know the guy who owns this place?”

I nodded. “Garth Williams. I like him.”

“Me, too. He’s good to Mackie.”

“So are we going to find a bunch of squad cars parked at the old turnout?”

“How do you know about the turnout?” he asked.

“I grew up here, remember?”

THE TURNOUT WAS EMPTY. We had the best seats in the house.

“Tell me you aren’t a regular,” I said, and he laughed.

“Not a regular. This is the first time I’ve been here to do something other than roust teenagers.”

“Ah. Must have been patrolman days.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

This sounded serious all of a sudden, so I waited.

“Let’s get into the backseat,” he said.

I want it said in my eulogy that I was a good sport.

From the backseat, the view was still spectacular, and we got to sit closer. He had an arm around me, I had my head on his shoulder, and he felt big and warm and almost perfect. But just when I thought he might lean down and kiss me, he said in a dreamy voice, “Remember Bakersfield?”

“Who could forget it?”

He looked at me as if he was trying to figure out if I was being sarcastic. “I meant, when we first met.”

“So did I.”

“We were attracted to each other, right?”

“Yes.” The windows were starting to fog up, and I wanted to undo his buttons. But I didn’t. He’s being serious, I reminded myself.

“Well, tonight-listening to your friends? For the first time, I understood why I could never get to first base with you back then.”

“Forgive me, Frank, but I don’t remember an attempt to step up to the plate. After a while, I figured you thought of me as your sister.”

That got a laugh. “No way. But give me credit for knowing that any move on you then would have been the wrong move. I always figured someone must have mistreated you. Someone had hurt you. You never talked about it, though.”

“After Andre, I felt ashamed of myself.” I shifted closer to him. “I got over it. But you’re right-I was really attracted to you, but I didn’t trust myself then. The last time I had been attracted to someone, it hadn’t worked out so well.”

“So, like I said, no first base. I might have taken you up to a place like this.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I was too shy around you in those days.”

I took his face in my hands and said, “It’s the top of the first, Frank Harriman. Play ball!”

THE HOUSE WAS DARKwhen we got home. Jack was asleep on our couch, surrounded by animals. The dogs wagged their tails, waking him. He smiled sleepily, said he was going home, and walked back next door without another word.

We went straight to bed, tired and happy.

Edison Burrows called way too early in the morning-about five o’clock-but I managed to roust myself out of bed and arranged to meet him in an hour at the beach parking lot where I had last seen his son.

I was putting a piece of bread in the toaster when I noticed the glass bowl covering the note, the pager next to it. Through the bottom of the bowl, I saw these typewritten words:

Mr. Watterson,

This is a copy of a note Jeffrey McCutchen left for me just before he killed himself. I didn’t know what it meant then, but I think I understand it now. It might take me some time to convince others. Why don’t you save me the trouble? There is no point in fighting this; I won’t give up.

You were very generous to me once before. This photo proves I have not forgotten that.

“Frank!”

He came bounding out of the bedroom, half-asleep. “What?”

“Didn’t mean to alarm you.”

He rubbed a hand over his face. “What’s wrong?”

“This note-it fell out of Ben’s calendar. I think it’s the one Lucas sent him with the picture!”