Jan Burke - Remember Me, Irene

“Lisa, Lisa,” I said softly. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She raised her head and rubbed her palm against her eyes, saying, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. This has been such a rotten week! My whole life is falling apart. Why did my father have to be such an asshole?”

“Come on, let’s go inside. We’ll hunt down a clean patch of floor and sit down and talk.”

“Thanks. I knew you’d see me. You’re so loyal to your friends, aren’t you?”

I glanced up toward the top of the hotel. “Not always,” I said, “but I’m glad I can be here for you.”

She followed my glance and said, “Oh, I love these old buildings! I’ll bet the view from the top of this one is fantastic.”

“Probably not what it once was, but it’s not bad. The top floor has a lot of windows facing the ocean, and if you sit up there in the right spot, you can see the water.”

“Can we go up there?”

I hesitated. I had planned to go up there anyway, but only after I had talked with her. But other than having to climb the stairs twice, I couldn’t think of a reason not to take her there. Nothing was out where she’d see it.

“I’m sorry, that was inconsiderate of me,” she said. “If you don’t think you can handle the stairs…”

“I can handle them,” I said quickly. But when I looked at her now, she was smiling mischievously. I sighed. “You’re baiting me, Lisa.”

She laughed. “Yes. But I really do want to see the view.”

IN THE LOBBY, she became introspective, slowly walking past the fountain, mosaic, and murals, quietly admiring our heavenly hosts. Keene’s tale too fresh in my mind, I was anxious to move on. We began the trip upstairs.

As we reached the fourth-floor landing, the jingle of keys in my purse reminded me that the front door was closed, but unlocked, and the gate was wide open. I tried to tell myself that we wouldn’t be upstairs very long, but even to my own ears, it sounded like an excuse whose parents were claustrophobia and laziness. I couldn’t bring myself to risk vandalism to all the hard work done by Keene’s kids, and headed down to the lobby.

Lisa could have waited in the stairwell, but she came along as I secured the gate and the front door, and made no complaint as we started up the stairs again. We didn’t talk much on the way up, but by the time we came to the room at the top, she seemed less tense. She looked around with curiosity, marveled at the green glass doors, the carved bar, the view. “You would never expect this to be up here, would you?” she said.

I tucked the envelopes, my purse, and the flashlight on a shelf beneath the bar. I walked over to the windows where I now believed Lucas had spent at least part of one late rainy night. Ben’s suicide had made headlines that morning. Did Lucas sit here wondering if he had been in some way responsible for the banker’s death? On a clear day, Catalina would have been visible from this place. But the promised rain clouds were slowly rolling in, and you could barely see the oil islands, let alone any place beyond the breakwater. I wondered if the clouds would make it darker sooner.

Behind me, I could hear her shoes on the wooden floor as she explored the room. She walked over to the crate, turned her head to one side, and said, “What are you really doing here?”

Part of the truth wouldn’t hurt, I decided. “Lucas died in this hotel. I guess I wanted to see what he saw before he died.”

Her face grew solemn. She nodded. “You’ve reminded me of why I want to see you.” She sighed deeply, moved the crate a little, and sat on it. She pulled off the backpack, opened it, and pulled out a folder.

“This was in a box in the attic,” she said, and handed it to me.

“What is it?”

“Take a look.”

I opened the folder. Surveys. Typewritten pages-just like the ones I had been shown by Edison Burrows. I held them up to the light, looked at them more closely. Lucas’s pages.

“Do you know what they are?” I asked.

“They are proof of Andre’s dishonesty,” she said.

“How do they prove it?” I asked, wanting to know what she knew and what she had just guessed at.

“They were in a box labeled ‘Monroe.’ I was trying to move some boxes, to find some old books I had stored up there. I found a box full of raw data and typewritten notes and statistical calculations. It’s the type of thing I work with all the time, of course-I do almost all of Barton’s demographics work. So I was curious. And then the significance of the name on the box struck me. I thought about the fact that Lucas Monroe used to work for Andre.”

“You know that Andre was on Lucas’s thesis committee, Lisa. And Lucas did work for him on the redevelopment study. Wouldn’t it be natural for him to have Lucas’s data?”

“You don’t trust me, do you?”

It took me aback.

“I understand,” she said. “Lucas is dead, although I thought that was from a heart attack. And Roberta-all for nothing!”

“What do you mean?”

She bit her lower lip, then said, “You keep treating me like someone who can’t understand the simplest things. Becky told me when I went to the hospital. Said that someone broke into Roberta’s office and clubbed her on the back of the head, but that nothing was missing from the office.”

“Nothing was missing? I hadn’t heard that,” I said. “I would imagine that would be hard to determine without Roberta’s help.”

“I meant, no equipment or anything obvious. At least, that’s what Becky said.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t know how he’s managing it from a hospital bed, but I know Andre is behind this. I know it.”

“What makes you say that?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Andre faked data for his first redevelopment study. I’m close to proving it. I thought you’d want the story. I thought I could come to you, and you would see the importance of this, the significance, and Andre and his circle of friends could be stopped.”

“You can prove he faked the statistics?”

“A few key papers are missing. I’m still looking through the things Andre has hidden in the closet, but they don’t seem to be there. But I’ll find them. I’m determined to. And I can tell you this much already: Andre is an academic fraud. His career as a scholar is built on a foundation of lies that started with this study. He’s a phony.”

“He’s your father.”

“Meaning?”

“You don’t care about him, do you? You really don’t.”

“Why should I?”

“He paid the bills, if nothing else.”

“Ill-gotten gains.”

“He gave you a love of sociology.”

“His love of it is a fake! It’s as fake as the rest of him. It’s a field that studies human society, relationships, mores-what does he know about any of those things?”

“Enough to win the esteem of his colleagues. Enough to give you a big boost in your own career.”

“You defend him again!”

I thought back to the conversation I’d had with Keene not an hour before. I looked out of the window, to the sky and sea. Muted gray. Not this.

“No, I do not defend him. I could use your help. I just don’t want you to give it thoughtlessly. I couldn’t forgive myself for taking advantage of your anger toward him, no matter how easy it would make my job. You mean too much to me, Lisa.”

Tears welled up in her eyes. “I believe you. I swear to you, Irene, this isn’t something I take lightly. I want you to know that. This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do in my life.”

I took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. I still didn’t feel right about allowing her to help me bring down her own father, but I was pretty sure my apprehensions went back to treating Lisa as a child. Her relationship with her father wasn’t typical. I had to keep that in mind.