15

THE PHONE WAS RINGINGwhen we came into the house. Cody was yowling and rubbing along my ankles as I tried to make my way to answer it. The dogs were barking greetings, and Frank went to let them in. Cody sniffed at my shoes with utter fascination. I slipped them off quickly as I lifted the receiver.

“Irene? This is Claire.” There was a pause, then she added, “Have I called at a bad time?”

The dogs had stopped barking, but Frank was saying, “Down, get down,” in the background as they let us know how happy they were to have us return.

“That’s only our welcoming committee,” I said, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel into my voice. “We just walked in the door.”

“You have pets?”

“At the moment, about three too many. What can I do for you?”

“I found the information on the boat. We bought it in 1974 and sold it in 1977. Does that help?”

“And Ben never went out on the boat with Andre after he sold it to him?”

“No, but why does that matter?”

“You said he burned a photocopy of a picture of your old boat. It helps me to determine when the picture was taken. If Ben never went out on the boat after it was sold, the photo was taken sometime between 1974 and 1977.”

“But couldn’t Lucas Monroe tell you more about the photo, anyway?”

“Claire-I should tell you…” But I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak. Or swallow. Or breathe. Claire said nothing. Frank stopped petting the dogs.

“Irene?” he said. The dogs, Cody, and Frank all looked at me expectantly. I closed my eyes.

“I should tell you,” I began again, “that Lucas is dead. We found his body a few hours ago.”

For several long moments, neither of us said anything. I listened to Frank building a fire in the fireplace.

“I’m sorry,” Claire said. “He was your friend.”

“It’s strange,” I said. “You were right. I don’t know who he had become. Haven’t really known him for years now-I lost track of him a long time ago. Our lives obviously went in very different directions, but at one time we were friends. And I know he wanted to talk to me. The last time I saw him, he said, ‘You could help me-’”

“Now you’ve lost the chance,” she said, filling in the silence. “Yes, I know.”

I figured she did know. “I respected Lucas,” I said after a moment. “That hasn’t changed.”

“He was young, wasn’t he?” she said.

I answered the real question. “The cause of death hasn’t been determined. The coroner hasn’t given an opinion yet.”

“Coroner? Was Lucas killed?”

“Hard to say. It will take some time. We found the body in an abandoned hotel. The coroner doesn’t even know how long Lucas has been dead.”

“This must all be very difficult for you.”

“Look, I’m still going to try to learn about the photographs.”

“If you want to drop it, I won’t be angry with you.”

“No. Tell me you won’t give up on this, Claire.”

“Oh, I can’t, Irene. And now, I suspect, neither can you.”

WE TALKED A LITTLE LONGER, moving to safer subjects as she asked me about our dogs and Cody. Just before we said good-bye, she said, “Oh, I just thought of something. Ben kept calendars. Should I look for the ones from those years?”

“Calendars-you mean, something like appointment books?”

“Yes, only more detailed.”

“Well, yes,” I said, trying not to let my hopes soar. “I think they would be very helpful.”

As I hung up, I turned to see that Frank had dragged all of our pillows and blankets out of the bedroom-and apparently from the linen closet as well-and arranged them in front of the fireplace. He had changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, and was mixing drinks.

“Are you building a fort?” I asked, studying the pile of bedding.

“Yes,” he said, “and here’s the ammo.” He handed me a Myers’s with a spot of orange juice in it, took up a scotch and water, then led me to the pillows and blankets. The dogs and Cody gathered around as I downed the drink. It was a stiff one, and I felt it burn its way from my throat to my chest.

Frank watched me, took the empty glass, and set it aside.

He pulled the blankets and pillows around us, dogs and cat protesting but resettling. He held my head on his shoulder and stroked my hair. I didn’t start crying until he said, “Whatever you do, don’t cry on my fort.”

IAWOKE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, vaguely aware of troubling dreams. It was a relief to hear Frank’s soft snoring. My thoughts soon turned to Lucas, and the fact that his family might not even know he was dead. Where was his family? I thought of the envelopes Claire had shown me.

Frank murmured something unintelligible as I got out of bed, but he fell right back to sleep. Cody followed me into the living room. I picked up the phone and dialed long-distance information for area code 909.

“City and listing?” a voice said.

“Riverside. Last name Monroe.”

“First name or initial?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, there are a large number of listings under the last name Monroe. I’ll have to have a first name.”

“Try Lucas.”

I heard the clacking of computer keys, then, “Sorry, no listing.”

THE NEXT MORNING, Frank escaped the house only after I badgered him into promising me that he’d find out if the family had been contacted. He called me at work to say that it would take a little time, since Lucas hadn’t given the shelter any information on his relatives.

That’s why, throughout the rest of the morning, whenever John wasn’t cruising by my desk in the newsroom, I was pulling a Riverside phone directory out of my desk drawer and hiding it on my lap.

After Frank’s call, I had skulked over and snatched the directory from the bookcase near Stuart Angert’s desk. It wasn’t Stuart’s bookcase; the items in it were for the use of the entire newsroom. But given John’s warnings and a lack of brotherly love among some of my coworkers, I didn’t especially want anyone keeping track of what I was doing. Bad enough that Stuart had returned to his desk, seen the gap in the directories, and glanced around the newsroom. His glance settled on me, picking me out the way Sister Mary Joseph used to be able to pick me out of a crowd of identically dressed Catholic girls whenever someone had pulled a prank on a nun. I smiled, he smiled back, and I knew that if he had indeed guessed what I was up to, he was one of the few people who wouldn’t rat on me.

On my twenty-third call to a Riverside Monroe, a woman answered the phone, and there was just enough of a pause before she said, “Nobody here by that name,” to make me call back after she hung up in my ear. I got an answering machine this time.

“This is Irene Kelly of theLas Piernas News-Express. I knew Lucas in college. I need to talk to you about him. Please. It’s very important. Call me at the paper, or later at home. Call collect. But please call me.” I left the 800 number for the paper and my home number.

I hung up, then stared at the phone for a few moments, willing it to ring. Nothing.

In between absolutely fruitless calls to my city hall contacts about the resignation of Allan Moffett, I also made twenty-six additional calls to other Monroes in Riverside. Either they weren’t home or they didn’t know a Lucas. I chatted with a couple of the more lonely Monroes, left messages for others.

Still, the only one I made a note of was number twenty-three: J. Monroe, no address.

The day had turned the corner past noon, the hours were galloping toward deadline, and I didn’t have a thing written up. I could have blamed all the Monroes in Riverside or the people in city hall for my frustration, but I knew what was really irritating me. I wasn’t working on the story I wanted to work on-at least, not from the right angle.