Synopsis:
Still recovering from injuries sustained in her last murder investigation, reporter Irene Kelly dutifully hobbles back to work, only to get lured into another case of murder and mayhem. On her very first day back, Irene is “welcomed” by a threatening bit of fan mail from someone who calls himself “Thanatos” — the ancient Greek name for “Death.” Though Irene shrugs it off as a prank, she soon learns to take Thanatos at his word. As Thanatos’ letters keep coming, each cleverly wrapped in mythological puzzles, the bodies mount — as does the tension in southern California’s beach community of Las Piernas. Unwilling to be a pawn in a killer’s deadly game, Irene Kelly knows she must take action. Taunted by phone calls and deadly threats from a killer known only to her as Thanatos, Irene ignores warnings from her worried fiance, homicide detective Frank Harriman, and embarks on her most dangerous case yet. As Irene unravels the clues to the case — each one embedded in ancient riddles and mythic puzzles — Thanatos watches her every move with a fascination that brings him too close for comfort. Yet Irene will stop at nothing to unveil the true identity of this genius of death, even if it means playing into the hands of a killer who is determined to make her part of his deadly destiny.
DEAR IRENE
Jan Burke
The third book in the Irene Kelly series
Copyright © 1995 by Jan Burke
For My Husband,
Timothy Burke,
who is one in a gazillion.
All my words are paupers at your door,
begging you to know what they cannot express.
1
I crumpled that one into a ball and spiked Pigskin right into the round file — and did it all left-handed. But after a moment, I pulled the letter back out of the trash. Setting aside my generally rotten mood that day, I decided Pigskin might be of help with this year’s office football pool.
Going through my mail that Wednesday afternoon in late November, I had already sorted out the flyers on meetings and the invitations to local political wingdings. That left only the pile of the envelopes which were less easily identified. Some were handwritten, some typed, some bore computer-generated labels. Few had return addresses.
I was unfazed by these unflattering descriptions of my internal organs. I admit that I was a little distracted, not paying much attention to the occasional crank among my readers’ correspondence. My mail isn’t always as oddball as it was that day, but the approach of certain major holidays seems to make nut cases reach for their stationery.
Most are harmless, lonely people who just need
Lydia Ames laughed as she read that one over my shoulder. She works at the paper as an ACE, or Assistant City Editor. “Going to show that one to your fiance?”
I gave her my best scowl. She’s known me since third grade, so she wasn’t much intimidated. She really delighted in that word “fiance.” Like a lot of other people I know, she’s spent a number of years wondering if I would ever give her any reason to use it. I had been getting a lot of this “fiance” stuff lately; given the way Frank Harriman had proposed, I doubt we could have managed a secret engagement.
As if thinking about the very same thing, Lydia looked down at the new cast my orthopedist had just put on my right foot that afternoon. “Did you save the ‘Marry me, Irene’ cast?”
“My
She caught my tone. “I guess you’re really disappointed about having to wear another one.”
“Yeah, I am. I hobbled in there with visions of being free of these damned things and look how I ended up.”
“Well, at least you’re out of the sling, and the doctor did take the cast off your right hand.”
“And replaced it with a splint.”
“A removable splint.”
“Terrific. He walks in and announces, ‘So today we’ll give you a new foot cast! This one will be easier to walk with! It’s made of fiberglass!’ Acting like I’d won a Rolls-Royce in a church raffle.”
She didn’t say anything.
