He hadn’t even asked her last name, he realized.
Except to reprimand himself for dishonoring his sister’s memory, he forgot about Vera. He concentrated on trying to find some lead in Maureen’s murder. The owner of the orange grove was an old woman, nearly blind, who was so upset over the discovery of the remains on her property, her grown children feared for her health. No one had worked in the grove through every year of the disappearances, and police were convinced that none of the workers had any idea of the grave’s existence. The other two bodies might not have been identified if O’Connor had not previously brought attention to the similarities in the women’s disappearances. Maureen’s body was fully clothed. One of the detectives said to O’Connor that he could be relieved about that, because the other two were buried nude.
Corrigan, who had been tipped off about the discovery in the grove before O’Connor, had gone with him to the police department. He had watched O’Connor as the detective told him these and other details. Jack finally told the man to shut the hell up.
A young detective just making his way up through the ranks, Dan Norton, was kindest to him, and kept in touch with him long after others in the department began avoiding him-as the likelihood of solving the cases seemed more and more remote, the less welcome his unanswerable questions were to them.
Norton told O’Connor that he didn’t think all three women were necessarily killed by the same person.
“Why do you believe that?”
“The coroner found similar fractures on each of the other women’s skeletons-a kind of ritual, you might say, something that indicates they were tortured.”
O’Connor went pale.
“Conn, the other two. Bad, I know, but at least your sister was spared that, as far as anyone can tell. We didn’t find those same fractures on Maureen. She was clothed. There were other differences. Things like that make me wonder. Guesswork on my part, and it still leaves the big question of how killer number two knew about the grave. Seems to me either he saw one of those burials, or killer number one squawked.”He paused, and added, “I swear to you I won’t let this case go, and you can call me and ask me about it anytime. I like you and I like Jack, but if you’re going to keep covering the crime beat, and you don’t want to find guys ducking out of here when you walk in the door, forget asking anyone else if they’ve made any progress on the case. For some of these guys, it’s like being handed an ‘F’ on a report card on a daily basis. Truth is, we don’t know much and we may never know much. That’s hard to hear, I know, but I’m not going to feed you bullshit just to make myself look good.”
It was hard to hear. It was also the beginning of a friendship.
Within two months of Maureen’s funeral, O’Connor’s father died of a stroke. One day not long after that, O’Connor’s mother invited him to come by the house that evening. He saw her as often as possible, worried that all the losses were becoming too much for her to bear. That night she sent Alma off to see a movie and had a quiet dinner with her son, talking to him of his job at the paper. After they had washed the dishes, she sat down next to him, took his hand, and said, “I’m selling the house, Conn, and going home. Alma’s said she’ll come, too.”
He knew that there was only one place she had ever considered to be home, but still, he was shocked by this announcement. “All the way to Ireland? But this is where-”
“This is where you’re at home. It’s a fine place for most, perhaps, but I’ve lost too much here. I don’t blame the whole country for what’s happened to us, but I won’t live with ghosts. I can’t walk past the corner without thinking of Maureen. God knows I can’t live in this house without thinking of your poor father and all he suffered.” She paused. “That’s why I packed up all your sister’s things, Connor. I think somehow I knew.”
He said nothing.
She sighed. “If you want Maureen’s things, lad, you may have them. I’ll not be taking them with me.”
“Yes, thank you.” He took his hand from hers and put his arm around her shoulders. “Lord, I’ll miss you so.”
She began to cry. “I know there’s no sense asking if you’ll come with me…”
He shook his head. “Not as long as her killer is free.”
She pulled a clean handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and wiped her eyes. “Well, you must come to see us, then. And…if they should learn anything…about Maureen…”
“I’ll tell you straight away.”
A month later he got a call at the paper from Vera. He nearly did not remember who she was, until she said, “We met in April.” She named the day of his sister’s funeral. “Remember?”
“Yes, I remember,” he said quietly.
There was a pause. “Look, I’m living in Las Vegas now. I’m just in Las Piernas for a few days. Let’s have lunch together.”
He hesitated. “It occurs to me that I don’t even know your last name.”
“Smith,” she said, and laughed. “True fact.”
“Look, Miss Smith-”
“It’s extremely important that you meet me for lunch, Mr. O’Connor,” she said firmly, all the laughter gone from her voice now.
“All right.”
They met at Big Sarah’s diner. It was a hell of a place, he thought later, to be told you were about to become a father.
“I won’t demand you marry me,” she said. “It’s just that I’d like some help.”
He thought of how he had felt on the morning after Maureen’s funeral, his feelings of having betrayed his sister’s memory by sleeping with this woman. But he also remembered that Vera had comforted him, and until now, she had asked for nothing. What should I do, Maureen? he asked silently.
A strange feeling came over him, a feeling he was too Irish to ignore. It was as if everything inside him that had been in turmoil for these past five years grew quiet and calm. At a moment when he had every excuse to feel confused and unsure and panicked, he found instead that he knew exactly what he must do.
He studied Vera for a moment, then said, “I’ll marry you.”
She looked taken aback. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I won’t have my son or daughter raised a bastard. If you don’t want to live with me, fine. If you think I’m going to ask you for…for anything else, I won’t.” He paused. “What kind of situation are you in that you can think of living openly as an unmarried woman with a child?”
“I can tell people I’m a widow. The Korean War, I’ll say. There aren’t so few widows around these days that one more will attract much attention. Besides, suppose you meet some woman you really want to marry, and you’re tied to me?”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
He was silent.
“I can see there’s no use trying to talk you out of that prediction. Okay- suppose I meet someone else?”
“Then we can divorce, but if the man you marry has any prejudice against the child, the child will come to live with me.”
“Divorce! I thought you were Catholic.”
“I am, and I wouldn’t like it, but I won’t father a child and not give it my name. That would be worse.”
They argued for a while. He was sober now and more than able to hold his own in a verbal battle. He found himself admiring her ability to do the same. In the end, after setting down several conditions of her own, she capitulated.
They would meet at city hall the next day, witnesses in tow.
When he got back to the paper, he tried to concentrate on the story he was writing and could barely do so. The newsroom was always a noisy place-a mixture of the clatter of keys being struck, the ching of typewriter bells ringing at the end of each line, the zip of carriage returns. The sounds of pages pulled free, the shuffling of thin layers of carbon paper between sheets of cheap copy paper. Voices calling “Copyboy!” The low chug-chug-chug of
