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Goodnight, Irene |  |
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Goodnight, Irene | |
For thirty-five years the identity of the dismembered woman found under the Las Piernas pier has remained a mystery. What secret did she take to her grave? Southern California reporter Irene Kelly has uncovered a maze of forensic records and confidential files that suggest a motive far more sinister than anyone imagined. The discovery has brought her close to Detective Frank Harriman, and closer still to exposing a killer who will resort to anything to keep his secrets buried -- and Irene silenced forever.
作者简介 Jan Burke is the recipient of the Edgar Award, the Macavity Award, the Agatha Award, and the Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine Readers Award. She lives in Southern California with her husband, Tim, and her two dogs.
文摘
Chapter One
He loved to watch fat women dance. I guess O'Connor's last night on the planet was a happy one because that night he had an eyeful of the full-figured.
We had gone out that Saturday night for a drink at Banyon's, and somehow an honest-to-God bevy of bulging beauties had ended up in the same place. O'Connor never got up and danced with any of these women himself; I'm not sure he really would have enjoyed being the dancer as much as he did just watching them swing and sway with amazing grace. I don't think he heard a word I said all evening, which is just as well, since I was only grousing on a well-worn set of subjects. He just sat there, with an expression crossbred between reverence and desire, whenever some big old gal got up to shake and shimmy.
O'Connor and I had managed to remain friends through one of the ugliest divorces in the state of California -- the divorce of his son, Kenny, and my older sister, Barbara. We were friends before their romance started and we both thought it was doomed from the word go. My sister has been a glutton for lousy relationships for years, so no surprise there. But I'm still mystified about how a great-hearted guy like O'Connor could have had anything to do with the gene pool of a nasty little bastard like Kenny.
My guess was that O'Connor's ex-wife was a real harpy, even though he never talked about her to me. Barbara told me they had split up when Kenny was a baby. Kenny had lived with his mother until he was fourteen, at which time she had packed him up like worn-out clothing and sent him to live with O'Connor -- no note, no warning, just a call saying the kid was coming in on a flight from Phoenix that afternoon. She had taken off for parts unknown -- no one had heard from her for years afterward.
The dancing ladies called it a night, and we decided to do the same. As I drove him home, he started telling Irish jokes, a sure sign he'd had a few too many. The jokes were old, but
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