Bloodlines (Irene Kelly Series #9)

Bloodlines (Irene Kelly Series #9)

by Jan Burke


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Edgar® Award winner Jan Burke continues her USA Today bestselling Irene Kelly series with a suspense-laced novel of buried secrets, old friends, and new dangers — in "a brilliant exhibition of what the crime genre can offer" (The Baltimore Sun). Sweeping across decades, Burke masterfully unearths a cold case that is far from closed while introducing an intrepid novice reporter, Irene Kelly, learning the ropes from her mentor, Conn O'Connor. From the late fifties, when a bloodstained car is buried on a farm and a wealthy family disappears at sea . . . to the seventies, when Irene makes shocking connections and brashly tracks a killer from the past . . . to today, when new threats and deadly surprises are closing in on the veteran journalist and her husband, Frank Harriman, Bloodlines follows a fascinating labyrinth of lives, loves, sins, and secrets — with the irrepressible Irene Kelly at its core.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780743223904
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Publication date: 01/04/2005
Series: Irene Kelly Series , #9
Pages: 480
Product dimensions: 6.30(w) x 9.62(h) x 1.34(d)

About the Author

Jan Burke is the author of a dozen novels and a collection of short stories. She is the founder of the Crime Lab Project and is a member of the board of the California Forensic Science Institute. She lives in Southern California with her husband and two dogs. Learn more about her at

Date of Birth:

August 1, 1953

Place of Birth:

Houston, Texas

Read an Excerpt


An Irene Kelly Novel
By Jan Burke

Simon & Schuster

Copyright © 2005 Jan Burke
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-7432-2390-X

Chapter One

My hero is an asshole."

"Irene ..." Lydia said in mild protest.

I said it sadly, not as a declaration of pride. I did not deliberately choose an asshole to be my hero. I discovered he was one in the way most of us make such discoveries: I got to know him.

Lydia, a friend since childhood, knew that I spoke of none other than Connor O'Connor.

At a distance, over years of reading my morning newspaper, I had come to admire O'Connor more than any other journalist, and that included Mr. Woodward and Mr. Bernstein. I was in J-school during the Watergate years, so that's saying a lot.

Both Lydia and I wanted to become reporters long before Watergate, and there was never any doubt in my mind that the newspaper I most wanted to work for was the Las Piernas News Express. The Express was the first newspaper I read - my father read its funny pages to me before I learned to read, then helped me with the big words when I started reading the articles themselves. By the end of grade school, I began looking for stories written by O'Connor, because I knew they would be good ones. I wanted to be like him.

When Lydia and I were in the fourth grade, we cajoled our neighbors into buying subscriptions to a self-produced newspaper thatlasted one issue - Sister Mary Michael, catching us in the act of surreptitiously using the school's ditto machine for edition number two, suspended publication.

We were on the school newspaper together in junior high, high school, and college. She was often an editor. That was fine with me. I just wanted to be a reporter, to write like the man who had inspired this dream, whose words had lured me into my career. O'Connor.

The asshole.

"He's not, really," Lydia said.

I just shook my head.

"Well, I will admit you have a reason to be upset," she said.

Of course I had a reason to be upset. The legendary O'Connor had just stabbed me in the back.

"Would you be happier over in features?" Lydia asked.

I glared at her.

"No," she said. "Stupid thing to ask."

"You should be working in news, and we both know it."

"I don't want to have to deal with what you're putting up with," she said.

She meant the hazing I was experiencing in the newsroom.

My first job after college didn't take me to the Express. The Express only had openings in features, not news. My first question on any job interview was, "Do women cover hard news for this paper?" The answer was seldom an unqualified "Yes." At the Express, the answer was, "Once upon a time we did, but not now. Maybe someday, if we like your work in features, we'll give you a shot at it."

Someday wasn't soon enough, so I went to Bakersfield, where there was an opening in news on the Californian. As an added benefit, I could get away from the embarrassment I felt when I was dumped by a creep I had dated in college - the number-one inductee in my Dating Hall of Shame.

Lydia stayed in Las Piernas and took a job in features. Not so many years earlier, the features section was known as the "women's pages." Lydia wrote about cooking. The editor of the food section left the paper about eighteen months later, and the next thing you know, Lydia was promoted.

I'd been gone from Las Piernas for two years. Now I was back, and thanks in part to Lydia's help, I was able to land a job at the Express, too.

The first day I walked into the newsroom, I discovered with no surprise whatsoever that its occupants were almost all white (the sole exception: Mark Baker, who is black) and almost all old (I counted four who were under forty, and Mark was one of them). H.G., the city editor, was pushing sixty. He was a quiet, cynical man who smoked cheap cigars and whose rugged face seemed to have only two expressions: one indicated his usual state of unflappable, contemplative calm and the other mild, private amusement. He led me to my desk wearing the former and walked away wearing the latter. The cause of the change might have been the shock on the faces of his fellow newsmen. The leading caveman, who I later learned was known as Wildman Billy Winters, came up to me and said, "Honey, you're in the wrong room. Women write for features - down the hall."

I was ready to reply when the publisher, Mr. Winston Wrigley II, strode out of his office and said, "She's in the right room, Bill. And she's not the first woman to work here. Ask O'Connor - Helen Swan was one of his mentors. Ms. Kelly was taught by Helen - and Jack, too. That's more than good enough for me."

It took me a moment to recall that Helen Corrigan had been Helen Swan before she married. The journalism program at the college had three or four former staffers from the Express on the faculty. Helen was easily my favorite instructor at Las Piernas College.

Another favorite was Jack Corrigan, who had taught there, too. He had died of a stroke six months before I started working at the Express, while I was still up in Bakersfield. I hadn't learned of his death until after the funeral. Hardly able to talk for crying, I'd called Helen. She told me it was quick, that he had been among those he loved when it happened.

"Every morning after he turned fifty, the first thing Jack would say was, 'What a pleasant surprise,'" she said. "I suppose that was because he believed that anyone who had lived as hard as he did shouldn't take any new day for granted."

Thinking of her that first day in the newsroom of the Express, I vowed to find time to visit her.

My first weeks in the newsroom of the Express weren't especially happy ones. About a third of the men were openly hostile or patronizing. I heard the word "honey" more times than a beekeeper. Some, like Bill Winters, treated me as an occupying force, my desk a beachhead taken by the enemy. Others tried to pretend I was invisible. A few didn't seem to have any problem with it. Like H.G. and the news editor, John Walters, they were content to watch events unfold, and neither helped nor hindered me. That was fine. I figured anyone who didn't hinder me provided all the help I needed.

Then there were those who thought Winston Wrigley II had hired me to "improve the decor," as one of them put it - inveterate oglers, and generally the most repulsive guys in the building.

I wasn't held dear by most of the women staffers, either. I saw them every time I wanted to use the bathroom, because the newsroom of the Express had no women's room nearby. You didn't even need to step out into the hall to find a men's room. There was one right off the newsroom.

There were three women's bathrooms in the entire building: one downstairs, near classified advertising, where the staff taking calls for ads was entirely female; one upstairs, near the executive and business offices of the paper (where the typing pool and payroll clerks were female); a third on the same floor I worked on. Same floor, but reached through a maze of hallways, and at the far end of the large open room that housed the features department. It was as if whoever designed the building wanted to make sure that no one ever brought a tampon anywhere near the newsroom.

So I had to allow time for the hike when nature called, and it was easy to see that I was as much an outsider among the women in the features department as I was among the men in the newsroom. Whenever I entered this domain, there was a noticeable pause in the clatter of IBM Selectric typewriters all across the room. The faster a features reporter went back to typing, the more likely I thought we'd get along once the novelty of my situation wore off. Lydia was there, of course, but in those early days we went out of our way not to spend time together at the paper, so that we wouldn't be accused of being unprofessional or wasting company time. We seldom spoke more than a word or two of greeting to each other until after work. Later I learned that some of these women - most of whom had worked for the paper for several years - had previously tried to move over to the news side. They had been turned down. One more reason I was so popular.

I could have eased some of this, I'm sure, if I had gone drinking after work with the staff, or out to dinner with "the girls." The minute I was finished with work, though, I had to hurry home to my father.

I almost hadn't taken the job in the first place. I half-hoped Mr. Wrigley would tell me that he still didn't have a job opening for a woman in news, so that I could come back home to my dad and say, "I gave it my best shot, and it didn't work out, so I'm going to stay home and take care of you." But I'm not sure twenty-four hours a day of his rebellious daughter would have given my father much peace of mind, and my whole reason for coming back to Las Piernas - leaving behind a job I liked and a man I wanted to get to know better - was to make life easier for my father, to have time with him while I could. It did not seem likely that much time was left in that life.

My problems with O'Connor began on a Thursday, the day before I decided he was an asshole. Before then, he had merely been grim-faced and standoffish, but he was that way with everyone.

That Thursday, I had received permission from my city editor, H.G., to take a couple of hours off to take my dad to a doctor's appointment - a follow-up visit after his first major cancer surgery. Part of Dad's stomach was gone now, and he was weak and thin, but we were relieved: if the cancer had been worse, they would have taken the whole thing. He couldn't eat much, he got sick a lot. He slept most of the day.

He was alive. Recovering. I said this to myself whenever some insistent fear for him pushed its way into my thoughts. I said this to myself a lot.

I had an assignment that day, too, to cover a school board meeting. There are not many assignments that are lower level than school board meetings.

Despite delays at the doctor's office, I managed to get my dad back home before I needed to leave for the meeting. But the woman we had hired to care for him while I was at work called in sick. It wasn't the first time, and I wondered if I should just tell her not to bother coming back. The thought of going through the interviewing and hiring process again was so daunting, I put off making any plan of action for seeking a replacement for her.

I called my older sister, Barbara. She wasn't home. I reached her answering service - she has a business as an interior decorator. I left a message.

My father's voice, once so strong, able to command anything, called to me as not much more than a whisper. I hurried to his bedside.

"Barbara won't come here," he said. "It's because of your mother."

"Mom died twelve years ago. That's not much of an excuse for Barbara."

"Your mother died of cancer. Barbara's scared. Don't judge her so harshly."

"You think I'm not scared?"

"Oh, you are," he said softly. "And I'm sorry for that."

"Dad - I didn't mean to say ..."

"Hush. You've got more Kelly in you," he said, taking my hand, "so I know you'll be all right. That's why I called you."

We sat in silence. Probably nothing else in this life had cost my father's pride more than asking me to come back home from Bakersfield. That gave me some idea of how frightened he was himself. I swore a silent oath: I would stop bitching about Barbara to him.

"I'm just going to sleep," he said. "Don't worry about me. You go on to work."

"Dad, it's only a school board meeting -"

"It's your job. Go."

Able to command anything, even at a whisper.

"Call the paper if you need to reach me," I said.

"I will. I promise."

But just before I left, he got sick to his stomach again. He had managed to get out of bed, so the bedding was okay. I helped him change into new pajamas and cleaned up the floor. I didn't want to go, but he insisted that the next time he was sick he wouldn't be such a damned fool, and he'd use the plastic basin on his nightstand instead of trying to get up.

"Go on, now," he said, "do your work. I'll die of guilt if you stay here."

"Don't talk about dying. Not from anything," I said.


So I hurried to the meeting. I will admit that it did not hold my interest. My thoughts wandered to my own worries. I did manage to grasp the main issues under discussion. I rushed back to the paper.

I thought of calling my dad, but if he was asleep, I didn't want to wake him.

I called Barbara. I got the answering service again.

My father and I knew that Barbara would be fairly useless in this sort of crisis. Neither of us had expected her to develop an ability to vanish that would be the envy of a magician.

I wrote the story about the school board as quickly as I could. I got it in just before deadline. I went home.

My father was sick all night long. I dozed off on a chair in his room sometime before dawn. Barbara never returned my calls, but just as I finished dressing, I heard a car pull up in the drive. I looked out the window, expecting to see her Cadillac.

Instead, I saw a cherry red '68 Mustang convertible. The woman who got out of it looked with disdain at the car next to hers in the drive - my Karmann Ghia. Her long gray hair was plaited into a thick braid. She wore blue jeans and an embroidered denim shirt.

My father's aunt, Mary Kelly. I felt myself smile.

I opened the door and said, "What's a night owl like you doing out and about so early?"

"Why haven't you come by to see me? Never mind - I know the answer to that. Are you late to work?"

"Not yet."

"Patrick called me last night, told me his helper was sick. I thought he meant you. Glad to hear it was just that other one. I don't think she was good for him, anyway. Why don't I take over for her?"

"Mary, that's generous of you, but -"

"But nothing." She looked me directly in the eye and said, "I want the time with my nephew. Patrick is dear to me."

"I know he is," I said, returning the look. "But you argue with him."

"Of course I do. He needs someone to argue with - he's a Kelly."

"Not now he doesn't."

"Irene. Are you going to stand there and tell me that in the weeks you've been home, you haven't argued with him once?"

She had me there.

She smiled and said, "Thought so. You can trust me not to do him harm, Irene. You know that."

"Yes, I do. Thanks, Mary. If it's okay with Dad, I'd certainly appreciate it. It would be - a great relief."

"Prissy Pants isn't anywhere to be seen, I suppose."

"I do fear that one day you'll slip up and call Barbara that to her face."

There was a certain glint in Mary's eye that made me quickly add, "That was not a dare."

Mary laughed and said, "Go on to work, I'll mind things here."

As on many another occasion, I prematurely felt pleased to finally be out of the woods. The woods are surrounded by quicksand.


Excerpted from Bloodlines by Jan Burke Copyright © 2005 by Jan Burke. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Bloodlines (Irene Kelly Series #9) 4.3 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 13 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I love the Irene Kelly novels (and Jan Burke) and this one was terrific. I could not put it down. Three generations make it interesting and fast paced. Reading about O'conner as a child was a nice change and learning about Irene's start in the paper gives you a liitle more depth into her character. Keep them coming Ms. burke!
Guest More than 1 year ago
Bloodlines is an excellent read. Jan Burke is a phenomenal writer. Irene Kelly is awesome. Bloodlines keeps you interested right from the beginning and Jan Burke doesn't leave any loose ends. You can't help being draw in!
Guest More than 1 year ago
'Bones' was the very first Jan Burke book I read, and I've been hooked on the character Irene Kelly ever since. After 'Bones' I went back to the very first Kelly novel and read all of them. 'Bloodlines' is definitely another one of Burke's masterpiece.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In January 1958 thugs badly beat Jack Corrigan after he sees a farmer bury a car. Meanwhile the bodies of wealthy socialites Mr. and Mrs. Duchane wash up on the beach. Their son Todd, his wife Katy and her dog who were also on the yacht with them remain missing; their baby is kidnapped and the nurse is left for dead. Although Corrigan and his protégée reporter Conn O¿Connor work the case, they can¿t solve the crimes. In 1978, reporter Irene Kelly covers the groundbreaking of a shopping center when a car is uncovered. Inside the trunk are the remains of Katy, Todd and the dog. O¿Connor works with Irene to find evidence to bring the criminals to justice. When they get too close Irene and the man thought to be the Duchane heir are kidnapped and left to die. O¿Connor saves her and the kidnappers go to jail but again, the mastermind can¿t be implicated. In the present, Irene and her protégée are again kidnapped by the same thugs who kidnapped her in 1978 because the mastermind is afraid they finally found enough evidence to implicate him. Jan Burke has written her best work to date, bar none. The crime thriller is written for the first part in the third person and the rest of the book is told from Irene¿s point of view, a technique that works brilliantly for this particular work. Readers are treated to some very special characters who had a formidable impact on Irene¿s career and the audience will feel their every emotion. In addition to brilliant characterizations, BLOODLINES contains a gripping story line that keeps reader attention from first to last page. Harriet Klausner
smik on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In her first novel featuring intrepid reporter Irene Kelly since the Edgar® Award-winning Bones, bestselling author Jan Burke gives us an irresistible tale of buried secrets, old friends, and new dangers. The year is 1958. O'Connor, a young reporter with the Las Piernas News Express, is desperate to discover who has perpetrated a savage attack on his mentor, Jack Corrigan. In and out of consciousness, Corrigan claims to have witnessed the burial of a bloodstained car on a farm, but his reputation as a heavy drinker calls his strange story into question. In a seemingly unrelated mystery, five members of the wealthy Ducane family disappear on that same night, including Max Ducane, an infant who would be the heir to two family fortunes. Twenty years later, in her days as a novice reporter, Irene Kelly covers the groundbreaking ceremony for a shopping center - which unexpectedly yields the unearthing of a buried car. In the trunk are human remains. Are those of the infant heir among them? If so, who is the young man who has recently changed his name to Max Ducane? Again, the trail goes maddeningly, perhaps suspiciously, cold. Until today. Irene, now married to homicide detective Frank Harriman, is a veteran reporter facing the impending closure of the Las Piernas News Express. With circulation down and young reporters fresh out of journalism school replacing long-time staffers, Irene can't help but wish for the good old days with O'Connor. So when the baffling kidnap-burial case resurfaces, Irene's tenacious love for her mentor and journalistic integrity far outweighs any fears or trepidation. Determined to make a final splash for her longtime paper and solve the mystery that plagued O'Connor to the end, Irene pursues a story that reunites her with her past and may end her career -- and her life.
kpapenfus on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This is the best Irene Kelly novel to date, which was a wonderful surprise to me. I normally find serial novels peak around the 3rd or 4th book in the series. After that, reading them feels more like catching up with an old friend rather than meeting someone new and exciting. Bloodlines brought the new and exciting aspect to an old friend. The story was interesting, and the different timelines flowed together really well. Most of all, it was great and unexpected to actually get to know O'Connor.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
One of her best
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