Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  “We’ve been through this a million times. I can’t tell you anything about it because I wasn’t there. For two-and-a-half years the taskforce and the FBI made my life miserable and came up with zip. End of story.”

  “Maybe Matt found something relevant and wants me to reexamine the issue.”

  “There’s nothing more.” Arthur took a gulp of his drink, followed by a hard swallow. “Why now? What transpired that he couldn’t tell you in person? Or in a phone call? Or an e-mail? He knew better than anybody how obsessed you were with Paige Street.”

  The answer lay with Matt’s personality. He always weighed the pros and cons of every decision. Nothing was left to chance. Yet, Birdie might have to reconcile the real possibility that Matt wasn’t the man she knew. There was a sinister aspect here that made her sick.

  “Dad thinks it’s a coincidence.”

  “When did you speak to him?”

  “He came by a little while ago. Brought me food. We’re gonna meet up for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Since we’re still close to the topic of Paige Street I’m going to tell you something and I need your promise that you won’t freak out.”

  “What?”

  “It was just a rumor that went around for a while. But now that Matt’s dead, it’s resurfaced. About a year into the Paige Street investigation money checked into evidence was stolen. There was a very quiet internal probe because of the large amount.”

  “How much?”

  “Two mil. Never found. No suspects. It eventually faded away. Since Saturday, the rumors are floating around again. Word is, Matt took it way back when and was close to getting caught so he offed himself.”

  “No way,” she hissed.

  “He’s being called a bad package.”

  Birdie felt like Arthur delivered one of his famously sneaky undercuts to the ribs. Her hands shook, making it difficult to hold the telephone receiver. A package is a cop’s employment file. Bad package was slang for dirty cop.

  “Look, Bird,” said Arthur, “I can hear you seething. Don’t get mental and start drinking. That moniker makes me guilty by association and I’m not freaking out. I’ll be doing my best to talk it down.”

  “Why tell me? Should I pull out my file drawer of research and give Paige Street another look?” Which she had already done.

  “Or should I investigate missing evidence money?” Which she was going to do.

  “Neither,” said Arthur, his voice stern, “you’re likely to hear it yourself so I wanted to warn you. In the end it means shit.”

  Like hell. It means something to me.

  nine

  Birdie met Mr. Martin Reidy of Deeney, McMahon, and Desmond in the driveway. “A three-story house with a turret,” he said. “May I have a tour?”

  Tours of her house were standard requests from first-time visitors. Though she felt wrung out after Arthur’s call she’d do her best to be gracious.

  “You mentioned possessions. Is there something I can help carry?”

  Reidy opened the side door of a panel van. Inside were seven banker’s boxes. Six sealed with red packing tape. “They’re quite heavy,” he said despairingly.

  “Don’t worry. The house has a lift. We’ll load in the garage.” She punched a code into the electronic keypad. A filigreed wrought iron gate fanned inward. Birdie walked down the drive while Reidy followed in the van to the garage located at the back of the house.

  They each grabbed a box. “What’s in these?”

  “I’ve no idea,” said Reidy. “Matt was seriously concerned that you get them immediately in the event of his death. They were delivered to me as you see here, except for this last box; it holds the material we’ll be going over today.”

  “How long have you had them?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “And the letter you gave me yesterday?”

  “The same.”

  “Don’t you find the timing odd Mr. Reidy?”

  “It is a strange coincidence.”

  She didn’t need further evidence that Matt’s death was deliberate. She needed the reason. Birdie suspected the boxes contained his journals and thus the answer.

  It didn’t take long to unload the boxes and deliver them to the third floor. From there they were moved to an unused bedroom. Then like a well-practiced docent, Birdie started the requested tour. She had the spiel memorized.

  “The house was built in 1904 by the Catholic Church. All of the stained glass, mahogany, travertine, marble, and brick are original. There are five bedrooms on this floor.” She led him down the hall and descended the turret to the second floor. On the way down, Reidy closely eyed the collection of religious objects: crucifixes, the antique tabernacle housed in a niche, another with old chalices. The morning light wasn’t bright enough to illuminate the beauty of the stained glass, but he oohed and aahed anyway.

  Birdie wished the showcase would’ve afforded her an opportunity to let go of the grief for a while, but it didn’t. Matt’s death hung heavy over her world. On the landing they passed a three-foot-tall marble statue of St. Joseph—the patron saint of the home—and entered the living room. Birdie’s office was directly to the right, straight ahead the library, at the end the entrance to the kitchen. A breakfast nook and formal dining room were on the backside of the house.

  Birdie directed Reidy to put the unsealed document box on the dining room table. “I’ll show you the view.” She led him into the library. The corner windows offered a stormy sky view of the city, including a corner of downtown.

  “Beautiful,” said Reidy.

  “Follow me downstairs and I’ll show you the pot farm.”

  “The what?”

  That always shocked people.

  She led him down the marble service stairs to the first floor. “The previous owner was a movie producer who had turned the old chapel into a screening room. He went broke and converted it into a greenhouse.” She opened a pair of glass doors and flipped a switch. Row upon row of suspended growing lights buzzed and flickered to life to illuminate an empty massive space. “I understand marijuana is harder to grow and harvest than people think.”

  “The first floor is nothing?”

  “Correct. All the living spaces are up. But there is a nice lanai and a gym down here. Now you’ve seen the house. Shall we get started?”

  “I must say,” said Reidy, as they made their way back to the dining room, “you live very nice. You must make a lot of money.”

  “Not really. Movie money helps.”

  “Didn’t Matt help you buy this house?”

  “I’m the only person in my family to attend college. After I graduated my maternal grandmother gave me a large monetary gift. I wanted real estate. Matt did the research and found this place. I bought it from the bank.”

  “It’s big for one person.”

  “Too big. I rattle around. I bought it as an investment and didn’t think the size would be an issue. Despite having an alarm system I convinced myself that someone could break in and I wouldn’t even know it. I heard strange sounds all the time, started carrying a loaded gun. The house speaks. It took a couple of years to figure out what it was saying.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’m old and creaky.”

  Reidy laughed. “How big is the lot?”

  “Over an acre. I’m sorry now that I bought it. It’s too much expense with maintenance and property tax and such. I live in a mansion on an upper-middle-class income.”

  Reidy took a seat and laid out several pens. “You won’t have to worry about that anymore. Mr. Whelan’s estate is significant. Four million.”

  Birdie nearly choked. “You’re joking, right?” Stolen evidence money no longer seemed unbelievable.

  Reidy hummed. “After you settle the estate and pay the taxes, you’ll be lucky to net three. You’r
e also the beneficiary on a life insurance policy worth a mil. I checked with the company this morning. Accidental death is covered. You’ll have to wait for the death certificate before filing a claim.”

  “Out of curiosity, what if he had committed suicide?”

  “Wouldn’t be covered.”

  Sonofabitch. He really did do it. She felt pinched. Miserable. Knowing a truth didn’t make it easier to swallow. Birdie reached for the bowl holding packages of Doublemint.

  “Does his family know his worth?” she said, unzipping a new pack.

  “Not likely. He was extremely private when it came to fiscal matters.”

  She wondered if Frank Senior would’ve been as encouraging if he knew what his son was worth. Then she berated herself for the disingenuous thought.

  “It’s pretty straightforward—” Reidy went over the will, terms and statement of trust and just about every power imaginable. He gave her a ring of keys, deeds, investment portfolios, an address book of advisors, pink slips, numerous contracts, riders, life insurance policy, statement of receivables and payables. Reidy tapped a pen on a copy of his and Linda’s divorce decree. “They were legally divorced. She has no rights.”

  There was a vast inventory of possessions with notations of assignment. Matt left items to nieces, nephews, his parents, brothers, sisters-in-law, friends. Tithe to be split between two churches: St. Joseph and St. Bonaventura. He left items specifically for Birdie, the rest was to be disposed as she saw fit. Even Birdie’s now ex-boyfriend, George Silva, was left with first rights of purchase for Matt’s Koreatown residence. It was an exacting list with one exception.

  “Mr. Reidy, Matt left one dollar to his brother Emmett. That’s out of synch with the rest and seems petty. Can you explain?”

  “He wanted to exclude his brother entirely. I suggested he leave Emmett a dollar so there’d be no appearance of an oversight that could give Emmett an opening to sue the estate for a larger share.”

  “Why? As far as I know they got along.”

  “As far as I know they didn’t. Matt didn’t specify the reason behind his decision, but he expressed his adamance.” He patted her hand. “Don’t worry.”

  It wasn’t Emmett she worried about.

  ten

  Birdie stared at the boxes in the empty bedroom. She held Matt in high esteem. On a pedestal. Okay, she’d already determined that he wasn’t the man she thought he was. But what if he turned out to be two-faced? Monster on one side, affable human on the other. She’d had enough crushing emotions. She didn’t need more. And yet, she was compelled to enter a place that could lead to greater hurt. After a long stretch of indecision, she decided to start small and seek the explanation for an incident that occurred when she was nineteen.

  She cut the tape.

  Each box was numbered. One being the oldest. It contained boyhood drawings, schoolwork with big red As across the top, reports, BB gun targets, photographs, a cigar box with scout badges and patches. A pinewood derby car. When box one was filled, he moved to box two and so on. Each item was marked with a number for the corresponding box. Even as a child, Matt’s propensity for order was well established.

  Based on his meticulous numbering and dating system she knew where to look. She fingered through the journals. No Moleskines here. These were custom made. Boards were covered in smooth leathers. Gold leaf on the top edge of the archival paper. Paisley and decorative frieze papers created with special pigments and oils covered the pastedowns in which Matt’s black and gold monogram was stamped into the middle. Birdie stuck her nose in the gutter of a slim volume, pencil lead with a hint of green tea and incense.

  _____

  Saturday,

  Today I pushed away the person I love above all. At the time I thought I was doing the right thing. Will Bird forgive me? Probably. But will I ever forgive myself?

  One moment she was helping me fold laundry and the next we were entangled in an embrace and a passionate kiss.

  We tumbled onto the bed. Bird moved her hips to the soundless rhythm of our hearts. There were no words. Only desire. Her breathing labored as I did my dance upon her body. We began the hip hustle to wiggle out of our clothing. We were all over each other. One breath. One heartbeat. One mind.

  The word took me by surprise. I didn’t feel it coming. “Stop. We can’t do this.” We wrestled as our lips locked again. “NO.” Then the wail came, “Stooooop!” And then the shove and slap. She lay on the hard floor holding her face. Too stunned to move. Shock in her eyes. Tears welled. The flush of my handprint grew on her cheek.

  It was my voice and my actions that put her on the floor.

  She curled her body, covering her breasts and began to cry. She whimpered, “I’m sorry.” It is I who should be sorry. I told her I wasn’t mad; it wasn’t her fault. She gathered her clothing. I saw my rejection in her eyes.

  I pleaded with her to stay. She left.

  I wanted to tell her that I love her. Hold her in my arms. Stroke her hair and caress her lovely face bruised by my own hand. I needed to explain that I’m afraid of the power she wields, that I’m afraid it will consume me. I wanted to tell her that she is the most important person in my life. How deep my feelings go. That I worry about her. How I want her close at all times.

  I did not say these words. I couldn’t bring myself to say them aloud. Speaking them would curse her as I am cursed.

  I drove to Bird’s apartment. Her roommates hadn’t seen her. I left messages. She hasn’t returned my call. I’m heartbroken and worried. What have I done?

  This evening as I sit here and write, I know I will never marry again. I realize that Linda was a prize to win. Bird is not a prize. She is a gift. And I’m not worthy.

  _____

  Birdie held the journal to her chest in awe of the enormity of Matt’s feelings. She knew him to be a Renaissance man. He had proficiency for languages, business, the law, all matters spiritual. He read literature, collected art, studied religions. He was also a man of action, a cop. He rarely spoke of feelings. His emotions were hidden. But here, written in his hand, was a deep well of love. She gasped for breath, overcome that he was much more complicated than he ever revealed. She truly didn’t know the deepest parts of him. The parts that mattered most.

  Matt’s account mirrored Birdie’s memory. To see the emotion behind the words, to relive the excruciating pain, cut her deeply. She fell to the floor and wept for everything that was lost.

  _____

  Sunday,

  Bird missed Mass. I searched her haunts. She is nowhere to be found. I questioned her roommates. They were in agreement: she had not returned.

  Bird lives on her own. Her family wouldn’t know she was missing. I was tempted to call Gerard, but didn’t. I couldn’t face my culpability. How could I tell him that I injured his daughter in punishment for my weakness in wanting to be intimate with her?

  All I want is her safety. Where is she? Please God, don’t forsake us.

  _____

  Monday,

  Today I did something I’ve never done. I called in sick. It’s true. Bird is still gone.

  _____

  Tuesday,

  Arthur came by to check on his sick partner. It’s been nearly 72 hours since I pushed Bird away. I couldn’t stand the uncertainty. I confessed all. According to him, his whole family knows how I feel about Bird. He said our love is transparent. He practically gave me permission to pursue a relationship with his cousin. Is it that simple? In the end, regardless of intent, I’d be asking her to make a choice. I could never harm her in that way. Yet, in my attempt to protect her, I may have inflicted greater hurt.

  _____

  Wednesday,

  I surveilled Bird’s apartment and watched as one by one her roommates left for the day. Several hours later Bird came home. Ninety-six hours since I saw her last. She wore the same clothes
and looked haggard. Her posture bent.

  Pent up frustration, fear, concern, and terror escaped. I cried for an hour before mustering the courage to go to her door. She wore a bathrobe, fresh from a shower. She smelled of powder and sweet perfume. The right side of her face was purple, her manner cold.

  I tried to explain what happened. She had no desire to hear me. She said, “It’s over. I forgive you.” Her blue eyes had grown gray. She said, “We will never discuss this again.” I reached out to touch her. She stiffened and pulled away. I left her apartment brokenhearted.

  At eight p.m. I called her. I hung up after the first ring. I didn’t know what to say.

  _____

  Evidenced by smudges, Matt had cried as he wrote, just as Birdie cried now.

  When she’d found herself on his floor, rejected in such a violent way, she was embarrassed and hurt. At nineteen she wasn’t a stranger to sexual activity, but she’d never been tossed out of bed.

  What Matt didn’t know, and would never learn, was that when she left his place, she went to the Keane family doctor. Matt had hit her so hard that the velocity rolled her over. She landed on her hip. That bent posture he noticed was actually a limp.

  After she left Dr. Ryan’s, Birdie drove to a liquor store friendly to minors. She drank all the way to Palm Springs, checked herself into a motel, and had her first bender. She drank for three days— trying to understand why Matt had pushed her away.

  Even now she didn’t have a clear answer and was confused about a “choice.” But she took comfort in the knowledge that he suffered too.

  The echoes of boyfriends, men past, came to visit Birdie like shadows of perceptions. That incident impacted her future relationships. She’d share her body. Not her bed. Nor her heart. That vulnerability had been the core reason she shut down the soft parts of her soul.

  Birdie explored the journals that represented Matt’s life. Full of wonder and reaching and learning. He shared his spiritual quest with archival paper. He composed poetry from snip-its gleaned from the streets. He wrote about citizens he had positively influenced or vice versa. Time became lost. Hours passed. Then a day. She had sought something personal and found it. But the journalist eased into the light. There was another matter of import.