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Burden of Truth

Page 7

by Terri Nolan


  She dug through the journals and papers. She sought key words: Paige Street, Montecito Heights, Hollenbeck, investigation, money, murder, lawsuit, drugs. She looked for relevant players: Hugh Jackson, Arthur Keane, Antonio Sanchez, Martine and Monica Alvarado, Dr. Ryan, Ralph Soto, Narciso Alejo. Her efforts became frantic and she searched for acronyms: LAPD, FBI, FID, PSB, SID.

  She found nothing. Not even a hint.

  She understood the occupational hazard of taking work home. Matt had spoken of it often. But nothing?

  Birdie went to Matt’s last journal entry, dated three weeks before his death.

  _____

  Friday,

  It’s done. The project is complete and I am renewed. The agility and flexibility I once had is slowly returning. Labor at Bird’s house has helped my strength. Her gym is a work of art. The lumber for the gazebo is being delivered tomorrow and the blueprints are straightforward. I’ll keep trying to convince her to build a pool. –M

  _____

  Birdie read it again out loud. Compared to the other writings, the last entry read more like an instruction. True, Matt used his disability time to labor at Birdie’s house. He practically built her home gym singlehanded. She gathered that he apparently felt physically better. It also indicated that he’d be around to build the gazebo—a contradiction of suicide—because the fiscally responsible Matt wouldn’t have had Birdie purchase the lumber otherwise.

  But that last line floored Birdie. They’d never discussed building a pool. Not once.

  She didn’t have the heart to explore deeper.

  Put it away for now.

  She repacked each box and closed the lids.

  eleven

  Tuesday, January 10

  Day 242. The Westend was a family-owned restaurant and bar on the west side of downtown’s shadow. Other than a new generation allowing the older to retire, it hadn’t changed much since it opened in the forties. The bar was long, the pour generous. It was an in-the-know kind of place. The kind with no signage, hidden behind a dingy exterior and a scrubby street. Inside was another world: burgundy leather banquettes, wood-paneled walls, white linen tablecloths, and stained-glass windows that shielded the interior from the street.

  Birdie entered the bar. Jimmy, the bartender, let loose a loud whistle. She acknowledged him with an air kiss and pushed her way toward her cousin, Thom. He leaned on the bar in his usual spot, drink in hand. A glass with a coaster on top saved the spot next to him.

  Thom was barely the eldest of four children. Behind him by one minute was his twin, Aiden. Then Arthur. Then Madigan. Thom was the bossy one—took the role of firstborn seriously. And since Birdie was an only child he bossed her too. The familial gray wasn’t an asset to Thom. It made him look old. His penetrating blue eyes split the difference so that he became distinctive, but not handsome.

  They kissed. “We’re drinking twelve-year-old Redbreast in Matt’s honor.”

  Birdie leaned toward the glass and inhaled deeply. “Pot stilled. Blended. Linseed, sherry, resin. Hint of oil and fruit. Rich.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “It’s a gift. Who is we?” she asked, nodding toward the unattended glass.

  “Arthur. He’s in the head. You know, George regrets breaking up with you.”

  “Not my problem.”

  “That’s cold. He saw you and Matt making out. You can’t do that to a man. Now he’s pining and it’s driving me insane. At least talk to him for my sake.”

  “I’ll call him tomorrow just to make you happy.”

  Two sinewy arms of sharp-edged strength wrapped around her waist from behind. “My little Bird,” said a voice washed rough around the edges. The man snuggled his nose in her hair. Arthur. They had always shared a mutual affection. Birdie turned and kissed him. He held her in a conciliatory hug of grief from which both received comfort.

  When Arthur released her she stepped sideways so he could reclaim his seat next to his brother. Arthur’s hair was cut so short the gray appeared blond. She rubbed his scalp like a good luck charm. His grown-up, Dennis the Menace appearance that worked well on televised MMA matches, relaxed. Birdie was glad to have run into him. Arthur hugs were a good thing.

  “The pin’s still in,” he said.

  “I see that,” she said. “Take it easy on the Irish whiskey.”

  “Will do, boss.”

  She said goodbye to her cousins and shouldered her way toward Jimmy. He reached across the bar with damp, sticky hands, pulled her face toward him and planted a sloppy kiss on her lips. “Sobriety looks good on you, but don’t turn into one of them bony girls. You gotta eat.”

  “Hey, that’s what I’m here for.”

  He winked. “Glad to hear it. How ’bout the usual?”

  It used to be a vodka martini on the rocks with green olives. Nowadays, her usual was sparkling water with a splash of Rose’s limejuice. Pushing the drink toward her he whispered, “There’s a lot of talk going around about Matt. You know how it is—cops and gossip.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “That he was dirty. Got caught. Killed himself. I don’t believe it meself.”

  Arthur had already warned her. Still, she didn’t like Matt’s reputation being disparaged.

  “Let me know if you hear anything else.”

  “Aye.” He patted her cheek. “Gotta get back to work. Very busy.”

  “Seen my dad?”

  “In the restaurant with a retired dog named Ralph Soto. Know him?”

  “Who doesn’t? Thanks for the mud, Jimmy.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, Birdie.”

  Gerard and Soto sat at a two top. Gerard with his back toward the restaurant; a supplicant position in deference to the senior man. As Birdie approached, Gerard’s head nodded in response to something Soto said.

  Ralph Soto was a tough guy. Not a knuckle breaking, chokehold kind of tough. His toughness came from being a hardliner. Some went so far as to say that he avoided the top job of Chief because he didn’t want to get his hands dirty.

  As Commander of Central Bureau, Soto ran an operation that encompassed sixty-five square miles in the most culturally diverse area in Los Angeles. Almost a million people lived and worked under the jurisdiction of Central.

  He liked un-jaded recruits—took them fresh out of the academy. The men and women who endured Soto’s training became disciples of righteousness and straightforward ethical behavior. They became hardliners like Soto. Matt was one of his boys. So it made no sense that bad package gossip was being batted around.

  Soto wore black slacks and a tan sweater. Rheumy-eyed, a pair of glasses dangled from a chain around his neck. His posture erect and regal. “Ah, Elizabeth. It’s so nice to see you. Since you’re no longer dogging my office for Paige Street information, may I call you Birdie?”

  “It’s nice to see you, too.” She extended her hand. “Yes, please call me Birdie.” She pulled over an empty chair and motioned for him to stay. Kissed her dad.

  “Since you mentioned it … I’m doing some follow-up on Paige Street. Despite retirement, I’m sure you have enough pull to set me up with the taskforce lead, Narciso Alejo. In fact, I’d like to see the murder books.”

  Gerard guffawed. “My girl sure has a set.”

  The great Ralph Soto sat frozen with his mouth nearly open. “What do you expect to find that hasn’t already been reported?”

  “I have new information that I’d like to check out.”

  “Share.”

  “I can’t just yet.”

  Soto wetted his lip. Considered the matter. “Okay. I’ll talk to Alejo. See what happens.” He vacated the seat and grasped Gerard’s hand. “I won’t delay your dinner any longer. Gerard, always a pleasure. Let me know about the party.” Soto nodded at Birdie as he departed.

  Birdie returned the chair, e
ased onto the warm cushion, and said, “What party, Dad? Thinking about retiring again?”

  “Hell, Bird, I’ve earned my pension. But I love the job.”

  Before telling her dad about meeting with Reidy, she swore him to secrecy. Gerard and his brother, Louis, gabbed all the time. Once something juicy reached either of them it went directly to Thom, then to Arthur, and then the whole family. And it worked in reverse. The Keane men were worse than a knitting circle. Aiden moved to Brooklyn several years back, but even he wasn’t out of the loop via the miracle of modern communication.

  The upside was that they were a reference library; they knew everything, remembered everything, and if they didn’t, they knew how to get what Birdie needed—just like Monday when Arthur pulled the Paige Street address off the top of his head. Gerard knew how to keep a confidence; he just had to be told as such.

  Birdie didn’t leave details behind when she told him about the boxes and Matt’s estate. “… After Reidy left, I lined up all the keys. The one Matt gave me doesn’t match any of them. Dad, I thought he had two houses: Koreatown and Henshaw House. He also has property in Indio. Indio!”

  Gerard’s attention had wandered. “I’m sorry Bird. I’m stuck on four million.”

  “I looked at a report compiled by his financial advisor. It goes back twenty years. He was a value investor and got in on IPOs. He made a fortune. I mean, on the surface, it looks legit. But there’s rumors circulating about stolen evidence money and Matt’s culpability.”

  Gerard waved his hand in dismissal. “Cops are a brotherhood. Like real brothers there’s sibling rivalry. Don’t let rumor distract you from what you know to be true.”

  It felt good to hear Gerard defend Matt’s honor.

  “Well, anyway,” she said. “I’ve been looking through his stuff since yesterday. Henshaw and Koreatown are to be disposed of. I haven’t found the documents for the Indio property yet—who knows what he wants done with that. He itemized possessions and assigned stuff to people. Everything was inventoried. When did he have the time?”

  It was a rhetorical question. Matt could operate on a few hours of sleep. While the city slumbered, he was getting shit done.

  After dinner Birdie wasn’t surprised to see Thom and Arthur still sitting in the bar hunched together in conversation. She spotted Soto, too. Sitting on the opposite side, eyes glued to the television over the bar.

  “Let me say goodbye to Soto,” said Gerard. “I’ll be right back.”

  Birdie waited outside on the sidewalk. The forecast called for another storm. She lifted her nose and inhaled the heavy air. Yep. It was coming.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” said Gerard, when he finally emerged. “There’s a new action flick I’d like to see. Want to join me?”

  “I think I’ll pass, Dad. I’d better get home. A hard rain is coming.”

  “Remember the Tuesday father/daughter date nights? We always saw a movie after dinner. You know your mom prefers that Indie crap. I need my high body count and explosion buddy. Please.”

  Birdie liked hanging out with her dad. Sharing a bag of popcorn. Listening to his glee-filled chuckles during especially big fire-filled explosions. Despite not wanting to go out and see a movie, she agreed. What’s the best thing that could happen? She’d enjoy herself? There was no downside.

  twelve

  The weather report was right for a change. A fast-moving rainstorm swept into the basin by the time Birdie started the drive home. Hard rains were a favorite thing. As a child she’d lay in front of the glass slider and watch the water dance on the patio. She especially liked lightning and thunder. The tempest outside reminded her of rainy day games: creepy crawlers, dominos, solitaire, cardboard box caves.

  Arriving home at nearly eleven, Birdie went straight to her office. Two voicemails waited. The first from Father Frank: “Hello, Bird, I know how much you are suffering. I’m praying for you and have every confidence that you’ll persevere during this difficult time. I’ll come by tomorrow. Dominus vobiscum.” The second from Hughes: “Detective Ron Hughes confirming a visit to your residence tomorrow. Time unknown.” Okay, then.

  She raised the screen covering the no-longer-blank dry erase board. She changed it slightly.

  The process to find truth is methodical, precise,

  and provable.

  Intuition is not evidence!

  Matt = suicide → pain relief? self-punishment? why promise Birdie?

  Key = unlocks secret thing/sin → why be sneaky?

  8930 = Paige Street → why now? something new?

  Last entry = ???

  She’d dwell on the last entry later when she wasn’t tired. She attached the guys in the snow photo with a magnetic clip. Funny how all three men pictured with Matt had some part in handling his dead body. She tried not to be suspicious even when circumstances were extraordinary, but curiosity came with being a journalist.

  A flash of lightning preceded a blast of thunder. The adjacent living room lit up. Stepping out of her office, she sat on the landing and looked up at the stained glass dome over the turret. Every flicker of light illuminated gold, red, green, and blue. The brief flashes created reflective, strobe-like snapshots of an Old Russian icon. Birdie enjoyed Mother Nature flexing her muscles. During pauses in the tempest she listened to the overgrown sycamore scraping the brick façade. The wind chime at the corner of the house. Wind whistling through a poorly fitted window. Footfalls. Huh?

  Don’t be paranoid. It’s one of the mysterious groans of a house over a hundred years old. She got up, away from the turret’s echoes and stepped back into the office. Without realizing it, she pulled the screen down over the board and listened with a well-trained ear to the sounds.

  Footfalls. Above her on the third floor. No mistake.

  Birdie eyed the alarm panel on the wall. It hadn’t been triggered. No one’s in the house, she told herself. Then she heard it again. A steady creak. She knew the squeaky portions of the floor. These were carefully moving toward the turret. She opened the top right drawer of the desk and pulled out a Sig-Sauer P239, preloaded with a magazine of seven 40-caliber Smith & Wesson rounds. She thumbed off the safety.

  A shot of adrenaline, released into her blood stream, forced her heart to work harder, breath came fast and even. Without thought—as if she did this every day—and with a self-confident excitement, she hugged the wall and ran in the opposite direction toward the marble service stairs. She stopped just long enough to remove the cowboy boots and soundlessly sprinted up the stairs in her stocking feet. She crabbed to the landing and peeked around the corner to view the hallway.

  At the far end was a dark figure with its back to the wall. Damnit, hissed Birdie. She’d hoped her imagination had gotten away from her. She waited for a flash of lightning. It shone on a curly haired man leaning sideways toward the stairwell. The way he pressed against the wall indicated he didn’t want to be discovered. A robber? Prudence said err on the side of safety.

  She backed down the stairs and ran back to the office. He was positioned almost directly above her. Wasting no additional time, she slammed her palm against the panic button. Alarm horns wailed. The security company would notify the police. She dialed nine-one-one anyway. “Help. A man is in my house. He’s got shoulder-length curly red hair. I’m on the second floor, in an office.” She put the phone down—the line active. Wilshire Station serviced her neighborhood. Their response time would be mere minutes. The second phone line began ringing. The security company. She let it ring.

  The alarm prevented her from knowing the location of the intruder and the office didn’t have a door to close and lock. A heavy curtain held open with tasseled tie-backs separated the office from the living room. But she had a gun. And she knew how to use it.

  She backed against the file cabinets, facing the curtained archway. Birdie gripped the gun in her right hand and wrapped the left over it. With
the Sig securely in place, she spread her feet for balance, swiveled her hips, stood in a classic isosceles position, and hoped she wouldn’t puke.

  Wailing sirens cut through the din of the alarm. The reflection of light bars and hazards pulsed red, blue, and amber on the wet living room windows. The police banged on the front door. It was three inches thick. An Army platoon with a battering ram wouldn’t get through.

  Her legs shook. She widened her stance.

  With nothing to do but wait she concentrated on the sounds. Her ears weren’t as refined as her nose and she couldn’t discern the location of the thumps and shouts until they got closer. Then she heard heavy, deliberate footsteps coming down the hall. One masculine voice called out “police.” She put her hands in the air. She caught a quick glimpse of his head as he checked the room. He stood behind the wall and yelled, “Put the gun down. Step out toward me.” Another cop joined him on the other side of the doorway, gun drawn.

  She put the gun down and stepped over it toward the cop. “This is my house,” she said.

  They didn’t care. When she passed the curtain, one of them grabbed her neck and pushed her down. She was quickly handcuffed, brought to standing and frisked. He pushed her back in the office and said, “How do I shut it off?”

  She nodded toward the keypad. “Punch seven-nine-zero-six and enter.”

  He did and the alarm silenced. Then he brought her back through the doorway, positioned her facing the wall and pushed her down on her knees. He stepped on her foot. A tactic designed to prevent a suspect from standing up.

  Other voices called out, “Police” and “Clear” as they worked through the house. Birdie didn’t have any ill will toward the cop. He was doing his job. As soon as the house was cleared, he’d confirm her identity and uncuff her.

 

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