by Terri Nolan
“That’s a nice offer, but Frank doesn’t carry a cell phone and I don’t know when he’ll be here.”
“I’m pretty good with chow. I’d be happy to make a hearty soup with that box of goodies. I’ll make enough for Frank, too.”
Birdie felt slightly destabilized. What an odd circumstance on an entirely different scale. The deputy investigating her best friend’s death offers to make her food. Then again, nothing about this death has been ordinary. Not like she knew what an ordinary one felt like. In her experience they were all important and extraordinary.
She wanted to be taken away. To forget for a while. Ron wasn’t scary or intimidating. His presence gave her a sense of security and peace of mind. And he wasn’t bad to look at either. Ah, what the hell.
“Soup is a good thing. Do you need me to show you where stuff is?”
“I’m good with kitchens. I’ll figure it out. Company would be nice.”
“Actually, I need to make a few phone calls.”
“Do what you need. I’m in town for a while. We have time.”
_____
Birdie had dated Denis Cleary before George. Their breakup ended with judicial involvement and they haven’t spoken since.
Denis was a civilian contractor with the city. A pilot. He owned three helicopters. He contracted one to the LAPD, the other to a local television station, and when he wasn’t working in the city, he flew for an oil company.
He had a handler named Mica. She had brown skin, exotic dark eyes, and a curvy figure. Her duties included scheduling, dispatching, and logistics, to which she added fornicating. Birdie caught them having sex, and a raging, violent fight took place.
By then, Birdie was nearing rock bottom in her alcoholism. She had begun blacking out. Late that night, after the big fight, Birdie tried to run over Denis with her car. Broke his leg. She had no memory of the incident and a part of her really wanted to believe that he staged the whole thing. But she was forced to face her problem and pay the consequences. Through a series of frantic negotiations she got off easy. That is, she served no jail time. But it was expensive. And there’s nothing easy about getting dry.
Even if Denis never returned her house key, she didn’t think he had anything to do with her home invasion, but checking facts was an ingrained character trait. She left a voicemail on his home phone. Ditto his cell phone. Impatient as always, she dialed the one person who would know his whereabouts.
The familiar accent answered. “Cleary Flight Services. Mica speaking.” Her mesmerizing voice had Birdie forget for a moment why she called.
“Um … hello, Mica. This is Birdie Keane. I’m trying to reach Denis.”
Mica relaxed the formality in her voice, and, as if there’d been no history between them, said, “Birdie, what a surprise. It’s been forever.” There was no hesitation in her voice and her greeting was genuine. English was her second language, and though it was rough, she told Birdie that Denis was out of town. He was on a tour ferrying engineers between offshore oil platforms in the Gulf of Mexico. She gave Birdie a number where he could be reached.
“That’s terrific, Mica. More than expected. Thank you.”
She dialed the number and was put on hold.
Birdie shook her foot. Stuck two pieces of gum in her mouth. As the clock ticked she became more nervous. Their last communication—prior to the sympathy message—was nasty and contentious. After several minutes of silence her call was transferred and Denis came on the line.
“Cleary speaking.”
“Hey, you.”
“Birdie. Is everything okay?” Pleasant tone. So far so good.
“Why do you ask?”
“You wouldn’t call me otherwise. And you would’ve called Mica to get this number.”
“Well, I wanted to thank you for your voicemail. It meant a lot.”
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow.”
“I’ll miss it. What else is going on?” On-point as always.
“Remember when I was working on As Crime Comes, you stayed at my house while yours was being—”
“Painted. What of it?”
“I’m missing the copy of my house key.”
“I gave it back.”
“I don’t remember. But I was going downhill pretty fast back then. Anyway, I can’t account for it.”
“Sorry. On that topic, you never did return mine.”
“If I recall, I threw it at you. We were fighting about Mica. Well, anyway, I took a shot. Thanks for taking my call,” she said.
“You want to have lunch when I get back to town?”
“Sure. That’d be nice. Call me.”
She knew he never would.
Birdie then called George’s cell. “I want to say again how sorry I am.”
“I can’t get the image of you guys practically doing it out of my head,” said George. “I trusted him. I trusted you.”
“If it makes you feel better, it took me by surprise, too.”
“Matt was my friend. As sorry as I am that he’s gone, we now have a real chance of making our relationship work.”
“It makes no difference. I’m not ever going to love you.”
“Why? Didn’t I treat you right? Wasn’t I forbearing in allowing you the freedom to go out with Matt, knowing how close you two were?”
“You were a great boyfriend. And I thought that I could love you. When I saw Matt Friday night, I realized that I want the giddy, walking on air kind of love. Not the kind that grows from familiarity and comfort. I need to feel it deep in my soul.”
“I appreciate the honesty, not the sentiment.”
“Thanks for being understanding.”
“I don’t have a choice. So, I heard Matt made you his heir.”
“The gossip circle’s working. He wanted you to have first crack at his Koreatown place.”
“I’ve always loved that house.” George choked up. “That’s cool of him. I’m definitely interested.”
“It’s a special house and someone special should have it.”
“Thanks.”
Birdie spit her gum into the foil and balled it up, added it to the pile that had grown to resemble some kind of sick sculpture. She contemplated working on her board; she had new stuff to add. The intruder. His interest in Matt’s boxes. His death. Rankin, an unknown variable. She could sort through the photos. See if the burglar’s in any. She should. But she didn’t.
The man in her home was distracting. He was in the kitchen, she in her office, yet she felt his presence, sneaking up on her. She began to feel itchy, like a sense of something new might be imminent. She wanted to be near him, watch him make soup, and maybe earn an emotional respite. So she returned to offer company. The kitchen smelled like a brisk, windy day at Grandma’s house in Ireland, redolent of herbs and celery and cabbage. Of vacation and simple times.
Too bad the country-comfort wouldn’t last.
seventeen
Madi’s arrival was unexpected, but not unwelcome. She had heard about the break-in from Arthur who heard it from Thom. After greetings and introductions and “what the hell happened?” And after Birdie insisted she didn’t want to discuss it, Madi turned her attention to Ron and began the interrogation while he attended the soup.
“The blue Audi must be yours,” said Madi. “Nice car. Married?”
“No, ma’am,” said Ron.
Madi winked at Birdie.
“Ever been?” said Madi.
“No, ma’am.”
“Girlfriend?”
“No, ma’am.”
“How old are you?”
“Forty-four.”
“You’re obviously domesticated. And damn good-looking. Oh shit, you’re gay.”
“No, ma’am.”
“What’s wrong with you then?”
“Nothing.”
Birdie was tempted to rescue Ron from Madi’s galloping pace, but she enjoyed that Ron was willing to charm his way through Madi’s questions.
“You an atheist?” she said, giving Birdie a knowing look.
“No, ma’am.”
“What then?”
“Marines are force-fed God-Country-Corps, but I don’t know. I’m more an agnostic.”
“Close enough,” said Madi with another glance in Birdie’s direction.
Ron said to Birdie. “Did I pass the litmus test?”
She held up her hands and shrugged.
Then Madi said, “Do you dance?”
“No, ma’am.”
Madi frowned. “You were doing so well, too. So, let’s see this tat.” She reached for Ron’s right arm. He flinched away. “You modest?” she said.
Ron scratched the stubble on his face and said to Birdie, “Is this the way it always is?”
Again, Birdie held up her hands.
Madi said, “Look mister, you’re in my cousin’s house—”
“With her permission,” said Ron.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Madi. “You’re here sharing our misfortunes. We’re good people and it’s my right to make sure you’re okay. As long as you’re in Bird’s home, you have no privacy. Got it?”
“Why not just strip search me?” said Ron.
“Tempting. But I’ll leave that to Bird.”
“That’s enough,” Birdie finally said. “Give the guy a break.”
Then Patrick Whelan arrived. Welcome and serendipitous. Birdie would have an opportunity to question him about Emmett and Matt’s relationship. Maybe find out why Matt only left him a dollar. Since he worked Hollywood—under the umbrella of West Bureau—she’d also ask him about Rankin.
Patrick entered with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Old No. 7. Birdie used to keep a bottle of the whiskey in the freezer and she’d have a splash with her morning coffee. Distilled in Lynchburg, Tennessee, and aged in charred white oak barrels, the amber liquid was mellow and went down easy. He gave Birdie an 80-proof kiss and handed her a bottle of port that he pulled from his waistband. “It’s for Junior. He’s on his way.”
Birdie introduced Ron and they shook hands. Patrick slid his arm around Birdie’s waist turning her away from Ron and pulling her into a hug. “Is that the guy from the photo? In your kitchen? Cooking?”
“He’s a detective,” she whispered. “Called out to Matt’s scene.”
“Freaky,” said Patrick.
“Excuse me,” said Madi.
“We’ll talk later,” said Birdie.
“Don’t be jealous, my love,” said Patrick. He gave her an open-mouth kiss.
“Out of the bathroom?” said Birdie.
“Actually, yes,” said Patrick. “I told Father.”
“And?” said Birdie.
“Didn’t give me shit. I think Matt’s death gave him a bit of mellow.”
“If there were ever an excuse for patricide,” said Madi to Ron, “he’d be it.”
“Madigan,” Birdie scolded.
“You know it’s true. His own sons hate him.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Patrick unscrewed the cap, took a swig of Jack. “It’s time to start drinking.”
“As if you hadn’t already begun,” said Birdie. “You best join us for food.”
Patrick scowled, took another swig, and passed the bottle to Madi. She also took a swig and offered it to Ron. He declined with a wave.
Birdie handed the port back to Patrick. “Take this to the library?”
“I’ve a better idea,” said Patrick with a twinkle in his eye. He took Madi’s hand and led her to the service stairs. They went up.
“They’re gonna bang one out,” said Birdie.
“Ooo-rah.”
“How long were you in the Marine Corps?”
“Twenty years. Retired. Now I’m a gay domesticate posing as a detective.”
“Sorry ’bout that.”
“Hey, you make an excellent straight man.”
The doorbell rang. “That’d be Frank.” She buzzed him in and pressed the intercom and said, “Frank, we’re in the kitchen.”
An unfamiliar voice replied. “Miss Keane? It’s Detectives Seymour and Morgan. We’d like to talk to you.”
Birdie was taken aback. “That’s strange. The detective here last night was a guy named Nunez.”
Ron slapped the hand towel he’d been wearing over his shoulder onto the counter. “I’ll check their IDs.”
Birdie followed close behind. Ron held out his hand in a protective gesture as they descended the curving mahogany stairs to the entry. He confirmed their identities and introduced himself. Birdie escorted them to the living room and asked Ron for privacy. Told him she could handle two suits. He reluctantly returned to the kitchen.
They were Robbery/Homicide detectives. This troubled Birdie. Upgrading the intruder’s self-inflicted gunshot to an elite division indicated seriousness and gravity. The man of medium height with the receding hairline and wearing an olive green suit was James Seymour. The other man was just Morgan. Short, muscular build, shaved head, dressed in black.
Birdie sat on a couch. Seymour sat opposite her on another couch. Morgan stood off to the side with crossed arms. Birdie fiddled with Morgan’s card: M. Morgan. “What does the M stand for?”
“Just Morgan, ma’am.”
“Your name is Morgan Morgan?”
“Miss Keane—” Seymour began.
“Hold on,” said Birdie. “Morgan is obligated to tell me his first name because I asked.”
After a brief silence Morgan finally said, “Mortimer.”
“That wasn’t so hard. I see why you use Morgan. It’s a better fit.”
Morgan suppressed a smile.
“Miss Keane—” Seymour began again.
“Hold on,” said Birdie. “You need to know that my cousin, Thom Keane, works in RHD too.”
“We’re aware of the family connection,” said Seymour. “Now to why we’re here. A representative from the Beverly Hills law firm of Deeney, McMahon, and Desmond came to visit you on Monday. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Martin Reidy.”
“What business did he have with you?”
“Tell me why you want to know,” said Birdie.
“He’s dead,” said Seymour without ceremony.
“What the hell?” Birdie felt a dangerous foreboding.
“He was discovered in Little Tokyo. He’d been shot. We’re investigating his homicide.”
Birdie felt the levity slip away, replaced with a dose of harsh reality. “Excuse me.” She put a hand over her mouth and ran into the kitchen. Birdie shook out her hands. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
“What happened?”
“Matt’s lawyer was shot,” she stammered. “He’s dead. Murdered.” She zipped opened a fresh pack of gum and stuffed three pieces in her mouth. Spittle drooled down her chin. Ron wiped her mouth with the dish towel in the same manner a parent would clean up a child.
“Was he a friend?”
“No. I’d just met him.”
“His relationship with Matt makes it appropriate for me to join in. I’ll let you know if you shouldn’t answer something.”
Birdie was thankful to have the buffer. She returned to the couch and Ron chose the dominant seat, the one with eyes on the whole room.
“Did Reidy indicate where he was going after he left here?” said Seymour.
“No, sir.”
“Did you observe his vehicle?”
“Yes. He drove a white panel van. Was he found in the van?”
“He was. What business did he have with you?” repeated Seymour.
“Mr. Reidy was th
e lawyer of my friend, Matt Whelan. He died Saturday. I’m his heir.” She glanced at Ron for his reaction. Nothing. “Reidy delivered some boxes and we went over the terms of Matt’s will and trust. It was legal business and that’s all I’m going to say about it.”
“Tell me your whereabouts and activities starting from Sunday the eighth through yesterday,” said Seymour.
“Hum … I went to the Whelan family home where Frank Senior introduced me to Reidy. I went to Matt’s house in Korea-town, to the mortuary. Then home. I didn’t leave again until yesterday evening at five-fifteen.”
“Tell us what happened when you arrived back home.”
“You can get her statement from the other detective,” said Ron.
“We’ve talked to Nunez,” said Seymour. “We want to hear it direct.”
Ron nodded his okay.
As Birdie re-told the story of the break-in once more, she kept glancing at Ron for his reaction but couldn’t get a read.
Seymour pulled a photo from his jacket pocket. “Is this the man who broke into your home and shot himself?”
A non-smiling bald man glared at the camera in what appeared to be a mug shot. She imagined him with a curly red wig. Even so, she couldn’t be certain.
“I don’t know. It was dark. Who is he?” she said, dropping the photo on the coffee table.
“His name is John O’Brien. He’s a jobber from Belfast.”
“Jobber?”
“Someone you hire when you want someone killed or robbed or beat up.”
“Is he the guy who killed himself on my lawn?”
“Confirmed,” said Morgan.
She sat on her hands. It was wrong. A hardcore professional with the skill to break into a house undetected wouldn’t hide from the single woman who lived alone. Nor would he take a quick and efficient exit from life.
“Tell me about the boxes Reidy delivered to you,” said Seymour.
“What specifically do you want to know?”
“What was in them?”
She’d already lied to Nunez about the ownership of the boxes. She also knew that detectives asked questions they already knew the answer to. She didn’t dare lie again. “Personal property belonging to Matt Whelan.”
“With your permission we’d like to take a look.”
