Burden of Truth

by Terri Nolan

  “I looked at the ballistics summary,” she said, getting back to the Paige Street murder books. “Jackson was hit with a single trigger, 10-gauge double-barrel shotgun loaded with double-ought shells, both barrels fired almost simultaneously. It takes a lot of skill to fire in quick succession like that. And it’s an awful lot of firepower for a robbery. Double ought—nine pellets per shell, times two, is like eighteen bullets hitting Jackson at a range of fifteen feet. He didn’t have a chance. But I’m confused. There seems to be a discrepancy about the other rounds. The report says that Matt’s grazing hit to the skull was a 40-caliber round and that Jackson was also hit in the face with number 8 lead shot. Fired out of what and at what range? Sanchez had to have both hands on the shotgun. So there were three guns, but only two suspects?”

  “The second suspect was a two-fisted shooter. According to Whelan’s statement, he fired from the kitchen.”

  “Let me get this straight,” she said, glancing down at the floor plan of the Alvarado home. “The second suspect had a handgun in one hand and some kind of gun that shot shells in the other. He was thirty feet away, aiming at two different targets, six feet apart and hit both in the head? What kind of shell and casing?”

  “None were recovered,” said Alejo.

  “The second guy shoots, collects his shell, collects his casing, and makes off with his gear and thirty-one pounds of cash—”

  “Allegedly,” interjected Alejo. “There was no proof that more than the two million was in the household. A portion could have been removed between the time Sanchez and Keane searched the home and the time Sanchez came back. The amount could never be verified.”

  “—and disappeared into thin air,” she countered. “You’re looking for Superman.”

  “That’s why we haven’t found him. He’s still out there somewhere. But I promise you, I will close this case if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “What was Matt’s assessment about Arthur’s involvement?”

  “He never said for certain.”

  In a journal entry, Matt mentioned a choice Birdie would have to make. My cousin or him? Did he know and yet didn’t dare write his knowledge?

  “I know my cousin,” she said. “He lives small.”

  “Maybe he used the alleged money to buy his alibi. If the second suspect were ever caught, he’d likely be charged with felony murder for the homeowner, felony murder for Jackson under aiding and abetting, felony murder for Sanchez under the provocative murder act, and felony robbery. There could also be attempted murder of a peace officer. Tack on all the special circumstances and special allegations, the suspect, if convicted, would likely get LWOP. The DA would have a great shot at the death penalty. Is freedom worth a mil?”

  Life without the possibility of parole or death? Definitely worth a million dollars cash. And who better to hide it than a boutique doctor like Dr. Ryan? But there were no witnesses, no weapons, no evidence. Even the FBI never identified a suspect in the case. “Was the money checked into evidence stolen?” she said.

  “No.” He flipped another glance at his watch. “It was returned to Monica Alvarado.”

  She didn’t misunderstand what Arthur said about Matt stealing evidence money. “Are you certain?”

  Alejo smirked. Oh, yeah.

  She felt pressure behind her eye. The start of a headache. Then a thought struck her. “Soto said that the domestic shooting that nearly killed Matt wasn’t actually random. Is it possible that the shooter was the missing second suspect?”

  Alejo shrugged. “Maybe it was our vanished superhero that sniped Whelan. In any case, we have no viable suspect. Time’s up. That’s all the consideration you get.”

  “Oh, come on. What a shitty way to end. Who benefits most from Matt’s death?”

  “From what I hear, you do.”

  _____

  Birdie’s thoughts were troubled. Something hovered around her, nameless, formless, on the outskirts. She couldn’t reach it. The radar pinged, but didn’t zero in on a target.

  The inspection of the Paige Street murder books was nearly anticlimactic. Yeah, the Blue Bandits element was new. Frightful even. But that didn’t bother her. She wasn’t even concerned about being used by Soto and Alejo. She foresaw the backend benefit. After all, she didn’t sign a nondisclosure. Didn’t even shake on it.

  Her head hung downward, eyes watching the Wolverines scrunch her pale shadow on the sidewalk. Despite the steel toes these were her most comfortable boots. They were required equipment for a two-week stint where she lived on a deep-water oil platform while she researched a Time feature on offshore drilling. The posture was not only bad for the spine it meant she wasn’t paying attention. She heard her father’s admonishment in her ear, “Bird, walk with your head upright. Shoulders back. Be alert to your environment.” At that moment an abrupt greeting shook her from her disconnectedness. “Yo, Tweety Bird.”

  Anyone who ever had the nerve to call Birdie “Tweety Bird” only said it once. But there was one person she allowed to get away with it. Pearl Eubanks. Adopted brother to DDA Daniel Eubanks. Private Investigator. Daniel’s go-to man. Birdie’s friend and unofficial sponsor. He spread his fingers in a subverted wave holding the line of forward momentum. “Keep walking,” he said. “Don’t look at me.” They were nearly shoulder to shoulder when he said, “Danny sends his regards. Says your house might be hot. I’ll come at midnight.”

  It took a few steps before the gravity of the message processed, yet she didn’t look back even as her stride compulsively quickened. At least she felt grateful to be on 1st Street. If she’d been on the other side of the PAB, on 2nd Street, there’d be plenty of activity due to the loft dwellers that turned the PAB lawn into a dog park and where she’d feel exposed.

  Pearl’s message served one good purpose. It shed light on the it that bothered her.

  Why would the department so diligently pursue a cop as the second suspect in Paige Street without the associative evidence to put him at the scene? And why would they spend precious resources investigating every member of his family?

  Because they were fishing.

  And maybe still fishing. Was that why Rankin was at her house after O’Brien broke in?

  Birdie needed the 411 on Rankin.

  And she knew whom to ask.

  twenty-seven

  By the time Birdie passed Pearl and reached the safety of her car, she managed to transform three pieces of Doublemint into a grape-size piece of concrete. She got in, buckled up and immediately drove to the roof of a parking garage where she’d have a clear sight line of cars coming and going. She retrieved her travel gun from under the seat and placed it on the passenger seat. She sat upright behind the steering wheel. Windows up. Doors locked.

  Her automatic response was culled from an organic desire for security. Danny wasn’t a paranoid and wasn’t prone to letting his imagination control his sixth sense. He would only be concerned if he had cause, which meant he knew something relevant based on two small bits that Birdie communicated: she is Matt’s heir; someone broke into her house.

  Meanwhile, with unknown listeners she didn’t feel comfortable working at home, she’d work out of the Ford and conduct a bit of back checking. Housekeeping first. She removed a steno pad from the back pocket of the passenger seat and recorded in shorthand everything she could remember from the murder books. She’d learned the Gregg method from an old nun in seventh grade during a semester’s worth of after-school detention. Few people used it anymore so there’d always been a level of security. Then she wrote her impressions. These would come in handy when the book reached the final stages of completion—should that day ever dawn.

  She called her cousin, Thom, and invited him out for dinner. He insisted they meet at her house and, because she didn’t cook, he’d bring Japanese. She couldn’t shake him of his resolve to meet at the house and figured she might have t
o blow off the Rankin discussion and keep him sober enough to leave by midnight in time for Pearl’s visit.

  Her next call went to Monica Alvarado. They spoke often during the initial research stages of Birdie’s investigation, during which Birdie disclosed that she was related to Arthur. Monica welcomed her anyway. She’d thought she could manipulate the teenage Birdie to provide her with familial confidences that would forward her lawsuit against the city. Years after the incident when reporters moved on to other business, she’d call Birdie to give her updates in hopes of getting coverage that would heat up the unsolved case. Eventually, they both moved on.

  “Hello, Mrs. Alvarado, this is Elizabeth Keane. It’s been a long time. I’m hoping you can answer a few questions regarding the Paige Street incident.”

  “Has there been an arrest?”

  “Unfortunately no. I’m calling to ask about the cash checked into evidence. Did you ever get it back?”

  “I had to sue. But I never got the rest that crooked cop took.”

  “It’s never been established that another cop was present.”

  “The man walked like one. Talked like one. Hit like one.”

  “Who can argue with that logic? Mrs. Alvarado, please clarify. Did you receive the evidence money back?”

  “I didn’t have it long. The IRS robbed me of everything I had left. Said I wasn’t paying taxes. Said I got that money dealing drugs. That’s a lie. Me and Martine didn’t do nothin’ illegal. Then those government thieves took everything but my house. And now it’s haunted by my beloved husband.”

  At least Birdie learned that Monica got the evidence money back, and she still lived in the Paige Street house. That was enough for now. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Alvarado.”

  Her next call went to Arthur. She left a message on his cell. “I met with Narciso Alejo and spoke with the Alvarado widow. Both confirmed that the Paige Street evidence money wasn’t stolen. It was returned. I expect you to counter any future bad package rumors with that double-checked fact. Matt’s integrity on this issue has been restored.”

  Then she called Jacob Hoy to see how he was faring and drop a line into the water regarding assisted termination. After a bit of small talk Birdie finally got to the meat.

  “Were you aware of strain between Matt and Emmett?”

  “How could I not? They’ve been hot and cold since we were kids. There was an intense competitive streak between them that often got physical.”

  “Did any of their conflicts involve women?”

  “Only Linda. Bad news from day one. Emmett and Linda had a past connection and he told Matt to lay off. Of course, that prompted Matt to pursue her harder. Hey, Hughes filed his report yesterday,” he offered.

  “Anything unexpected?”

  “No. He did his job. Even investigated my whereabouts. Never thought I’d have to have an alibi. I know what he was looking for. He wondered if I helped Matt along.”

  “He said that?”

  “Of course not. It’s the next logical step up from your suicide theory and you should be ashamed for ever thinking it.”

  “I might have thought it, but I never mentioned it to Ron. He did that on his own.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t help Matt self-terminate. Okay, Birdie?”

  “Alright. We’re clear.”

  _____

  Birdie threw a tablecloth over the round table in the lanai and set out the everyday china. She put the sake she purchased on the way home on ice. She turned the gas warmers to low, lit candles, and flipped on the mini white lights circling the columns supporting the deck above. Of all the rooms in the house this would be the least likely to be hot. Birdie had just finished getting ready when Thom arrived. Right on time. He buzzed the door and she answered through the intercom, “The postern’s unlocked. Come ’round back.”

  A few minutes later, Thom rounded the corner of the house.

  “Look at this,” said Thom placing the handled bag on the bar before kissing his cousin. “It’s not often we’re down here. It’s a nice space. You really should use it more often. Too bad the death plot is in plain sight.”

  Birdie frowned at the sight of the yellow tape that marked off the location of O’Brien’s final place on earth. Definitely a downside to the choice of the lanai for their mealtime discussion.

  Birdie opened a Kirin for Thom while she transferred the food to covered serving dishes.

  “What’s the update?” she said.

  “Wilshire checked a mile radius and found no abandoned cars.”

  “He had a wheelman.”

  “Not so fast. There’s a Metro station nearby.”

  “Thom, the station is at Wilshire and Western. Trust me I’ve done the legwork. A guy from Belfast wouldn’t know the shortcuts, which means a rough route of twenty-five blocks, depending on whether he took Wilshire or 3rd. Like I said before, he’d need a transport. Unless—”

  What if he wasn’t looking for something? What if he was adding something? Wire taps? What if the mess of Matt’s things was merely a diversion? No. She quickly dismissed the theory. He had no possessions when he died. No ID, no keys, no paper, and no tools or equipment.

  “Unless what?” said Thom.

  “Nothing,” said Birdie, shaking her head. “I was just running the Purple Line’s timetable through my head. I have that sake you like. Let’s eat.”

  After dinner Thom stretched out in a lounger with a cigarette and nursed another beer. Birdie curled up on the corner of the couch and sipped tea. Her phone rang repeatedly during their meal. Birdie screened and let them go to voicemail, but Thom had had enough when the phone rang again and she got up to check the caller’s number.

  “Damnit,” he said, “does your phone ever stop ringing?”

  “Not really, no.” Since she was up she grabbed the photo of Rankin she’d downloaded from the department’s website and tossed it in Thom’s lap.

  “So?”

  “I remember him bringing you to the Manor after you’d been shot.”

  “And?”

  “He tried to ask me questions the night O’Brien broke in. He wouldn’t identify himself so I refused.”

  “And?”

  “You tell me.”

  “You want to know what happened the night I got shot. Why is it relevant?”

  “Matt died and cops are calling him a bad package, a Belfast jobber came to my house looking for something in Matt’s things and then blew his brain to smithereens. Rankin showed up almost immediately afterward. Then you showed up. I was so happy to see you that I didn’t have the wherewithal to ask how you knew what happened. Your past connection—”

  “Okay, okay. But it stays there,” he said, pointing at her head.

  “Agreed.”

  “It was a night of no action,” said Thom. “A bunch of us drove our radio cars to a hole where we went for naps or to shoot the shit. One guy picked up a couple of working girls. We drank and had a little adult fun. Next thing I know we’re being approached by a gang of Chicanos. Shots were fired and the group scattered. When it was over, the blue shoes were gone and I had one in the side. Mom used to be a surgical nurse, so I convinced Rankin to take me to the Manor. The rest you know.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it? Maybe I didn’t stress that we were getting blown by street whores and fired our weapons at a group of guys that were probably just passing through.”

  “Who knows about it?” she said.

  “Mom, Dad, and Rankin. You. And Madi of course.”

  “None of the other cops knew you were shot?”

  “Think I’m crazy? When it comes to a conspiracy, the fewer people the better.”

  “How did you find out about O’Brien?”

  “One of the patrol officers is a pal. He called.”

  “And Rankin?�
��

  “I didn’t know he was here prior to my arrival.”

  “I saw the two of you exchange eye contact.”

  “We have a mutual incident that could destroy our careers. Dad’s, too.”

  “Why was he here?”

  “You’re related to one of his captains? I don’t know.”

  “Have you had much contact with him since that night?”

  “Naw. We took different career paths. Now he’s more politician than cop.”

  “Okay, you’re off the hook.”

  “Thank God,” Thom said in mock relief. “Your dinner mission has been accomplished. I can go home now.”

  Thom had been gone a few minutes when the phone rang. It was Denis Cleary. The message of condolence he left after Matt’s death was sweet. Their brief phone conversation had been civil. And now a third contact. Of all the calls this evening this one she’d answer.

  “Do you still go to nine o’clock Mass?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Would you meet me for breakfast afterward at our old place?”

  Their old place was a quaint breakfast café off Sunset that started life as a kit home from Pacific Ready Cut. It rated high on atmosphere and privacy with its shroud of ivy and greenery.

  Birdie had always desired to mend the fence with Denis. But forgiveness is given, not earned. The only way to receive it was to put herself in front of Denis and hope that his invitation was a step toward that goal. His voice was bright and friendly, so she agreed.

  twenty-eight

  Sunday, January 15

  Midnight. The clock start to a significant day.

  Matt’s birthday.

  Like Birdie, he was born during the season of Epiphany. Catholics all over the world celebrated this as the time in history when the Magi bore gifts to the infant Jesus. She’d light candles today at the prie-dieu at the eastern corner of her living room. She’d celebrate this day as the day of his re-birth into heaven.