by Terri Nolan
Warren ran toward the plate and disappeared. He popped back up and came out shouting. “It looks like a bomb shelter.”
“What’s down there?” Birdie said anxiously.
“A door with a lock.”
The second padlock.
She turned the tractor engine off and was about to get down when Warren snapped the barrel of the shotgun in place. Damn. Her gun was on the table. “I’ll take it from here. I know you have the key. Gently now. Toss it down.”
“You’re double crossing the man who’s been paying you?”
“Stupid shit, I was told to take whatever it is you find.”
Soto. He knew she had the key. How did Soto know about the Indio property? Did Matt tell him? Maybe when they were still friends? No. If that were so, Matt would’ve hid the boxes elsewhere.
“I changed my mind,” said Warren, his eyes growing squinty. “Git down nice and slow.”
How did Soto know about the property? She’d seen him twice recently. At the EZ-Stor and later at Kipling’s. Prior, at the Westend on the night of her dinner date with her dad.
“Git your ass down here,” hissed Warren. “I’m not gonna ask again.”
Something snapped inside Birdie. She had had enough. Like a sudden injection of a warrior gene she felt the rage pump through veins, servicing every nerve, muscle, tendon. She channeled all the hate and sized the distance. Warren was close. But not close enough. She held the steering wheel with her left hand for support and reach. “Okay,” she said. “I’m coming.” She pretended to slip sideways. Warren jumped forward in a reflexive move to save her from falling. Those few extra inches were all she needed. She swung her right leg with super strength rage. The toe of her boot caught him on the chin with such force that she heard his jaw crack. His head spun and his body slowly slumped. She didn’t give him a chance to recover. She jumped off the tractor and with both feet, smacked him square on the chest.
Birdie scrambled for the shotgun and rolled over and over until she was far from him. She jumped up and pointed the gun at his head. He didn’t move. She kicked him in the side. Blood and dirt covered his face.
She didn’t take any chances. Retrieving a roll of duct tape from her backpack she wrapped it around his left hand several times then twisted the roll again and again until she had fashioned duct tape handcuffs. She repeated the process with his feet. Only when she was certain he couldn’t move did she check his pulse. Alive, but unconscious.
She didn’t know how much time she had. While she’d farted around with the blueprints, he could’ve called Soto from a cell phone. The threat of someone arriving thrust her into overdrive.
forty-five
Birdie flipped on the Maglite and inspected the opening. Steep concrete steps led to a small ante chamber. A thin layer of dirt covered the concrete walls. A metal door with a thick iron bolt across the front was secured with the EZ-Stor padlock mate. The key that she’d been carrying around was finally going to unlock a secret.
Her hands shook with stress. When she managed to slip the key into the lock it snapped open and she pushed the door open. A loosely woven camouflage net covered eight coolers of various colors and sizes. Each wrapped with evidence tape and signed by Matt. Additionally, each cooler was bound with one or more metal straps like the Postal Service use to seal mailbags. Each strap had a dated seal. Birdie could only speculate as to the exact contents of the boxes. What she did know was that someone was willing to kill for the contents and Matt gave up his life to protect them.
Ringing in her ears signaled that her brain had caught up with the agony she just put her emasculated body through. She wondered how she’d get the coolers up the steep steps. Just then, the cell phone in her back pocket vibrated. She went up the steps to answer.
It was Ron. Urgency in his voice. “Denis is dead.”
Birdie felt off balance. She’d been taught to forgive-and-forget and to forgive those who trespassed against her. But now, she could not grasp these righteous attributes. Not only could she not forgive Denis—there was a part of her that was happy.
“I have something to say,” continued Ron. “It’ll be difficult to hear. While you were missing, I witnessed your dad reload shotgun shells in his garage. He had four of them. They were pink with yellow stripes. Unique. Gerard told me they were for the sonsofbitches who took his daughter. One was found concealed in the brush near Denis’ body.”
Gerard taking revenge against the man responsible wasn’t hard to hear. What father wouldn’t do the same for his daughter? “Are you telling me that my dad murdered Denis?”
“You’ll have to come to your own conclusion.”
“Tell me everything.”
“The body was recovered less than a hundred yards from Denis’ house by a neighbor’s dog. It was hidden in some brush. He’s been dead awhile. The police are canvassing. Denis was shot more than once. So far the only evidence recovered at the scene was the one shell.”
“Dead awhile?” she said, confused. “I only discovered myself that Denis was the company man the day before yesterday. The only way my dad would know is if Thom or Arthur told him. And that’s not likely because they wanted it quiet. I don’t care what you saw, or what he said while I was missing, Dad didn’t do it. He couldn’t have known it was Denis.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Ron.
“Have you seen my dad since you’ve been in town?”
“No. Remember when I said no one knew where Arthur was? Well, he called Thom to check in and said he was out looking for Gerard.”
“Have you told anybody about the shell?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it to yourself. I have work to do. I found the boxes and I have a prisoner that might wake up any moment.”
“Prisoner? What the hell?”
“Gotta go.” She punched off before Ron could get in another word.
Pure instinct and presence of mind took over her emotions and actions. She had something to fix. She called her parents’ house.
Maggie answered. “Gerard?”
“No, Mom, it’s me. Where’s Dad?”
“I don’t know. Where are you?”
“I’m busy. I need you to do something important for me.”
Maggie hesitated. “Okay.”
“I’ll walk you through it step-by-step. First thing I need you to do is go into the garage, pick up the extension and put it on speaker.”
“Bird, what’s going on?”
“Mom, time is vital. Please just do as I say.”
“Okay. I’m in the garage. Picking up the extension and turning on speakerphone. Hanging up cordless. What next?”
“Put on a pair of latex gloves. Dad has a box on top of the filing cabinet. On the workbench is a gray plastic box with tiny clear drawers. Inside the lower left one is a key. Make a note how it’s placed in the drawer and make sure you replace it exactly as you found it.”
“Okay. Found the key.”
“Unlock the padlock on the cabinet to the left of the workbench. Notice how it’s hanging. Dad knows when someone has been snooping in his stuff.”
“It’s unlocked. Now what?”
“On the bottom shelf, on the far right is a brown coffee can. Open it up and tell me what you find.”
“I remember these. You collected them on one of our deer hunting trips in Utah. You said they were pretty.”
“Pink shells with two yellow stripes?”
“Yes.”
“Count them. How many?”
“There are twelve.”
Twelve. Birdie collected sixteen. Four were missing.
“Mom, you need to wipe down each shell with an oil rag. There’s a clean stack to your right. Wipe the can, inside and out and don’t forget the lid. Lock the cabinet and replace the key. You need to dump the can. Do you still get trash pick up
on Thursday?”
“Oh! I haven’t put the cans out yet.”
“Good. Shake out the shells into a bag of garbage. Put the can in the recycle bin. Do it now, Mom, before the garbage truck comes. When you’re done, take the gloves and put them in the cross shredder Dad has in the office. Collect the pieces and flush them down the toilet.”
“Am I destroying evidence?”
“I don’t know. Do it just in case.” Birdie hung up.
Warren mumbled. He was coming to. She grabbed the tape rope around Warren’s ankles and dragged him farther behind the crates. Her whole body screamed in pain. She had to drag, rest, take a breath, drag, rest, take a breath.
She squatted next to Warren’s blood-encrusted face. “Who do you work for?”
He tried to say something.
“I suppose it’s hard to talk with a broken jaw? See that van over there?” She took his face in her hands and turned his head toward the direction of the van. “I’m going to move it. If you squirm from this spot, I’ll run over your head. Do you understand?”
Anger seeped from his eyes.
“Whatever you feel, times it by a hundred, and maybe you’ll come close to what I’ve been going through.”
forty-six
Birdie’s superhuman strength was replaced by excruciating pain. Her weak body wasn’t functioning. Nervous energy was the only sensation left. The immediate danger to her person had passed and without benefit of the adrenal hormone, she wondered how she’d muster the muscle stamina to get the coolers up the steep flight of stairs and into the back of the van. She rooted through the pack and found the in-case-of-emergency pain pills. She popped two and washed them down with the leftover water from the tourist center.
Time was no longer on her side. She didn’t know if Warren had notified Soto, but she had to operate under the assumption he had. It was urgent Birdie find enough vigor to move the evidence. More importantly, she had to drum up the courage. Once they were loaded, she’d be on the freeway driving the van to the Criminal Courts Building to deliver them to Deputy District Attorney Daniel Eubanks. Soto and Rankin would likely go down for something yet to be revealed, perhaps Thom and Arthur, too. Her role? The destroyer of a cop dynasty. Or, she could cut the seals, contaminating the evidence, and become a tainted journalist.
Birdie wished there were a way to assign a value to love. How was she to balance her love for Matt with the love for her family? Were her feelings for Matt strong and deep enough to make her cousins suffer by finishing his work? Even the innocent of her family would be affected by the consequences. And the Whelans? The pain of losing Matt, and now Emmett—a son who was by all accounts a good cop, a husband, and father to four—would not be less.
She had a task to complete and if she took much longer to decide, the decision would be taken from her. And this, after all, was the gift and the power Matt left her. If she continued to stall, then surely Soto would show. And then what? Would he kill her and destroy the evidence?
Destroy the evidence. What did that mean exactly? Whose sins besides Soto and Rankin’s would be buried? What would the final outcome be if she turned it in? Could she live with the thought that she helped further destroy the trust the citizens of Los Angeles placed in the LAPD—a department that has provided livelihood for her entire family? A department that had a history of corruption that no one would let it forget? Wasn’t it time to move forward and forgive and forget? A motto to live by.
She had no idea how it was going to end, but there was one certainty: She had to be prepared to make a final decision and she couldn’t do that until she took the first step.
The bright light of the Maglite illuminated the coolers. She tugged at the camouflage netting. What looked loosely woven and lightweight was actually stiff and heavy. It was a net of colored wires. Now she was in a bigger pickle. How would she remove the heavy net? She came across a round disc about the size of a hockey puck that had five thick wires coming from it. These led to another round disc and more wires. They stretched on and on around the entire bundle of clustered coolers like a giant Tinker Toy blanket.
Birdie fell back against the wall when she realized she was looking at a bomb. The coolers were rigged to explode. But why? Wasn’t it her choice? How could she make a decision now? Surely, Matt would’ve left more instructions. She frantically waved the light around the room. On one wall he had written in black marker the same Latin words on the note that enclosed the padlock key: Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet apparebit, nil inultum remanebit. The Latin contained the answer. Matt wants me to make every secret known. Then why rig it to explode? There had to be another explanation.
Birdie searched farther into the room. On the far side of the bundle was a pair of wire cutters with a tag that read: cut blue wire to deactivate. Next to it was a covered box. She opened it to reveal a red button. Inside the cover of the lid was written: press to activate. Close door. 90 seconds to boom.
Birdie needed to think. She ran up the steps for fresh air. Warren was still in his spot, but she could see he had been working at his bonds. Didn’t matter. He was secure. Birdie collapsed in the dirt. She lay there on her back, immobilized by fatigue and pain pills. She gazed at the brightening sky and wished she were safe in her bed looking up at glow-in-the-dark stars. She wanted to blink herself to a different time and place.
Time moved so swiftly it seemed not to pass at all and she was no closer to an answer to the question: What now? How long had she lain in the desert-baked soil? An hour? White clouds slowly
collided. Two? The sun shone brightly and the dirt warmed under her body. Three?
Warren’s screams woke her from the drowsy trance.
“What the—?”
The gate chain rattled. She jumped up.
“You little shit,” she hissed, picking up the shotgun. “Who’d you call?”
He cackled.
She jammed her boot between his shoulder blades and pointed the gun at his head. “Give me a reason.”
She could only hope that whoever was at the gate couldn’t see the van. She dropped to the ground and slithered to the end of the row to see which direction the intruder was moving. A car slowly pulled forward in her direction and stopped. She jumped up, aimed the shotgun at the driver.
A man got out and waved.
forty-seven
“Bird,” said Gerard, “I’ve been worried. You went missing again. What are you thinking to be out here by yourself?”
Birdie gazed into her dad’s vibrant clear blue eyes—strong eyes full of thought, concern, and love for his daughter. He took the shotgun from her hands and pulled her into a hug and gently rocked her. “Oh, this feels nice. I’m so glad I’m able to do it before the end.”
It took a few seconds for Birdie to comprehend what he said. “What do you mean?”
Warren’s screaming caught Gerard’s attention.
“Did you do this?” he said.
“Yes, sir.”
“Gerard … cut me loose,” grumbled Warren.
Gerard? He knows my dad? He could talk the whole time?
Gerard stepped on Warren’s neck. “Boy, you have a big mouth.” He pulled a small caliber pistol from his jacket, and before Birdie’s brain caught up with the visual, he fired one shot into Warren’s head. The sound echoed in the stacked crates. Bright red blood slowly oozed from his skull. Warren’s body froze in death.
The landscape morphed into the melting colors of a watercolor and slowly bled out of focus. Birdie’s legs gave way.
Gerard toppled a crate stack and placed one upside down. He helped her to sit. He sat on another, across from her, lit a cigarette and dragged deep. He didn’t speak as she tried to understand the events of the last five weeks. He allowed the reporter in her to put the facts in place and compartmentalize the brain files.
Pearl told her that there was an unnamed thir
d partner in the Soto and Rankin triangle. He said Danny didn’t know the person’s identity. Matt never told him. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter now because Birdie knew who the third leg was.
Gerard led her down a path by responding to her thoughts and theories the way any father would. He misled her by telling her untruths with a twinkle in his eye, as if he were speaking gospel. Why wouldn’t she accept anything out of his mouth as anything but the truth? He was the teacher, the disciplinarian, the role model, the one she looked up to. They had an unbreakable love that could never be doubted. Even now, she didn’t love him less. Gerard Keane’s heart may be cold enough for murder yet it was warm enough for love.
It was there all along.
She just didn’t see it.
Matt wanted to save Birdie from having to choose between her father and himself. How terrible it must have been for him when he found out who Gerard really was. How long did Matt know? When she thought about Matt’s notations in his personal journals, the hints of her having to make a choice between him and family were there. It went all the way back to their sexually charged tussle in his new house. She was nineteen and Matt took himself out of her emotional life so she wouldn’t have to make a choice. He made that one for her.
Matt encouraged her to date and took his sex elsewhere. But he couldn’t fully let go. He was always in her life. They still did the things couples do—saw movies, ate at restaurants, went dancing, traveled together, shopped, they spent time together. They were a couple by all accounts; except they didn’t speak about their emotional attachment nor did they have sex. Every one of their acquaintances knew about their love. And no one understood why they didn’t take that last step to make it official. Except Matt. And Gerard. He knew why Matt kept his distance.
“You’re the bad package,” whispered Birdie.
Gerard simply nodded.
