Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  Lena shrugged.

  “What did you do last night and when did you do it?” said George. “And be specific about the times.” He didn’t really want to hear the exploits of Lena and Thom, but it was necessary to establish a timeline.

  Lena eyed him suspiciously through the smoke. It gave her a sinister aura. When the smoke dissipated, so did the mysterious movie still. “You think I do this?”

  “It’s standard procedure, Miss Shkatova. We’ll find evidence of you in the house. It needs to be placed into context.”

  She sighed. “I understand now. Last night I go to Hank’s with Claudia. It is downtown bar on Grand. I like it. I can talk to nice man. Claudia does not like it. So she leave.”

  “What time did your friend leave?”

  She thought a moment. “I think midnight. I have two drinks with nice man and we leave before one-thirty.”

  George braced. “What is the name of the man you left with?”

  “Thomas. He is old gentleman. Very nice kisser.”

  “Last name?”

  “I do not know.”

  “How are you sure of the time?”

  “I want to have sex with Thomas. When we get to my car, the clock say one-thirty.”

  George was momentarily dumbfounded by Thom’s ability to attract women. How did he consistently pull it off ? He must have that thing that less attractive men learn at a young age—how to be charming and work women. It couldn’t be the way he dressed off duty; khakis, deck shoes, and a polo shirt—typical yuppie clothing for men with no style. Thom did have great conversational skills, but still, the whole package didn’t add up. Then he wondered if Lena saw Thom as a potential rich husband.

  “Were you drunk?” said George.

  “No.”

  “Did this man—” he had a hard time saying his partner’s proper name, “—Thomas, take advantage of you?”

  “No. I ask him for sex. He say okay. We go to my car and have good sex.”

  “Not your apartment?”

  “I ask, but Thomas say no.”

  “Then what?”

  “Thomas leave at two-thirty. I go to apartment for sleep.”

  “Were your roommates home?”

  “Not Claudia. Her door is open when I go home, but it is closed when I leave in morning. I share room with Dona. She is sleeping when I go home and sleeping when I leave.”

  “Can anyone verify your whereabouts from two-thirty until seven this morning?”

  Lena shook her head. “I not think so unless Dona wake up during night.”

  “I’ll need to verify with Thomas. How can I reach him?”

  “I did not get his number. But bartender knows him so I can see him again.”

  “You had sex with a man you don’t know?” It was irrelevant. George’s curiosity compelled the question.

  “Is it necessary? I talk with him. I like him. He call me ‘little Jelena.’” She smiled. “I like having sex with him so I will see him again.”

  Why some women used sex as a barometer for a potential relationship confused George. He suspected Birdie did it with him. On their first date Birdie asked him for sex. Hell, he didn’t complain. It wasn’t until later that he realized she was testing the water. If the sex was good, she’d give it a go. If not, why bother putting in the time? He was pretty certain that Birdie did it with her current boyfriend, Ron Hughes, as well. Only this time, she fell in love. So she said.

  “Does Dona also work for Mr. Lawrence?”

  “No.” She dropped the cigarette butt on the street, stepped on it.

  “May I have that?” said George.

  “I do not care.”

  He plucked a small envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and scooped up the butt with the flap. He placed it in the breast pocket, right next to the micro recorder.

  “Is there anybody you know who would like to see Mr. Lawrence dead? From work or home?”

  “I can not say.”

  “What about you?”

  She took a long-winded breath. “I already said that I am sad Dom and Rachel are dead. But not twins. I do not like them.”

  Lena’s frankness surprised George the detective, not the man, and he could see why Thom was attracted to her. He probably felt liberated by her forwardness.

  George’s phone chirped. He read Thom’s text.

  TWINS DONE 1ST

  “Are we finished?” said Lena, exasperated.

  “Not by a long shot.”

  seven

  “I’ve been thinking about kids lately,” said Birdie.

  Father Frank spit tea all over his devotional notes.

  “Not as in, I want to have them, but as in, about them. In general. More specifically, I’ve been thinking about childhood.”

  “What brought this on?” said Frank, dabbing the paper with his handkerchief.

  “Louise.”

  “Ron’s dog?”

  “Exactly. Last time I stayed at his house Louise had torn up a new accent pillow. They weren’t cheap and Ron was pissed. He collected all the stuffing and bits of torn fabric and piled the mess on the floor. Ron commanded Louise to sit and then he sat just behind the destroyed pile so that Louise could see him and the pillow parts. So Louise is sitting there, eyes tracking between the pillow and Ron. He’s mad, but not showing it. A sort of stare down went on for minutes. After a while Louise began to shake. Ron ignored her. Then she began to whine. Poor thing, after a few more minutes she’s beside herself. Shaking and whining, but not moving her butt from that spot of floor. After a few more minutes, I’m really feeling sorry for Louise. I’m about to plead her case when Ron moved the pillow stuff out of sight. Meanwhile, Louise is practically spastic and crying, but still not daring to move from the floor. Finally, Ron releases her and she jumps into his lap. He gives her all his attention and love. Kisses. Belly rubs. The works. Later that day, we were on the couch and Ron threw the other pillow near her. She completely ignored it. She had learned her lesson.”

  Frank leaned back in his desk chair. “That can’t be all to this child genesis.”

  “Louise is prone to eye infections and Ron has to put this gel-like medicine in her eyes. She hates it and always cries and fusses. He shushes her and talks all sweet while he’s doing it. Afterward, he cradles her like a baby and distracts her from wiping her eyes with her paw. I’ve seen him do this before, but this time I think back and realize that he’s never hit her. He’s trained her, disciplined, loved, but never hit. Not even a swat on the flank. While he’s got Louise in his arms, an image pops into my mind and I see him holding a baby. And I think he’d make a great father.”

  “Training animals isn’t on the same scale as raising babies,” said Frank.

  “Of course not. But that doesn’t diminish the import of my thought. It was random, but not random at all. You’ve said that we, as mere humans, self-actualize. I wonder if this is God’s way of making us look at ourselves in a new light. Like the proverbial light bulb going on. Anyway, this not-so-random thought leads to another and another until I’m thinking about childhood. My childhood.”

  Frank clapped his hands together. “Finally! We’re getting somewhere.”

  “Frank, I’m serious.”

  “Me, too. I have the asperges rite to deliver soon.”

  “Okay, I’ll hurry. So I remembered one thing about myself that I had never given any thought to. Something I took for granted. Only … I never knew I had taken it for granted because I knew no alternative. It was my normal. At some point in time all children go through a phase where this one thing rules their lives. It becomes a scourge of parents worldwide who lose sleep. This one thing is also a bonding opportunity between parents and offspring. Thing is, I never had nighttime soothing sessions. Mom and Dad never had to come to my room in the middle of the night because their daughter
was screaming and afraid of the boogeyman under the bed, or ghosts in the closets. I’ve been dwelling on this one thing. Really thinking about it.”

  “You’re talking about being afraid of the dark.”

  “Exactly,” said Birdie. “I’ve never been afraid of the dark. For me, even as a child, the night brought safety. Night swallowed the fear. That’s why I’ve always had blackout shades on my windows.”

  “But that changed. You’re afraid of the dark now.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “It drives Ron crazy that the hallway remains lit and there’re night lights in my bedroom.”

  “It’s a symptom of post-traumatic stress.”

  “That’s what Ron keeps saying, too. And I know that. But the whole point is that I came to this thought on my own. Frank, it may seem trivial to you, but I’m proud about this realization. You always say to me that I have to own what happened to me because it is a permanent part of me now. And I’ll try. I promise. But for now, I’ve learned something. And maybe that something will help me become less afraid of the dark or lead to another something and eventually my comfort level and actions.”

  Birdie plopped into an overstuffed chair and a puff of dust floated upward and caught the window light of Frank’s rectory office. “You think me silly,” she said.

  “No. I’m glad. Even if it’s a black pug that gets you there. You’re making progress. Slow and steady and forward.”

  “Yes. That’s what I want.”

  A soft knock on the door announced its opening. A young boy with a mop of blond peeked in. “Father?”

  “I’m coming,” said Frank. “Go on, I’ll be right there.”

  The door closed with a soft click.

  Frank kissed Birdie’s head. “This is good. Thank you for sharing.”

  “You know me, Frank. I always share.”

  “A little too much sometimes,” he said smiling. “Do you have a confession?”

  “Not this week.”

  His eyes shot to the cross hanging next to the window. “Miracles do happen,” he whispered. He made the sign of the cross over Birdie. “In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti, Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  “Amen,” they said together.

  “By the way,” he said, “how did Ron command Louise to sit?”

  “He said in a firm voice, ‘sit’ then ‘stay.’”

  “How did he release her?”

  “He said, ‘come.’”

  “Only three words,” he mused. Frank then excused himself. He had a Mass to celebrate. A congregation to attend. Birdie was not his only customer today.

  After he left the room Birdie was struck by the feeling that her vulnerability was not a weakness. It was a strength she had to harness.

  Where did that come from?

  She gazed up at the cross.

  Really? Are you sure?

  One thing she did know for sure. Her lungs were beginning to work again.

  eight

  Detective Thom Keane scanned the SID crew. “Who’s what?”

  A woman held up her hand. “Prints.”

  Another woman said, “Serology.”

  “I’m Reynolds,” said a man, pointing at the camera around his neck.

  “Film or digital?”

  “What’s your choice?”

  Thom liked the idea of film for a media case. No one could accuse the department of altering a digital image. “Film,” he decided.

  “You got it. I already shot the exterior, points of entry, generals, and compass points in digital. I’ll switch to film for interiors and the bodies.”

  “Sounds great,” said Thom.

  “I’m everything else,” said Spenser Hobart. “There’s a nice wood floor inside. Like hair?”

  “Love it. I want to know who’s been here.”

  “I’ll bust out the Swiffer.”

  “Great. Listen up gang, you know what to do. I want to be out of here by sunset.”

  Prints and Serology exchanged smirks as if to say, like that’s gonna happen.

  Thom read their expressions and said, “It’s called efficiency.”

  He inspected the exterior of the Lawrence residence and made a notation on the fresh note pad: no sign of forced entry.

  His cell vibrated with a message from George.

  HEDZ UP POS TWIN 10YO XX

  Thom’s skin itched with irrational fear. How many twin-sets of 10-year-old girls could there be in Los Angeles? Hundreds? L.A. was a big-ass place. His girls were fine. His girls weren’t in this house. They had no reason to be. But he couldn’t help himself. He flicked his wrist. The family would be on their way to Mass at St. Joseph’s. He stepped away and dialed his wife’s cell.

  “Hello,” said Anne Keane with a clip in her voice.

  “Hi, Honey. Everything okay this morning?”

  “Yes.” Cold.

  “The kids … Pearse, Padraig, Liam …” he gulped. “Rose and Nora?”

  “We’re all fine.” Anne was already impatient, thought Thom. One night without her husband certainly didn’t make her heart grow fonder.

  “Can I talk to Rose?”

  “We’re running late,” sighed Anne. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Time for what? I just want to talk to one of my girls. Damnit, Anne, you’re driving anyway. What’s the big deal?”

  Thom heard the distinct muffle of a phone being passed from one hand to another and then the sweetest voice. “Da?”

  That was it. All he needed. A small reassurance that his girls were okay. “Hi, sweetie-pie. How’s my red rose this morning?”

  “Daaaa,” she said. “I’m a yellow rose today.”

  “Grandma Nora said you had to save that yellow dress for your brother’s birthday party.”

  “Ohhhh, I forgot.” She giggled.

  Forgot my ass, thought Thom.

  “Where are you, Da? You didn’t make pancakes this morning.”

  “I’m working, sweetie. Let me talk to Mummy.”

  More muffled passing. “Thom.” said Anne. Then off to the side she yelled, “Watch cross traffic.”

  Then he heard less distinctly, “Ma, I got it.”

  Then he understood. Their eldest son, Pearse, was driving. Thom had taken Pearse to the DMV on his sixteenth birthday and he passed with a perfect score. That was a year ago and, still, Anne stomped the imaginary brake on the passenger side floorboard.

  “Are you planning on taking the kids to the Manor?” said Thom. Magnolia Manor was Thom’s childhood home. Every Sunday after Mass the Manor became the gathering place for brunch and family.

  “Of course,” said Anne. “The girls planned a one-year celebration for Bird.”

  “Girls” referred to Thom’s mother, Nora, and Birdie’s mother, Maggie. They’d been best friends since seventh grade. Married brothers.

  “Ron’s coming up early,” continued Anne. “It’s a surprise for Bird. Why do you ask?”

  “I pulled a case. A city attorney named Lawrence and his family.”

  “That’s too bad. I’ll express your regrets. Anything else?”

  “I love you.”

  “Okay. Bye then.”

  Click.

  That was truly unsatisfactory. At least he knew where he stood.

  As always.

  Thom slipped cloth booties over his shoes and put on a pair of latex gloves. On the way into the house he said to Cross, “Call the coroner’s investigator. By the time he gets here, we’ll be done.”

  Thom made another notation on his notepad: paper-sized residue on front door—rectangle. He touched an edge and detected tackiness. Something had been taped here. He peered at the deadlock, shone a light into the keyhole.

  “Check this lock for graphit
e,” said Thom to Spenser.

  The front door opened directly into a great room. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with wood shelving filled with classic and contemporary literature. Upholstered chairs were arranged into several reading suites—the like found in libraries. No television, stereo, or radio, but there were plenty of boxed board games and card decks.

  Across the great room was a breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and dining room. To the left a table shoved against the wall held two desktop computers. On the wall, two dry erase boards tracked chores, schoolwork, and rewards.

  “This is our lucky day,” said Thom.

  “How’s that?” said Spenser.

  “Look at the Saturday chore list.” Besides the usual dusting, toilets, and trash were three items that excited Thom: doors, floors, and walls. “With an interior this clean, it’ll be easier to find what the killer left behind.” And less trace to process and sidetrack us. “The floor is immaculate. Can you hydro-stat for shoe prints?”

  Spenser squatted to get a sideway angle. “It’s a possibility. I’ll give it a try.”

  As Reynolds snapped photos Thom mapped the interior. Its tidiness and order were a stark contrast to the shambled exterior.

  The kitchen was small, neat, and shiny. Several of the drawers and cabinets were locked, probably the ones containing knives or other lethal kitchen tools.

  To the right of the great room was a full bath off a short hallway. Perpendicular to the bath was a wall partially covered with a woven blanket hung like a tapestry. It was attached to a rod with linen loops and puddled on the floor. Carpeted stairs branched off the right.

  Thom pivoted. Looked at his notes. “A window should be here.” He pulled the blanket aside.

  “No way,” said Spenser. “A hidden door. With an electronic keypad.”

  “Photo and print. Then we’ll pop it open,” said Thom.

  Thom took each stair slowly, hugging a wall decorated with framed photos of smiling girls of various ages and races. He tapped his knuckle against one and then another. Plexiglas. A safety house. Near the top was a formal graduation portrait of Jelena.

  In the photo she wore little makeup. Didn’t need to. Her beauty was natural. Clear, unflawed complexion, friendly green eyes, shiny blond hair. Her nose sloped downward and flared slightly at the end. Pink tinted lips were pressed closed to hide the braces she told him about. Jelena’s lips resembled Anne’s. Maybe that was why he liked kissing her.