Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “A clean executioner,” said George.

  “Yes, but he left us a tell. Here, in the middle, the pattern is denser. It indicates more weight. More pressure.”

  “Meaning?” said George.

  “The killer wore shoes that were too big,” said Thom.

  “Right-o,” said Spenser. “Your killer thought he was being clever.”

  eleven

  Birdie shut herself into the Manor’s time-out room. Outfitted with a porthole window, it allowed the offender to look down at the backyard pool to witness the fun being missed by bad behavior. The room was tiny—about the size of a public bathroom stall—and bare except for a box of tissues on the floor. As the kids grew, the time-out room morphed into a place to make out or talk on the phone without the threat of eavesdropping ears. Right now, it served as Birdie’s retreat. A private place where she could snatch a moment to ease her anxiety.

  A weepy gloom had settled over her. Drying out hadn’t come easy. Every day a struggle. Yes, a year sober is a milestone worth acknowledgment. But the celebration downstairs where her family toasted her success with champagne was over the top.

  Birdie couldn’t fault them for needing an excuse to party. Life for the Keanes had become hard since Gerard’s death. The pall of grief and disbelief hung heavy over the family. And it was going to get worse. Once today’s installment of the newspaper article made its rounds there’d be unwanted attention—to what degree and end yet to be determined. Only one thing was certain. On Tuesday, her cousin, Arthur, would finally be exonerated from suspicion. Sixteen years past due. But even he wasn’t happy. The cost to the family was too high and he was used to shouldering the responsibility.

  Stress squeezed Birdie’s neck. She had to figure out a way to tell Thom about his wife, Anne. But that could wait. Right now she focused on the news Anne had shared about a city attorney named Lawrence who had been murdered. She knew a Dominic Lawrence and wondered if he was Thom’s victim. She hoped not. The Lawrence she knew was one of the good guys.

  Years ago she was desperate to get help for a parentless kid named Huck who called the L.A. River home. Birdie wrote an article about him and people came forward wanting to provide a home. But it wasn’t that easy. Huck felt comfortable on the streets. A bedroom of his own confined his sense of safety and he began acting out. Enter white-knight Lawrence. He had the knowledge to recognize Huck’s special needs and the resources to get him the right kind of care.

  Birdie sat on her hands. A year sober and they still shook from withdrawals. Cravings. Nerves. Right now they were shaking because she was on edge, a current-state normal caused by downtime, which gave her an opportunity to think. Not a good thing. Too much time allowed her to dwell on the one aspect of her life where she had no control: Matt Whelan—missing in the larger world.

  In her struggle to find a solution to a very unwanted problem, she pursued what she could control: exercise, food, work, and research. The problem was that Birdie had an addictive personality. No debate. She knew she headed deeper into the rabbit hole of hyperactivity and dependency. She could not sit still. Reflect. Pray. Meditate. The constant busywork was like a narcotic. Obsessive. Bad for well-being. Bad for the soul. She desperately needed to find balance. She was a smart, young woman. So why had the simple parts of life become so hard?

  Impatient as always, Birdie called Thom to ask about Lawrence.

  “Hey,” he answered, “I’m at a scene.”

  “Was it Dominic?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to put you on hold. Change locations.”

  Birdie deflated with sadness.

  Thom came back on speaker. “George is here. We can speak freely.”

  “Hi, George.”

  “Hi, Birdie. Congratulations on a year of sobriety.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Do you know something about Lawrence?” said Thom.

  “I knew what kind of work he did. It’d give you a head start on background.”

  “Go,” said Thom.

  “He’s a staff lawyer in the city attorney’s civil division.”

  “He work cases?”

  “The city office does prosecute misdemeanor crimes and defends the city against lawsuits, but Lawrence worked in the municipal counsel branch.”

  “What exactly is that?”

  “Think of it as general counsel to city departments. Lawrence specifically worked with the city council and the housing authority.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “Through his advocacy for at-risk kids. He and his wife were fostering kids for decades.”

  “We’ve seen files on the kids. Have you met any?”

  “One. A Russian girl named Jelena. A clerk in the office. He introduced her as one of his girls. At the time, I was focused on getting assistance for a homeless boy, but later I profiled her and Dominic for a Column One feature. I’ll retrieve it from archives and shoot you a copy.”

  “Thanks, but we’ll do it from our end.”

  Birdie paused. Thom had never turned down help before. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s complicated,” said George.

  “What were your impressions of her?” said Thom.

  “I’m not sure if Dominic wanted to keep an eye on her or if he was extremely proud.”

  “Explain.”

  “First you have to understand that Dominic and his wife ran a kind of halfway house that served as a transition between the orphanage and a permanent foster family. Most kids stayed with them about a year while they learned to trust. Learn boundaries. Assimilate into family life. But Jelena was a hard case. Very angry. Kleptomaniac. She’d been with them for years.”

  “Do you think she was capable of killing?”

  Ah, now she understood. The girl was a suspect. Birdie must be careful with her response. She didn’t want to prejudice the process. “My impression of Dominic was that he had savvy instincts. If he thought one of his kids were capable of extreme violence, I’d wager that he’d get rid of them, hard case or not.”

  “Work-wise who’d want him dead?”

  “No one I can think of since he doesn’t deal directly with the criminally minded.”

  “Do you know why he fostered only girls?”

  “Oh, boy. Well … he didn’t impress me like a creep, if that’s what you’re thinking. I think you’ll find the answer is a simple one. Like streamlining. Making things easy by staying with one gender. You know, you wouldn’t have to change out decorating themes. Clothes could be handed down. Besides, girls are easier.”

  Thom laughed. “Trust me, girls are harder.”

  “That’s because you have twins,” said Birdie. “Rose and Nora were born a team. Two for one. There’s built-in comfort and camaraderie which make them natural conspirators.”

  “You have a gift of putting things into perspective.”

  Birdie wished that were true in her own life. It was easier to aim an eye outward.

  “Did Dominic suffer?” she said.

  “No. He was executed in his sleep. So were his wife and twin girls.”

  “What kind of sicko would kill sleeping children?”

  “The worst kind,” said Thom.

  “Hey, Birdie,” interjected George, “Can you tell us when Thom got to your house this morning?”

  “Sure, but I have to be in my office. Is it relevant to your investigation?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  “In that case I’ll print a hard copy and burn a disc.”

  “Thanks,” said Thom. “And for the insights. But we’ve got to go now.”

  Birdie got a sense that she’d helped; this made her happy. And now time-out needed to end before her overprotective boyfriend, Ron, put out a BOLO.

  twelve

  Thom lit a cigarette and inhaled.

  The sun reflected b
adly off the cloud deck and cast a slate glare over the Southland. May Gray. Marine layer. Onshore flow. Whatever Angelenos called it; a dip in the Western jet stream scooped up Pacific moisture and slammed it into the warm air of the mainland. It was so heavy today that Thom thought it was probably drizzling at the coast. The weather pattern was common for spring and early summer in Southern California. Yet, despite the haze, downtown lived up to its responsibility and rose like a sentinel from the colorless view.

  Thom liked this weather; the low cloud cover kept the TV helos grounded and prevented them from filming his crime scene. He passed the cigarette to George.

  It was silent up on the hill looking over the vast density of the city. No sound of humanity. No freeway. No birds or insects. Not even a breeze to rustle the eucalyptus.

  Life on pause.

  They passed the cigarette between them, soaking up the absolute quiet. They should’ve been talking about the case, comparing notes, evaluating the information Birdie had shared, but Thom was in his own head trying to avoid the cognitive bias that is a human predilection to see what it expects to see.

  He worked the collection part of every crime scene internally. Inputted all the pieces and parts, then organized and sorted. It took several scenes together before George figured out how to work within the confines of Thom’s strategic tic.

  Crime scene tech, Spenser, joined them out on the crabgrass with his own cigarette in hand. “That is so swish,” he said. “Two dudes sharing a cigarette like chicks.”

  Thom felt the silence-breaking intrusion at the base of his skull. “We also share chewing gum,” he said with an irascible scowl.

  “And bodily fluids,” added George.

  Spenser’s jaw dropped.

  “Jealous?” prodded Thom.

  Confusion passed behind Spenser’s eyes as they flicked from Thom to George and back again trying to get a read. Spenser was openly gay and it was no secret that he had a sweet spot for George. But no one knew for certain which way George swung. Thom saw the uncertainty in Spenser’s eyes as they finally settled on George. Spenser allowed a small smile to eke out and murmured, “Maybe” before making a hasty retreat back to the house.

  Thom grinned. “I do believe he hit on you.”

  “Only took him a year to work up the nerve,” said George.

  “We shouldn’t tease the poor schmuck.”

  “Don’t spoil my fun.”

  They chuckled as they walked toward the house to finish processing the home office. Thom dropped the cigarette butt into the coffee cup on the planter next to the folded newspaper. Someone had written the words Police Fags on the side.

  _____

  Spenser ducked into the Lawrence office and said directly to Thom, “Press just landed.”

  “They’ll have to get by with external shots and speculation.”

  “They already know that Dominic Lawrence and his family were murdered.”

  “There’s no word from the detective in charge. They can contact Media Relations.”

  “Roger that,” said Spenser as he left the room, his gaze avoiding George.

  “What am I? Chopped liver all of a sudden?”

  “He’s probably embarrassed,” said Thom. “The press will go nuts over shots of four body bags coming out. Especially the miniatures. See what you can do about setting up a screen.”

  Just then someone yelled, “Coroner’s here.”

  Thom flicked his wrist toward George.

  “Yay,” said George. “Dinner with Birdie’s buffed-out, former Marine, Deputy Detective boyfriend. Lucky you.”

  “Look at the bright side. Food gives me energy. Rest gives me stamina. Requirements for a thorough investigation.”

  “What does booze give you?”

  “The ability to deal with it all.”

  thirteen

  Thom passed Birdie’s second floor office. The drawn tapestry curtain meant one thing. Privacy please. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, a black pug ran full out toward him, nails scratching the tile. She skidded to an abrupt stop and performed a doggie dance of excited circles.

  “Hey, Louise,” said Thom. “Nice to see you, too.” He knelt to rub her head. “Come on, girl, give me a kiss.” Louise licked his face.

  Ron, dishtowel over his shoulder, greeted Thom with a hug—a quick chest bump and a slap on the back. “Thomas, my friend, I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Starving. Been working all day on cold caffeine and nicotine.”

  “Dinner’s tardy. I can offer an appetizer.” Ron uncapped a bottle of Booker’s bourbon and poured three fingers into a Waterford lowball, pressed it into Thom’s palm.

  Thom took a big pull. “Good shit, man, thanks.”

  “Anytime,” said Ron. “Louise has a new trick. Interested?”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “LOUISE, roll over.”

  The dog lay on her back, feet in the air.

  “LOUISE, play dead.”

  She opened her mouth and hung out her tongue.

  Thom guffawed. Endorphins warmed his belly, cleared his head. He enjoyed the feeling.

  Ron’s satisfied grin was quickly erased. “Birdie wants to see you before dinner.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “Sorry, man.”

  Yeah, Thom had a feeling. He was thankful for Birdie’s help today, but he wasn’t keen to discuss the Lawrence case. He wanted a good meal and a full night’s sleep. As he noiselessly parted the tapestry and entered Birdie’s office, he noted how the computer monitor held her intense interest. It lit her complexion with a bluish glow. When she became aware of Thom’s presence she casually and discretely closed a book. A thin thing. Black leather with gilt edges like a fancy journal. Her hand nudged it into an open desk drawer. As she turned to greet Thom her right hand turned off the monitor and the left quietly closed the drawer. It was all so graceful and deliberate. And his first thought was, what is she hiding?

  She leaned over the desk, kissed him in greeting, and sat back down.

  Thom knew that despite the sleeveless cotton sundress, this conversation was going to be business, thus, the desk barrier. He determined to drag her off course.

  “Look at you,” said Thom, reaching over and pinching a bicep. “Ron is whipping you into great shape.”

  “In more ways than one.”

  “Really?” Thom took a seat across from her. “The sex must be good.”

  A flush moved across her cheeks. “He’s got me on a healthier diet. Check out the fridge later.”

  “So the sex isn’t good?”

  She looked away—a fleeting moment before giving Thom a brave stare. “There’s no sex. Not since the rape.”

  Thom shouldn’t have teased her into revealing a confidence and his stomach clenched at the impropriety. It happened nearly four months ago to the day. Birdie had been kidnapped, bound, drugged, raped, and beat to shit for an entire week. She barely survived.

  “You’ve been tight-lipped. Why now?” he said.

  “It’s human nature to confront tragedy and move on.”

  “I hear Father Frank in those words.”

  Frank was the family’s priest, but most especially, Birdie’s close friend.

  Birdie picked up a pencil, tapped the eraser on the desk. “Yeah, Frank keeps telling me to embrace the experience. Declaration is the first step in a process to regain my power over the intimate terrorism. Like acknowledging I’m powerless over alcohol.”

  “As if you follow the program.”

  “You know me. Have to do it on my own terms. But this is me bearing witness. Hello, my name is Birdie Elizabeth Keane. I’m an alcoholic and a crime survivor.” She snapped the pencil in half.

  Thom glanced away. He couldn’t bear to see the damaged woman behind the blue eyes. Birdie had spent her teens and twent
ies drinking her way through life and loving an unavailable man. She’d never dealt with emotional issues in a cerebral way before going sober. In many respects she was an emotional retard just learning how to deal with life.

  “Keep this on the downlow for now,” she said, flicking a pencil half off the desk. “I intend to bear my vulnerability on an individual basis. Also, I’d like your help in silencing the topic during family discussions.”

  “No one has ever spoken of it. That way it didn’t happen.”

  “Our family is great at denial. We’ll see how much they can drum up this week. Was there any blowback at work from the article?”

  “There wouldn’t be at a crime scene.” Thom steered her away from work-related topics. “Ron must be a saint if he’s sticking around.”

  “He’s the best.” She swept her eyes toward the window and the dark beyond. “Going sober was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Surrendering to love has been the scariest. But I do love him.”

  “More than—”

  “You know, Thom, we got sidetracked.”

  Thom respected that she didn’t want to talk about Matt Whelan. The only man she ever pined for. The Whelan and Keane clans believed that one day Matt and Birdie would be joined in holy matrimony. That Camelot dream died when Matt overdosed. Another touchy subject no one talked about.

  She slid a printout of the key log and a disc across the desk. He had forgotten all about that. No escape now.

  “You came in at three-fourteen a.m. Want to talk about it?”

  “No.”

  “Were you with a woman?”

  Thom’s non-answer was an affirmation.

  “The reason I ask … well, there’s something in particular we need to talk about.”

  “I don’t want to discuss the Lawrence case.” There. He said it outright.

  “That’s not …” Birdie slowly swiveled her chair. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut.

  Thom knew then he was completely wrong. This was something else entirely and he couldn’t escape the dread. Might as well get it over with.

  “What?” said Thom. “Spit it out.”