Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “The last time you really saw her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think you should follow my example and stop denying there’s a problem. You screw around. Do you think Anne does as well?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Why not?”

  Simple. There was no consortium in their marriage. Not by choice. Anne didn’t desire sex and refused to perform for Thom’s sake or for the marriage. It was legitimate grounds for annulment, but Thom’d never.

  He hiked his shoulders.

  “How many times has Anne asked you to leave?” Birdie said. “I bet you’ve lost count.”

  “You don’t know the dynamic of my relationship.”

  “Continuing to separate and getting back together is a symptom of a broken marriage.”

  “All this time I thought you had a degree in journalism, not psychology.”

  “Ha-ha. Have you noticed that Anne’s lost weight? Her clothes less conservative?”

  “Her weight fluctuates.”

  “She’s wearing a new shade of lipstick.”

  “Fashion in lip color changes.”

  “Today she wore a pair of pricey designer sandals that highlighted a pedicure. Thom, I’ve never seen her toes on Sunday.”

  “Open-toed shoes are not a sin. Not even at the Tridentine Mass we attend.”

  Birdie sighed. “After Mass she and Karen were huddled closer than usual. I noticed that Anne kept fingering a new necklace. A silver chain with a small coin pearl that nestled in the hollow of her throat.”

  “So she bought a new necklace.”

  “Anne has turned into a butterfly.”

  “My wife is a butterfly every day.”

  “Thom, she was glowing.”

  “So?”

  Birdie slapped her hands on the desk. “You are such a guy when it comes to the opposite sex. For Christsake, she’s having an affair.”

  Thom froze like he’d just been hit by an iceberg. The world slowed. He saw Birdie’s mouth move and form words he couldn’t hear. They floated in whispers and slowly gathered together like molecules. Then they slammed into Thom’s forehead with such a realizing force that his head snapped back.

  “Not true!” tumbled out of his mouth in an eight-year-old whine.

  “I love you, Thom. But you need to get your head out of your ass and take control of your personal life.”

  “Like you have?” Thom sniggered.

  “At least I’m working on it.”

  “I appreciate your concern. Trust me, Anne is not having an affair.” How could she? She hated sex.

  Stalemate. Neither side would budge from their view. Thom hit the bourbon. Birdie played with silver balls of used chewing gum. Finally, Birdie pressed a button on the phone. A dial tone echoed.

  “I get it. You’re a detective. You need evidence.” She held a finger to her lips and punched a number.

  “Who you calling?” he whispered.

  “Roger Wilcox. Shush.”

  Roger lived across the street from Birdie in the Tudor revival. His roses consistently won blue ribbons at the county fair. More importantly, his wife, Karen, had been Anne’s best friend since they were in diapers.

  “Hello,” said a froggy voice.

  “Hi, Roger, it’s Birdie. Sorry for the speakerphone. You know me, multitasking as usual.” Birdie flicked her fingertips across the computer keyboard. “I’m calling to see how you liked Buddakan last night.”

  “What?”

  “I thought the food was atrocious. Totally didn’t live up to the hype. How was your experience?”

  “I didn’t go there.”

  “Roger, I saw you and Karen.”

  “No. Karen and I were home all night. I’m fighting a cold.”

  “Oh, my mistake. Sorry for bothering you. Feel better soon.”

  “Don’t worry none. See you later.”

  Birdie disconnected and said, “Who covers for you?”

  “My best friend,” said Thom, with a scratch in his voice.

  “Like I said, Karen and Anne were huddling after Mass. At brunch I asked Anne what was going on. She told me they had a fabulous time at that new restaurant, Buddakan. She told me in detail what wine they drank and what food they ate.”

  Thom shrank in the chair, hit the booze. Unbelievability squeezed his brain. There had to be another explanation. Like a business dinner. Anne was co-owner of a very successful business. A working professional. She had luncheons and dinners with associates, men and women alike. But on a Saturday night? Date night? And why would she need to enlist Karen to confirm a cover story if she were conducting legitimate business? It made no sense.

  “Thom,” said Birdie. “I’d never hurt you with news like this if I weren’t certain.”

  “I’ll hire a private investigator. To prove she’s not.”

  “Good idea. But Anne can smell a retired cop a mile away. If you want to be assured of privacy you can’t use local guys. The family is too connected.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Ask Ron. He’ll have out-of-town resources.”

  “He knows your suspicions?”

  “Why do you think he gave you such a large pour of his bourbon?” She leaned over the desk, waved her hand over Thom’s glass and inhaled. Then coughed. “Yikes. One-twenty-five proof, bottled straight from the barrel, unfiltered.” She waved again. “Oak with a hint of tobacco.” She winked. “Just because I’m an alkie doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy distilled beverages.”

  “Be careful, cousin.”

  “I know. Alcohol is always seeking ways to seduce me. It’s the lover I constantly yearn for.” She shook it off. “Anyway, Ron will be discreet. Once you know what you’re dealing with, you’ll have the tools to get her back.”

  Thom was less certain.

  He didn’t want to admit that this had been coming for a long while.

  fourteen

  Monday, May 14

  Thom jerked awake, ears ringing, body drenched. The image of delicate little girls spooned in death inserted themselves into Thom’s dream—burned in like a television image with a bloody scroll across the bottom … dead fish … dead fish … dead fish.

  He dreamt that he was in the Work and Home Building. Set for implosion any second. Jelena was there, too. She danced naked with a princess pillow and a gun. Thom felt trapped. Knew that he’d be destroyed. And then the girls. Always the girls.

  1:30 a.m. Thom stared at a ray of light that cast a thin opaline stripe on the wall. Still there thirty minutes later. Thom desperately needed to rest. A few hours would be enough to recharge the battery if he could just change the channel.

  Thom threw off the sheet in defeat and got up. All the chandeliers in the hallway were fully lit. At the far end of the hall Louise lay curled atop a doggie bed in front of Birdie’s closed bedroom door. A paw covered her eyes. Even animals need dark, he thought. He turned off the switches. The only remaining light came from the backlit Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  He shuffled down the marble service stairs to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Birdie wasn’t kidding when she told him to check it out. Black containers with pre-made meals were stacked three deep. He pulled one out and read the label. Monday breakfast. They were even stacked in order. Ron’s version of helping her with a balanced diet or a way to control what she ate? Thom rooted around. Yogurt, cheese, grilled chicken, brown rice, apples, soup … there was plenty of non-designated food, but he wasn’t in the mood for healthy. A stoner package from Taco Bell would taste good.

  Thom exited the kitchen through the back door and went down another flight of stairs to the lanai. He grabbed an ashtray off the bar, lit a cigarette, and reclined on a co
uch.

  He concentrated on the silence. The cool night air. The comfortable glow of a glass lamp. He closed his eyes and imagined the summer bloom of lotus flowers in Echo Park Lake. The image always came to him, like a much-touched photograph. Fan-shaped leaves floated atop the water and the delicate pink flowers reached toward the sun on top of thin green stems. It was his calm zone.

  Heavy eyes fell shut. Mumbled voices, far away, inserted themselves into a smoky image of Anne on a dragon boat in the middle of the lake. They disturbed his peace. A yell broke through and Thom’s eyes popped open. The voices hovered high above him. It took a few beats before Thom locked on. From Birdie’s bedroom a night breeze carried an urgent argument.

  “He’s lost,” said Ron.

  “Exactly my point,” said Birdie. “When something’s lost, you look for it.”

  “You put us at risk.”

  “No one will know.”

  “I can’t support this!”

  “You don’t have to. Furthermore, you can’t stop me.”

  “Just watch.”

  The air shifted and Thom lost the words. After a drawn-out silence he heard Ron’s iron lung become a menacing growl so low and deep it commanded attention. Thom had heard it after Birdie’s kidnapping when Ron wanted to tear the city down, brick by brick, stucco wall by stucco wall. But that wasn’t the Marine way. The smart way. So he channeled the rage, squeezed it back into his throat and held it there by the strong set of his jaw.

  “It matters to me,” said Birdie.

  Growl.

  “I need the closure.”

  Growl.

  “He’s not dead! Why can’t you understand how this makes me feel?”

  Growl, growl.

  And then a slamming door.

  Something sharp bit Thom’s finger. “Shit,” he hissed, flicking the cigarette butt into the ashtray. He jumped up and brushed ash from the couch fabric.

  The burnt skin was nothing compared to the curiosity amped up by three words. He’s not dead. There were two people Birdie loved who died recently. Matt Whelan and her father, Gerard. Both were unequivocally dead. The dead person must be a common acquaintance, which seemed unlikely since Ron and Birdie only met each other after Matt died in January. So what did Ron mean when he said she’d put them all at risk?

  “Fall asleep with a cigarette in your hand?”

  Thom twirled around. Ron stood there in tighty-whities, arms crossed over his chest, a sleepy, ever-faithful Louise at his heels. Thom wasn’t easily intimated by men, but this guy was an impressive XY specimen. Straight and hard like a shotgun with attitude to match—safe and secure like a broke-open barrel or deadly reckon with a trigger squeeze.

  “What are you doing up?” said Thom.

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Must be contagious.”

  Thom sucked at the burn. Decided to conceal what he heard. “I came down because I couldn’t sleep and then I actually fell asleep with a friggin’ lit cigarette. What a bright shitty day.”

  “I have a cure. Come on.”

  Thom followed Ron and Louise to the gym that had once been a carriage house. He squinted when Ron flipped the switch that illuminated the warehouse-sized bulbs encased in bottomless bird cages. The gym was a masterpiece of old and new. Brick walls, hardwood floors, French doors, and the gleaming, modern exercise equipment offset by ornately framed mirrors.

  Thom had seen Ron shirtless before. Seen the tattoos. A Saker falcon in flight covered the entirety of Ron’s upper back. It was frighteningly realistic. On his right bicep a coiled serpent with gold and red scales had one green eye open, one closed. Semper Fidelis and Semper Paratus, curved around the serpent. In this light, the tattoos seemed to spark awake. Unlike Louise, who jumped into a basket of dirty towels. She rolled around in the damp filth, then curled up and covered her eyes.

  Ron retrieved two sets of training gloves from a wicker basket next to the punching bag. He tossed a pair at Thom. “Not my thing,” said Thom, tossing them back.

  “Suit yourself. I’ll punch and we’ll talk.”

  While Ron warmed his muscles with basic calisthenics, Thom took a closer look at the new tat on Ron’s chest. A blue bird over his heart.

  “Sialia Mexicana,” said Ron, “most commonly known as the Western Bluebird.”

  “I’m sure Bird appreciates the testament of your love.”

  “She doesn’t doubt my feelings.” Ron hit the bag. “With or without the art.”

  A large photograph of Matt was attached to the bag with clear packing tape.

  “What the hell?” said Thom. “Bird wouldn’t appreciate that.”

  “She’s the one who put it there,” Ron said with a sneer. He hit the face again and again.

  “So it’s okay for you to disrespect his memory like that?”

  “Like what? Birdie comes down here and beats the shit out of him all the time.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s pissed that he died.”

  “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “He was careless with his meds. How is that not his fault?”

  Thom caught a twitch of hate on Ron’s face while he jumped and swayed and punched.

  “You know,” said Ron, “Birdie has a powerful talent of observation. I’d trust what she says about your wife.”

  Abrupt change of topic, thought Thom. Even Ron didn’t want to talk about Matt.

  “I don’t want to think about Anne in that way,” said Thom.

  “Who would? We dudes always get screwed. Even if we have all the right moves, do all the right stuff, sometimes it’s still not enough. I sure as hell can’t understand women.” Ron punched left, right, right, left. He hit Matt’s face so hard the hang chain shuddered. “Love is a bulky emotion. Relationships are easier without the entanglement.”

  “And far less satisfying.”

  Ron stopped short. He pointed a black-clad fist at Thom. “Good point.” Then he turned his attention back to the bag.

  Thom felt silly standing there watching Ron in his underwear working out an obvious frustration. Thom considered getting on the treadmill then remembered he was in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He decided it’d be too much work to put on the proper attire. Like shoes.

  “What did you think of Anne?”

  “Your wife is smokin’ hot.”

  “Exactly what I need to hear. Bird said you have out-of-town resources if I want an investigator.”

  “One resource. The best. Private investigation is part-time stuff and he doesn’t do domestics anymore, but he will with a referral from me.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Noa. Big Hawaiian dude. A one-man combat force. Don’t piss him off.”

  “A Marine buddy?”

  “Yep. Saved his ass many a time.”

  “You trust him?”

  Ron threw a faceful of mock disdain.

  “How would I reach him? You know, for a consultation.”

  “He doesn’t do consults. He’s referral only. And he has strict rules. When you call, you’ll get a recording that says, ‘Just the facts.’ You’re going to tell him your full legal name and that you were referred by me. After that you’ll leave the following information: the reason you want to hire him, Anne’s full legal name and maiden name, birth date, driver’s license number, social security number, home address, the type of car she drives and its plate number, and the places she frequents the most. And then you’re going to give him the same information about yourself. And because you’re a cop, you also give him your badge number.”

  Ron’s breath remained slow and even despite the bag work and the detailed instructions.

  “You’ll feel violated by the time you’re done,” said Ron. “After he gets all the facts, he’ll do a prelim to decide if he’ll take your case. That will cost
twenty-two hundred up front. He’ll call you with payment details. Afterward, he’ll call again and deliver his verdict and business terms. They are nonnegotiable.”

  “Sounds like you’ve been a customer.”

  Ron delivered one last round of explosive punches then stopped to regard Thom. “Yeah, I’ve used him before.” He shut down further inquiries with a steely glare.

  “It’s drastic,” Thom said. “And so freakin’ invasive. Maybe I should just ask her.”

  Ron trapped a wrist strap in his teeth and pulled it free. Took off the gloves and flexed his fingers. “You think she’d tell you the truth? Affairs are selfish.” He threw the gloves into the basket. “Look, Thom, it’s a bad business to consider hiring someone for spy work. But what if it’s true? What if the lover is some nut case? You have five children. Is it worth the ten or twenty grand to protect your family?”

  “Wait,” Thom coughed. “Ten or twenty grand?”

  “The best is the most expensive.”

  “I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.”

  Ron shrugged. “Money can buy you peace of mind.”

  “Or destroy your world.”

  “He’s fast and has special resources.”

  “What’s his fulltime job?”

  “He works for a government agency that requires God-like security clearance. Beyond that, I don’t need to know.”

  “He’s discreet?”

  “Confidentiality is rule numero uno. I provide the referral. What you guys do beyond that is your business.”

  Thom thought about all the moral hazards that could be discovered during an investigation. Deep in the brain where denial resides he knew this wasn’t just about Anne. What would this Noa guy find out about Thom himself ? There was serious shit to consider. But Thom felt jagged, his pride spent long ago. He had to know. And this was a safe—albeit expensive—way of finding out.

  Thom couldn’t believe what he heard himself saying. “Okay. Give me his number.”

  fifteen

  A current of discomfort pulsed through Birdie. She hated fighting with Ron. It always left her with agonizing self-doubt and twittering hands. She felt whittled afterward. Like the words carved a bit more flesh. She threw a cotton-covered pillow against the door he’d slammed a few moments ago.