Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  nineteen

  Birdie leaned into the file box on the floor and grabbed the last clipping. She glanced at the headline and tossed it back in. Around her in a semi-circle were three piles of yellowed newsprint: throw away, possibilities, put-back. She scooped up the put-back pile, dropped the articles in the box then shook it to settle them straight.

  “Knock, knock,” said Ron, entering the office. “I’m back.”

  Birdie hadn’t seen him since their fight last night. He never did return to Birdie’s bedroom. At least he left her a note by the coffee maker telling her he was going out on a run. He held a freshly blended green smoothie in one hand and a small china bowl in the other.

  “Hey, babe,” said Birdie, her tone bright and happy. “How was your run?”

  “Long and tiring. I need a shower.”

  Louise looked up expectantly from her cushion. Ron poured a bit of green stuff into the bowl and set it down. Louise immediately stuck her short muzzle into it.

  “Hmm,” said Birdie. “Kale, cucumber, tomato. Just what a dog needs.”

  “Better than meal and byproducts. She knows what’s good for her.”

  Birdie patted the floor.

  “I ran twenty miles,” protested Ron. “Surely your nose can pick up my stink.”

  She did smell the musk of exertion—lactic acid—the result of glucose conversion to feed the muscles for anaerobic activity. She also smelled the ocean carried in on the marine layer. Spongy grass. Wood shavings. Tar. Crushed rock. The makings of the earth that is the genetic scent of all men.

  “I’m sorry about last night,” she said. “I hate arguing with you.” She scooted closer and leaned forward, lifting her chin in invitation.

  “Me, too.” Ron moved the rest of the way in.

  Their mouths joined in forgiveness. Birdie ran her fingers across the fleece of his razored hair—always kept at a tidy quarter inch. They moved down his neck and across the hard muscles of his back. The soft down on Birdie’s arms raised in suspense. Her nipples tingled. The erotic response took her by surprise—the first since the kidnapping. Just then she saw the promise of passion on the horizon. A future that did include intimacy. Of life slowly improving. Birdie watched Ron’s hazel eyes light up in recognition. Felt his grin against her lips.

  Their tongues caressed to a silent, sensual rhythm. Birdie tasted vague remnants of coffee and nicotine and … nothing else.

  Her mouth broke away. “Kidding me? You ran twenty miles on an empty stomach? What about all the lectures about working out with the proper nutrition? And then you smoked a cigarette?”

  Still in a hormonal daze, Ron said, “Wha? How do …? Really? Really? Are you purposely trying to kill me?”

  Birdie’s instant laugh filled the room with glee. The last time she laughed so purely was at her birthday party back in January. Before the deaths. Before the kidnapping. Before her dad was gunned down. And before being burdened with the truth. The laugh came from a true and honest place. Like happy fireworks in her belly. More healing than afternoon tea and conversation with Father Frank.

  She rolled onto her back and guffawed. “I wish you could’ve seen your expression.” She contorted her face into surprised interruption.

  Ron laughed, too.

  Of course, Louise wanted in on the action. She jumped up and barked. Ran in circles. Chased her curled tail. Knocked over the licked-clean china bowl.

  A shrill beeping stopped Birdie cold.

  Coming from the kitchen?

  Ron sat up. Alert.

  “Are you cooking something?” said Birdie.

  “That’s my phone. Crap.” He hustled up off the floor and disappeared through the office curtain.

  A deputy with the San Diego Sheriff’s Department, Ron was the only detective in an area that covered nearly fourteen hundred square miles and a rural population of sixty-three hundred. His territory included the cities of Lake Henshaw, Warner Springs, and Borrego Springs. The last of which sat in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park—the largest state park in California and bigger than Delaware.

  Being the lone detective meant 24/7 call. Interrupted days off weren’t that uncommon. Ron worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday when weekenders swelled the population. Monday and Tuesday were his “weekend days”—except this week because he drove up on Sunday for Birdie’s one-year birthday celebration.

  Continuing her project with the newspaper articles, Birdie gathered the throw-away pile and pushed it into the trash can. She picked up a few clippings from the possibility pile and quickly reviewed them for inspiration. She must be quick. Let intuition determine whether to drop it back in the box or set it aside for deeper consideration. Pieces of newsprint flew into the file box. Nothing striking an interest.

  Ron returned. A grim expression on his face. He held out the phone. “It’s for you.”

  Birdie knit her brows in confusion and uttered a meek hello into the phone.

  “Bird, dear, it’s Nora. Don’t bother yelling at me. Ron already did. I hated to call his number, but you’ve not been answering any of your phone, and so, well … I needed to reach you to say I’m making coddle and ballymaloe tonight.”

  Birdie’s eyes flicked to Ron who stared at her expectantly, arms crossed in his I’m not happy pose. “Okay. I’ll be there,” she said, punching off and handing the phone back to Ron. “Sorry about that. I’ve been avoiding the phones because of the article. Nora wants to have a special family dinner. Emphasis on family. Nothing personal.”

  “That’s okay,” said Ron. “I took Sunday off so I should get back to the job tomorrow morning anyway. I’ll drop you off at the Manor on my way out of town. Thom can bring you home.”

  “Great. I’m glad you’re not mad.”

  “But remind Nora that family dinner isn’t worthy of activating an emergency.”

  Birdie held her tongue. Coddle and ballymaloe wasn’t just any dinner. Only matters of extreme seriousness warranted a secret meeting of the entire family. Who called it? Aiden had lived on the East Coast for many years. Madi was at the Festival de Cannes with her movie star client. Nora was a housewife. That left those local and in law enforcement: Louis, Maggie, Thom, or Arthur.

  “Why are you avoiding the phones?” said Ron.

  “Major articles bring out the crazies.”

  “Your lines are unlisted.”

  “I still have the Times phone and email.”

  “What’re you expecting?”

  “Trash.”

  “Want me to sit with you while you listen?”

  “No, thanks,” said Birdie. “I’ll be okay, but I should get to it today.”

  Birdie heard the soft puff of air pushed from Ron’s nose. A tell of displeasure. And rightly so, she thought. Ron didn’t drive ninety miles to watch her work. But he’d not say anything because he bore witness to her struggle when faced with the decision to write the article in the first place. And for that she loved him more.

  She reassured him. “I’ll take care of it while you’re in the shower.”

  Ron seemed pleased with her response, evidenced by a smile. He sat on the floor, feet together and bent forward to stretch his back and hips.

  “What’s with the clippings?” he said.

  “I enjoyed the process of writing again. Of finding my voice. I’m thinking about doing more. These are pieces of interest that I’ve saved over the years. Some have cycled and will have current relevance. Most don’t.”

  “Don’t you have enough work? What about the book coming out in the fall?”

  “Finished except for line edits. Those won’t take long.”

  “What about the new one?”

  “Finished. I already had the bulk of it written anyway. With the documents Dad left me it practically wrapped itself. The topic is hot so my publisher may flip the two books and release Darkness Bound first.
”

  “You said it wasn’t done,” said Ron, sweeping his fingers through the clippings.

  “I said I wasn’t happy with the ending. Not as in I have to rewrite it, but in that there’s no answer to why Dad did what he did.”

  “What happens if you find out?”

  “It gets included in the reprint. Why the sudden interest in my work?”

  “I’m always interested,” he said with mock hurt.

  Ron picked up a clipping at random—a photo of a scruffy man.

  “Who’s the homeless fat dude?” he said.

  Birdie took the crispy piece of newsprint from his hands and her radar pinged. “This guy isn’t homeless. He’s Todd Moysychyn. One of the richest people in Los Angeles.”

  “This dude?”

  “Don’t let the appearance fool you. He’s a large property owner. The foulest, scummiest bastard.”

  “Please, don’t hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

  “Among other shady dealings, he’s a slumlord who exploits the poor.”

  “WOOOOO,” said Ron, wiggling his fingers. “Sounds scary.”

  “He’s the worst caliber of human.”

  “There’s an unbiased journalistic statement.”

  Birdie punched him. “What I write doesn’t have to square with my personal opinion.”

  Ron held up his hands in defeat.

  Birdie returned her attention to the image. The cutline had been removed. But that didn’t matter. She knew who he was. The kind of dirty business he engaged in. He hadn’t been in the news lately. How had he weathered the housing crisis? What had he been up to? She put the photo aside and raked up the rest of the possibility pile and dropped it into the box.

  Inspiration found.

  “You’re wired to the world,” said Ron. “I’m surprised you keep clippings. So old school.”

  “I’m an enigma.”

  Ron laughed. “There’s no truer statement. Just when I think I’ve figured you out—”

  “—I surprise you?”

  “Yeah,” Ron whispered. “You surprise me.” He brushed his lips against hers. Wove his fingers through her hair.

  “Time for that shower?” she said.

  “A cold one.”

  Ron had been counseled. Birdie knew he’d wait for her to make the first move. He’d act on his desire only when asked.

  She’d also been counseled. A failed attempt at intimacy could set back the progress a couple makes when dealing with the aftereffects of violent crime. She had the discipline to take it slow. Not push it until she was one hundred percent certain she could handle it.

  Wet, naked, soaped? Not there yet.

  twenty

  The Santa Monica Detective in Charge paced the parking lot. File tucked under her arm. Thom had barely unfolded himself from the Crown Vic’s seat when she said, “My murder came first. I should take the lead, but the bully on the block called in”—she winked her fingers—“the resources card. I’m not happy.”

  “Clearly,” said Thom, offering his hand. “Thom Keane. LAPD. Our resources are at your disposal.”

  “Your idea of sarcasm?” she sneered.

  “My idea of service.” He jiggled his outstretched hand.

  They shook. The DIC held out a business card that read Anita Dhillon.

  “Nice to meet you, Anita Dillon.”

  “Pronounced Ah-nee-TA HILL-on. Silent D.”

  Thom appreciated a lipstick swagger, but he disliked her psyching the position. It was unnecessary and unprofessional. The challenge reminded him why he hated working with other police departments. He let it go for now. He wasn’t about to engage in a power skirmish with another homicide detective—especially on her home turf—nor would he reciprocate in an overt manner.

  Beyond the alpha attitude, Anita was an attractive woman. Her dark hair had sweepy bangs that teased her brows. She wore a camel suit jacket that wrapped around her waist and closed with a leather buckle. So well-tailored no bulge revealed where she stowed her firearm. He should introduce her to George. Maybe they could shop together. Share designer resources.

  Anita gave Thom the file containing a copy of all the investigative paper on the Jerry Deats homicide. Including photos. He slipped the file into his briefcase.

  “Aren’t you going to look at it?” she said.

  “Later.” He twirled the car key around his finger. “I’ll follow you to the scene.”

  _____

  Jerry Deats lived and died in the B residence of a long skinny house crammed next to other long skinny houses in a densely populated impact zone a few blocks from the beach. His place was a studio apartment over a two-car garage with a Juliet balcony across the seaward side.

  Thom approached the crime scene with his usual practicality. Curiosity at maximum. He surveyed the surrounding area slower than usual just to piss off Ah-nee-TA. He walked around the A residence. The ground floor windows were shuttered, but there were enough gaps in the slats to see that it was empty. He strolled up and down the alley checking for security cameras and motion lights. He met Anita’s hateful glare when he finally stopped at the fence gate that opened to the side yard.

  “No one had video of the alley,” said Anita. “You’d know that if you’d read the file.”

  Thom wasn’t about to tell her that he’d read the file after he saw the scene for himself. He didn’t want a report to influence his investigative antennae. “These aren’t Joe Schmo houses. You’d think someone would have a security camera considering that the garages face the alley. You know, thieves consider a garage the gateway into a home. Seventy percent of all burglaries are crimes of opportunity. You have robbery stats for the area?”

  Anita answered with a false smile. All lips. No niceness. She opened the gate, sea-faded to ash gray, and Thom headed straight to the line of trash bins and opened the ones marked B.

  “Those were empty,” said Anita, pointing to the ones marked A. “We rummaged through the Bs. Most of his garbage is still up there.” She pointed up at the apartment. “Junk mail, beer cans, empty cereal boxes. He favored Honey Nut Cheerios. Lots of milk jugs and fast food containers. The refrigerator is especially disgusting.” She jerked her head up the stairs. Thom followed and observed a porch just large enough for a café table and one chair on top of a rag mat. The porch narrowed to form the deck. A rail of rusty wrought iron jiggled.

  “There was an ashtray here on the table,” said Anita. “Full of cigarette butts. All the same brand except for one oddball. We got a DNA profile, but no hits.”

  Thom wouldn’t hold his breath. Their killer was smart. He wouldn’t leave his identity behind. Then again, cigarette butts were an easy plant. An oddball would especially draw attention and would narrow the suspect field by establishing who might want to set up the DNA’s owner.

  Thom walked the length of the deck, gazing seaward. “Wonder how much extra rent he paid for that swipe of blue.”

  Anita determinedly ignored him.

  “Who found the body?” said Thom.

  “If you’d read the file, you’d know that the woman across the alley did. She saw the body through the window. You’d also know—”

  Thom’s palm shot up. “In due time.” He removed his business cell and clicked a photo of the rectangular shaped rim of residue on the front door.

  “What do you make of this?”

  Anita touched the edge. “Sticky.”

  “Letter size. Like something taped here. There was a similar residue pattern on the Lawrence’s front door. Same size, too.”

  “You going to tell me about your homicide?”

  “As soon as we’re done here.”

  Anita cut the seal and unlocked the door. She stood aside as she pushed it open. Over-scented air of garbage and decomp whooshed from the apartment. A swarm of flies followed. Th
om coughed and turned his head as if he could actually evade the horribleness. His eyes watered. Death smells were always difficult—sometimes sticking in nose hairs for days.

  Anita grinned at his discomfort and said, “This is a rental. It had been a bed-bath combo of the main house. Walled off and converted to a private apartment. Small, but well organized.”

  Whereas the Lawrence interior was spotless, this was its polar opposite. Anita wasn’t kidding. Garbage everywhere. Another three months of accumulation and the place would spontaneously combust. Fingerprint powder and chemical residue left behind by the crime scene techs blended with the filth so well he had difficulty ascertaining which was which.

  In the far left corner an elevated platform served as sleeping quarters on top and office below—the like of which could be found in a dorm room. A tiny kitchenette containing a half-sized refrigerator, an oven with two-burner stove, and a sink were roughed in on top of a linoleum strip against the alley wall. Electrical conduit drooped from the attic above.

  “An outlaw apartment,” said Thom. “Converted illegally. Not up to code. Unsafe. These types of units are created as an income source. How does the A owner fit into this drama? They aren’t living downstairs, that’s for sure.”

  “We’re tracking that down,” said Anita. “According to the guy next door, the main house is also a rental. He didn’t know if the renters or the property owner added the apartment. It was already there when he moved in two years ago. We ran a title check. The address is owned by a holding company.”

  Thom stepped up the ladder rungs to inspect the mattress. The cotton cover still damp with decomposing bodily fluids. Thom imagined the soggy insides being devoured by writhing maggots. “Deats died here?”

  Anita nodded. “Straight shot to the forehead.”

  Thom held up an arm in measurement. “There’s about three feet of sleeping clearance. Our killer entered the apartment, waded through trash, went up this ladder, and practically laid down to get a straight-on shot. Do you find that as unreasonable as I do?”

  “Maybe the killer was someone Deats knew. Someone he was sleeping with.”

  “There’s not a lot of room for hanky-panky up here.”