by Terri Nolan
“Any connection between Deats and Lawrence?”
“Besides the manner of death? Maybe. I’ll take a closer look this evening. There’s a powwow at oh-eight-hundred in the big war room. I should have something to share by then.”
—Clay’s silence cut the room.
The background narrative, the ambient sounds of cutting tools and examination halted. Thom turned his attention toward Clay.
George continued, not sensing that the business of autopsy had ceased prematurely. “I’m gonna send you the audio of Jelena’s interview,” he said. “How someone says something is just as important as what they say. I want your feedback.”
“You can do that?” said Thom, distracted by a bloody blob in Clay’s hands.
“Yeah, Thom, it’s called technology. You underutilize that expensive phone of yours. Have Birdie give you lessons.”
“Ah, detectives?” said Clay.
George joined Thom in giving his full attention to the ME.
“Mrs. Lawrence was pregnant,” said Clay. “Fourteen weeks by my estimation.”
Confusion passed between the detectives.
“That’s right,” said Clay. “Mr. Lawrence was sterile.”
twenty-two
Birdie leaned into the car and kissed Ron goodbye. Louise snarled from Ron’s lap. She didn’t like any amount of affection bestowed upon her daddy.
“To the back with you,” said Ron. She jumped onto the backseat and immediately curled into a blanket for the ride.
“Text me when you get home?” said Birdie.
“I’m stopping in San Clemente to have a drink with Noa.”
“You might not make it back to work tomorrow after all.”
“It will be a late night.”
“Text me anyway. I want to know you’re home safe.”
“You got it. Love you, babe.”
“Love you, too.”
Birdie watched the blue Audi shrink and disappear around the corner. A dull flush crept up her neck and her heart’s bpm tugged inside her chest. She wouldn’t see Ron again until Sunday night. Six days from now. She experienced the same mitosis as always: sorry they were separating, happy to resume the analytics.
She stood on the sidewalk a moment longer. Hesitating. Don’t be a coward, she said to herself. Forward now. Do what Frank advised: find strength in every moment. You didn’t want to read the emails. Didn’t want to listen to the voicemails. And what happened? They weren’t that bad. The world didn’t stop spinning. Go on, find out what happened to whom and help the family seek a solution. You’ve done it before, you can do it again. She turned.
Magnolia Manor was a big square house. Its stark white paint reflected a bygone era of polite elegance. Magnolia Street was old and established. Large houses, deep lawns, plywood forts, and swimming pools nurtured multiple generations of the same families. It was Birdie’s second home growing up and she held an emotional attachment to its unfussy furnishings nicked with time. She loped across the entry parquet. The same place Aunt Nora taught her and Madi how to jig. Pass the broad stairs and the wood banister smoothed with sliding butts. Birdie walked around the formal dining area and pushed open the swinging door to the kitchen.
Cooking smells of onions and sausage and yeasty bread overwhelmed the cigarette smoke. Nora usually had a strict no smoking rule inside her house. Family meetings were the exception and they always took place in the kitchen. One, it was the easiest room to shield from unfriendlies and two, smoke contaminates upholstery.
Birdie’s eyes tracked the attendees. Louis, Nora, Maggie, and Arthur. They all had concern on their faces, but not stress. That left …
“Where’s Thom?”
“Upstairs,” said Louis. “I made him shower. He stank.”
“He’s also touching base with the kids,” said Nora. “He’ll be down shortly.”
Maggie greeted Birdie with a kiss and hug. “How are you darling?”
“I’m okay, Mom. You?”
“Missing your dad.”
“Me, too. Every day.”
More hugs and kisses from Louis and Nora. Birdie eased toward Arthur. He was leaning against the counter, arms and ankles crossed. His image conjured aviator shades and black cowboy boots though he wore neither. Years on the streets of Los Angeles and a successful career as a mixed martial arts cruiserweight had shaped him into what Louis called a “toughie”—a word from his youth in Ireland. Yet, Arthur had a preternatural self-assurance and a reservoir of tremendous patience. Traits that served him well on and off the job.
Arthur pulled Birdie into him. A full-body hug tight with affection. He nuzzled her hair. “My little Bird,” he whispered. Birdie felt his muscles relax. The cousins had always shared a mutual attachment going back to their childhood—the kind of love beyond a family devotion toward something more spiritual.
They stayed together for a few more beats before he released her and kissed the scar on her right cheek.
“How was your shift today?” said Birdie, taking a seat at the table.
“I scheduled vacation to coincide with the newspaper article. Taking an opportunity to get a shit load of handyman stuff done at the house.”
“Smart.”
“I wish I’d done that,” said Louis. “Asswipe TV reporters were camped outside the station accosting everyone wearing a uniform. Phones were ringing all damn day. Publicly, there was a blue hedge shielding me from the mayhem. Privately, I got several turned backs and faces of indignation.”
“I’m sorry,” said Birdie.
“Not your fault,” said Louis. “Gerard wrote his own story. If I hadn’t seen the depos, not read Gerard’s statement, I wouldn’t have believed it myself. At least I’ll be in meetings at the PAB for the next few days. My absence will ease the tension in the station.”
“Trust me, Dad, it’ll take less time to recover than it should,” said Arthur. He sat next to Birdie and began filling water glasses.
“The second part comes out tomorrow,” said Birdie. “It’s Gerard heavy since he was the catalyst that took down Janko and the Blue Bandits. It’s also about the operation that swept up the five remaining gang members. It’ll clear up any leftover questions except why Gerard got involved and what happened to the Paige Street money.”
“When did you start doing that?” said Maggie.
“Doing what?” said Birdie.
“Refer to your father as Gerard.”
“He’s ‘Dad’ except when I’m referencing the Blue Bandits.” Birdie hiked her shoulders. “It’s easier to separate the two halves of the man he was.”
Maggie nodded with understanding and approval.
“People asked me how you can be uncompromised,” said Louis.
“Understandable,” said Birdie. She was used to defending her occupation and its seeming conflict with her cop family, yet she wished she didn’t feel as if being ushered onstage to deliver a sudden speech. Her hands twittered, but she pressed on. “Next time, tell them I belong to the Society of Professional Journalists. Their ethics committee vetted the article for bias. So did the Times.”
Arthur gave her a wink and a so there nod.
“I thought the article was a thoughtful, unsentimental analysis,” said Maggie. “That’s why I went to work. I stood up for it and for our family. Of course, I’m getting the same question over and over again. Did I know? A snort of indignation and ‘of course not’ goes a long way in shutting people up.”
“Unless—” said Thom, making a dramatic entrance as if on cue. He wore his father’s old-school police academy sweat suit, hair damp with the minimum amount of preening. “—you get the question, ‘How could you not have known?’”
The kitchen went quiet in a group slap of submission. Silent except for the sound of tobacco ash falling.
The question had never been asked. And here
came Thom, fresh from a shower and phone calls with his kids, late to the conversation, and he entered the kitchen and owned everybody—put everyone on notice—with a few words. The same attitude and skill used to sweet-talk women into bed.
Birdie bit her lower lip in anticipation. Now would be the time to get it out in the open. She wound up, eyes gazing avidly from one face to another wondering who was going to speak first. She guessed Louis. No, it’d be Thom. He’s the one who brought it up. She stared at him, but he wouldn’t catch her eye. The tick tick tick had an awkward lethalness that lasted too long. Realizing the ideal moment was about to slip away, she processed her thoughts, deciding how she’d encourage Thom to answer the question.
That’s when Nora said, “Let’s eat.”
A big, silent sigh occurred and suddenly the kitchen was alive again. Another uncomfortable topic brushed aside by the Keane clan. Cigarettes were snubbed, ashtrays moved off the table, wine glasses refilled, bowls of coddle passed, a basket of warm bread set on the table, napkins placed on laps.
Louis said grace. “Bless us, Oh Lord, and these thy gifts, from which we are about to receive from thy bountiful hands. Bless this table and all who sit here. Please grant us strength and grace and make us humble in thine eyes. Through Christ our Lord, amen.”
In unison: “Amen.”
Even while she made the sign of the cross, Birdie’s impatient frustration bubbled over. She’d answer the question clear and succinct. “I didn’t know.”
Maggie quickly added in a stand of solidarity, “Neither did I.”
In brotherly synchronicity both Thom and Arthur looked up at each other, a silent discussion passing between them. Birdie tapped her fist against Arthur’s thigh in a “go ahead” gesture.
Arthur pushed the chair back from the table with a loud scrape and got up.
Thom sat straight, a pained expression on his face.
“It’s time,” said Birdie, “that this family acknowledges that we’re in the midst of undeniable traumas. Before we go forward, a confession is in order. We have to stop pretending that shit happens.”
Thom got up. He and Arthur walked into the pantry.
Nora leaned into Maggie and they engaged in fierce whisperings.
That left Louis alone, staring into his wineglass, somewhat dumbstruck.
Birdie knew her dad’s downfall and death was especially hard on Louis. They were twins borne from the same womb—as close as two beings could be. They immigrated to America together. Married best friends. They entered the police academy at the same time and had parallel careers. They even held the same rank—Louis was captain of Harbor Division down in San Pedro. They were identical in looks. Birdie saw her handsome father in Louis; the same silvery-white hair and intense blue eyes.
But the brothers were totally different in temperament and personality. Gerard had an outgoing, let’s go enthusiasm; a gritty, in-your-face hubris. His softer side always reserved for his girls, Maggie and Birdie. Whereas, Louis had crisp borders hiding a sensible, soft humor, and an emotional sensitivity. Romantic, melodic, Irish pipes and a glass of wine could evoke tears.
Birdie wanted to give him some profound sense of courage and comfort, but she could not form the words. She grasped her uncle’s hand instead. She shivered as if touching a ghost. His hand was shaped just like Gerard’s.
She remembered the last time she held her father’s hand. They had seen an action movie together. Shared a bag of popcorn. That was the night of the hard rain. The night a Belfast jobber broke into her house. The night a man died on her lawn.
Arthur and Thom emerged from the pantry. Four sets of eyes bore into them.
“I knew,” said Arthur.
“I did, too,” said Thom.
Louis burst into tears.
The truth will set you free, but first it makes you miserable.
twenty-three
The transition from tears to frothy-mouth rage was exceedingly quick. Louis ricocheted the length of the kitchen screaming in Gaelic with the thick brogue of his youth. The same one he worked so hard to get rid of to assimilate into an American life. Birdie caught the few cuss words she knew—the ones her relatives taught her when she spent childhood summers in Ireland.
Birdie had never experienced this level of rage from her uncle. She’d seen him upset. Mad. He’d even taken a belt to her butt in punishment on a handful of occasions. But this was altogether scary. Birdie felt pained. What had she done? Why had she pushed for this truth to be revealed? She had already made a private deal with the district attorney that would protect her cousins. So, really, what had been gained? What Gerard did or why he did it mattered less than how the crime affected the family. She couldn’t print, blog, post, or even whisper the truth. Neither could anyone in this kitchen. So who did the truth serve? Maybe the reason her family was so good at not discussing matters of import was because they served no useful purpose.
Drama that didn’t end well and left nothing but hard emotions.
Birdie grabbed at a speck of denial. Maybe Louis hadn’t yet processed his feelings for Gerard’s steep downfall. To learn that his sons were fully aware and knew of the misdeeds must’ve been too much to bear. Of course, she speculated. There was no way to know because she had no idea what he was saying.
Maggie’s shoulders were pinched, head bowed, trying to appear small. Nora’s upset manifest in nervous energy. She busied her hands by laying a fire in the hearth. Thom and Arthur soldiered against the hutch. Arthur had once told her that when Louis was on a tear it was the safest place to be because he wouldn’t risk throwing something at the boys and taking the chance of breaking the good crystal or china. For her part, Birdie felt rigid, glued to her chair in fascination, concern, and sincere regret for pushing the issue.
Louis stopped yelling and began muttering.
Good, she thought. He’s calming down.
After a few more volleys Louis stopped and faced Thom and Arthur. His voice took on an even, authorial tone. “That’s just stupid five different ways.” His stock phrase of disappointment. Then he slapped the head of each of his sons. Grown men, taking punishment from their father as though still teenagers.
“What was I supposed to do?” said Arthur in a borderline whine. “I was the one under the federal microscope. I was the one the taskforce kept attacking. Since I could handle the scrutiny, the invasion of privacy, why not take the heat for a man I loved like a second father?”
“It wasn’t your burden to bear,” said Louis. “Gerard should’ve manned up.”
“Dad … he didn’t know I knew. He asked me all the time. ‘How are you holding up?’ he’d say. He would’ve come clean if I showed any level of weakness, but I always told him I was good. I took my frustration out in the octagon. That was the truth for a long time.”
“Arthur even got street cred out of the deal,” said Thom.
“It’s shameful,” said Louis. “We came to America for opportunities. Not to game the system. Not to become criminals.”
“Stop that,” said Maggie.
Nora stepped behind Maggie and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “You always say ‘we’ like you and Gerard were Siamese twins. Connected at the spine. Don’t take on his responsibility.”
“She’s right,” said Maggie. “Gerard charted his own path. Who knows what flaws flow inside a man?”
“Or a woman,” whispered Louis, with a strange knowing in his eye.
Nora’s mouth twitched.
Birdie perked up. “Wait. Arthur, how did you find out about Gerard?”
“I always had a bad vibe about Max McFarland. Remember him? He and Gerard went way back. You knew him, Dad.”
“Yes,” said Louis. “They were great friends.”
“I had a sick intuition that stuck in my side,” said Arthur.
“McFarland was Gerard’s Paige Street alibi. A
s I recall, they were fishing at Lake Castaic,” said Louis.
“They did that often,” said Birdie. “The alibi was unshakable. Witnesses placed them at the boat landing. McFarland’s wife confirmed that Gerard had been at the house that morning sorting gear and packing the boat with sandwiches and beer. She took a photo. It was date stamped.”
“Exactly,” said Arthur, finally moving away from the hutch. “And the date was verified by the images before and after. Every one of us in this room now knows that the date wasn’t correct. But back then, we had no reason to doubt the proof.”
“So tell us,” urged Thom. “How did you come to learn of it? Tell us the story.”
“And not the monosyllabic, cop version,” said Maggie.
Thom sat at the table and caught Birdie’s eye. He winked at her in a sly way as if to suggest they shared a secret. But Birdie already knew what he had done by encouraging Arthur to speak. He diffused the leftover tension in the room. A story would ease the family’s transition into another difficult topic. Thom’s topic. Which hadn’t been broached yet. And besides, the Irish loved their tales, the more visual and movie-like the better.
Arthur began with a verbal fade in. “A casual observation that Matt made got me thinking about Max and Gerard’s alibi. Matt and I used to get continuous calls for service to one particular address. About twelve times during a one-month period. A long-married elderly couple. They’d have extremely violent fights. One or the other was usually injured by a swinging walking stick or a plate being thrown. Thing is, we’d become jaded because their particular situation had become a mundane reality and we were sick and tired of the pair. They admitted to hating each other, but couldn’t live without the other because of their advanced age. They had outlived their children, their families. They only had each other.”
The family ate while they listened. Soft sounds of scrapping forks, buttering bread, and drinking became a background melody that didn’t compete with Arthur’s tale. They listened with a sympathetic ear that encouraged speaking.
