Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “I can run a parallel investigation.”

  “No way,” said Thom, emphatically. “This case will be squeaky clean. Getting help from a journalist—especially the daughter of Gerard Keane—is not gonna fly with the powers that be. Justice won’t be served if we break the rules on this one. It’s already high risk and I’m not gonna lose my career.”

  “It’s not like you’d become an outlaw cop. Just a resourceful one. I think Gordon’s concern over missing files is legitimate and reason enough to dig deeper. Consider me a hunter-gatherer. I can get information without the department’s procedural red tape. Look, Thom, the city is run by twelve departments. There’s an entrenched bureaucracy that’s especially hard for a cop to break through. My assistance will help, not hinder. We can wash whatever I get and it becomes yours. Like original discovery. You own it.”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Alright,” she said. “But if you agree, I don’t think we should tell George. I totally trust him, but right now I think us Keanes need to stick a little closer than usual.”

  “Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I need to catch some zees.”

  Birdie didn’t tell him that it was already tomorrow. Nearing the forty-eight-hour mark where most of the valuable homicide work is done.

  twenty-nine

  Tuesday, May 15

  Birdie heard a ping. She jerked awake not realizing where she was. Then she remembered that after Thom went upstairs to catch some sleep, she did a bit of casework on his investigation. Last thing she remembered she had laid down on the couch to close her eyes for a minute. Now she paid for those few minutes … hours …with a stiff neck.

  The ping was a text.

  She picked up her cell on top of the altar. 4:04 a.m. Are you kidding me? He’s just now getting home? Good thing she didn’t doubt Ron’s character. She visualized how it went: he and Noa talked and drank for hours, played a few games of pool, drinking past last call, all the way up to closing, and then talking some more at the car, not wanting to leave the best friend that you don’t see often enough.

  Ron’s text read: HOME

  Birdie texted back: FINALLY. U OK?

  I HATE MYSELF

  TOO MUCH LIQUOR. WHAT WAS IT?

  TEQUILA

  OUCH! ASPIRIN, LOTS OF H2O.

  ROGER THAT

  LOVE YOU.

  LOVE YOU MORE. TALK LATER …

  Birdie got up and stretched. She was tempted to wake Thom. He had the all-important meeting at eight. She’d let him get a bit more rest. With what she already discovered, he’d be amply prepared for the meeting. Make an impression.

  _____

  Birdie knocked on the guest room door and opened it. Thom walked in from the bathroom toward the closet, his bottom half wrapped in a towel.

  “Hey, I was coming in to wake you,” she said.

  “Beat you to it. Got coffee?”

  “Nice and strong.”

  “Breakfast?”

  “You eat breakfast?”

  “I need the fuel today. It’s Tuesday. Got the paper yet?”

  “On the kitchen counter.”

  “Why are you grinning?”

  “Because I found a connection between your two homicides.”

  thirty

  LONG SOUGHT PAIGE STREET

  SUSPECT IDENTIFIED

  By Elizabeth Keane

  Special to The Times

  Part 2 of 2

  On a smoggy, triple-digit day in July, two Los Angeles police officers, Hugh Jackson and Matt Whelan of Hollenbeck Division, had just finished lunch when the dispatcher radioed an armed robbery in progress. They were near the address and responded. Less than ten minutes later Whelan was on the ground with a bullet wound to the head, Jackson was dead, another man was dead, a man would die of his wounds the following day, and a woman was hospitalized. The only one who escaped injury was a suspect who got away …

  _____

  Mayo read part two of the newspaper article, upset that the reporter hadn’t gone public with the phone messages.

  Why is she doing nothing?

  The big fish was killed.

  Why are the cops doing nothing?

  Mayo was losing patience. It’s been two days!!!!!

  thirty-one

  When Birdie told Thom she had taken care of the coffee and donuts for the meeting and handed him a pink bakery box, he assumed it was filled with donuts, bagels, or croissants. The fact that it was heavier than expected must’ve entered his mind and immediately exited because he never gave it a second thought. Only now as he opened the box did he curse himself for not realizing that she’d take the Ron Road to nutrition and press her new, whole foods agenda onto the unwitting Thom and the other detectives.

  Inside were bran muffins, bananas, Fuji apples, and individual packets of mixed nuts, square packets of fruit cleaning wipes, and plastic knives. He picked up one of the muffins and peered at the tiny green bits poking through. He sniffed and smelled nothing other than sugar—a clever disguise to conceal the fibrous bowel-bulker. He was just about to toss the muffin into the trash when Anita Dhillon arrived.

  Thom was momentarily taken aback by the detective. She wore a sleeveless tweed dress in shades of red that had frayed edges, seemingly on purpose. Or perhaps the distraction was the cut arms, shapely legs, and high-heeled pumps.

  She didn’t offer her hand.

  “Thom.”

  “Anita.”

  She peered into the box. “Oh, thank God. Something good for a change. Your wife put this together for you?”

  Thom didn’t wear a wedding ring. Never had. As a cop he didn’t like to reveal a familial vulnerability. Nor did he mention a wife when they met. Therefore, he was put off by her assumption that he couldn’t put together meeting snacks without a woman’s assistance—despite the truth.

  Thom ignored the comment and said, “There’s coffee, too.” He pointed at the cardboard carafe from the corner bakery.

  Anita claimed a seat by dropping a leather tote onto a chair and flung the jacket that had been over her arm onto the back. She picked up a muffin and bit into it. “Mmm … zucchini … delicious. Homemade or store bought?”

  The door opened. George’s arrival with a fist full of napkins made a response moot.

  “Anita, this is my partner George Silva. George, this is Anita ‘HILL-on.’ Spelled with a silent D. She’s the DIC with the Santa Monica PD.”

  George unceremoniously dropped the napkins and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He made no effort to conceal his appreciation of her attractiveness.

  “And you as well,” said Anita, shaking his hand.

  “Chanel?”

  “Good eye. Yours?”

  “Custom.”

  “Ah, well done. You must share the name of your tailor. Does he do women?”

  “She does, but she’s not taking new clients right now. Sorry.” George clocked Anita. “You don’t need my source anyway. That dress fits great.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where do you put your gun?”

  Thom’s ears perked up.

  “Normally, at my back, but today, it’s in my purse. That reminds me.” She retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Thom. “That’s an estimate for the dry cleaning.”

  Thom fondly remembered how he slammed an envelope—slimy with decomp—onto Anita’s jacket.

  He smiled now when he said with all niceness, “Considering I was the one who waded through the detritus and successfully completed the task of finding a lead that you and your team missed, you know where you can put that estimate. Don’t you sweetheart?”

  Anita glared.

  Thom ticked his head at George. “A minute?”

  They stepped out into the hallway. “If you go out with that woman, I will hate you,”
said Thom.

  George chuckled. “Yeah, I got the vibe. Don’t worry, I won’t go out with her. I’m just gonna nail her.”

  Thom’s mouth dropped open.

  George guffawed. “Dude, it’s way too easy to goad you these days.”

  A group of men rounded the corner at the end of the hall.

  “Game on,” said George. He straightened Thom’s tie and slapped him on the shoulder. “You look very fine today. Now, let’s shake this thing out.”

  _____

  Thom Keane stood in front of the white board and addressed the people sitting around the conference table. “We’re here to find an apex predator. One that executed eight people while they slept. By comparing our case details and pooling our collective experience and intellect, we will get the answer to the great, persistent question of why these people? We find the answer. We get our predator. He gets the needle. To begin, let’s introduce ourselves.” He pointed left.

  “George Silva. LAPD. Robbery/Homicide Division.”

  To his left … “Anita Hill-on. Detective in Charge, Santa Monica PD.”

  “James Seymour. Detective three, LAPD.”

  “John Blabbershaw, by name not reputation.” The table laughed. “Culver City PD. People call me Shaw.”

  “And people call me Diego. I’m with Pacific Division, LAPD.”

  A man who’d been typing into a laptop stood and said, “I’m Bennie Hy. I’m non-sworn clerical. Meeting notes, file share ops, I can help with—”

  Lance Craig suddenly stood and gave Bennie a cease and desist look. “If this group grows into a taskforce, all members will have complete access to case files.”

  “Craig is our lieutenant at RHD,” said Thom quickly to repair the awkwardness caused by the interruption. He gestured to the last man in the room. “Sir?”

  A man of medium build who wore his pants low on the hips stood and said, “I’m Captain Carter of RHD. Hello and good morning. I’m due in a meeting, but I wanted to stop by to introduce myself and to say the department appreciates Culver City and Santa Monica’s cooperation in finding a serial perpetrator and bringing that individual to justice. Every resource we have will be yours to utilize. I am confident that this group will get the task done. This gathering today is an illustration of the power of law enforcement bulletins. Thank you Detective Dhillon for your outreach. One last word … silence. No one will speak to any print, broadcast, or online media regarding any aspect of the case. Nor will you make any post in any format. All inquiries will be forwarded to Media Relations here at the LAPD. At this time, there is no need to panic the populace regarding a serial killer. They have enough fodder to keep them busy for a while.”

  He caught Thom’s eye when he said that last. Of course, he meant Birdie’s article. Thom wondered if anyone else picked up on it. Or if anyone had read her work and connected their names.

  Shaw raised his hand, “Sir, any plans for a press conference?”

  “Not at this time,” said Carter tersely. “Good luck to you all.” He waved as he left the room.

  Just like an administrator, thought Thom. Or a politician. Which is pretty much the same thing in a department where following the party line gets notice. Captain Carter wasn’t well known. He came in a few months ago and organized a cheerleading meeting at the start of his tenure where he rallied the detectives with an actual cheer: Hey, Hey, you get out of our way, today is the day we put you away! After that he wasn’t around much. When he was in the squad bay he closed himself into his office with its cherrywood desk and cabinets. But it sat dark and empty more often than not.

  “Let’s get started,” said Thom. “I understand that the first dead fish murder took place in Westchester—a neighborhood patrolled by Pacific Station. Diego?”

  Diego was a handsome man. On the short side and clearly gym fit. He wore a well-maintained mustache which he continually twisted at the ends—a quirk that already bothered Thom.

  From his seat Diego held up copies of the case file. Bennie jumped up and passed them around. “Our victim is a thirty-five-year-old white male, Maxwell Williams. He lived on Boeing Avenue. He was an urban architect who worked out of his home. Cause of death was a single shot to the temple with a small caliber weapon. No casing was found at the scene. He was discovered in his bed and the coroner determined that the body had not been moved. We concluded that he was executed while he slept. The coroner placed TOD at around four to six in the morning of April first. There were no signs of forced entry. The victim was found by his boyfriend—a man named Joey—at around one p.m. that same day.

  “According to neighbor statements and Joey himself…” twist … “the pair had fought Saturday night. Joey had broken off their relationship and Maxwell hadn’t taken it well. Joey stated he came back to the house to return Maxwell’s house key. When he didn’t answer the door, he used the key because he worried that Maxwell’s despondency would lead to suicide. That is exactly what Joey thought when he found the body.

  “The words dead fish were on the bathroom mirror. We thought it was a sick joke because there was a tank of exotic fish in the kitchen.” Twist.

  “We’ve extensively interviewed his associates and friends, but found no motive for murder. We eliminated Joey as a suspect almost immediately. He was in between apartments and living with his sister for a few weeks. She confirmed that he was at her house during the event. Joey calls me every Friday asking for updates. Not sure if he wants Maxwell’s murder solved or if he’s seeking absolution for the guilt he’s laid on himself.

  “We thought we had one good lead. Maxwell’s house was a rental owned by Vermillion Management. They were quite excited to have it empty and couldn’t even pretend to be sad for the deceased.”

  “I’d think a regular tenant would be an asset,” said Anita.

  “Except he wasn’t a good tenant,” said Diego, twisting yet again. “According to the documents provided by Vermillion, Maxwell was continually late on his rent and bounced checks. They were in the early process of eviction when he was killed.”

  Anita and Thom exchanged glances. Jerry Deats was also being evicted.

  “We kept coming back to the entry method,” said Diego. “All the windows and doors were shut and locked. No evidence of forced entry. We also examined the front door’s dead bolt for microscopic signs of tampering. This lead us to the possibility that the killer had a house key. Maybe a past renter. At our request, Vermillion provided key records. When a new tenant moves into a property, the locks are rekeyed and the renter is given a number of keys based on their needs. Maxwell was given two. One of which he gave to Joey.” Twist.

  “Who does the rekeying?” said Thom.

  “They have a locksmith on retainer that services all their properties. He voluntarily provided a record of his work for the house on Boeing. His record matched Vermillion’s. And that’s where we’re at. We’re no closer to finding why Maxwell was killed or who did it.”

  “Any other questions?” said Thom.

  “Was there a muffle used?” said George.

  “A bed pillow,” said Diego.

  “And what was used to write the message on the mirror?” said George.

  “A foam paint brush.”

  “What was the condition of the bullet?” said Anita.

  “Pretty much unusable for comparison. Maybe an alloy comparison.”

  “Was there tape residue on the front door?” said Thom.

  “None that we saw.”

  There were a few other questions that reiterated the information already given, so Thom gave the floor to homicide detective Shaw of Culver City PD. He did not have prepared copies so the others at the table took notes.

  “We had two victims. A mother and her teenage son. Nitta and Nadeer Malik, forty-six and sixteen, respectively. The MO is the same as Diego’s case. Single shots to the head. Decorative accent pillow
used as muffler. The home is located on La Cienega. A townhouse. We determined that the residence was entered through a downstairs broken window and a patio chair. We found tracked glass shards on the carpeting. Mother and son were in the same bed—hers. There was no forensic evidence in the residence or on their person indicating sexual contact. Nadeer had his own bedroom so we concluded their co-habitation was a cultural thing.”

  “What was their ethnicity?” said George.

  “Indian. Also, there were several books in the house on co-sleeping and attachment parenting so it seems to be an individual choice on her part. There is no father. He died in Afghanistan last year, not as a solider, but as a tourist. Dead fish was also written on the bathroom mirror, and a foam brush was in the sink; however, there were no fish tanks in the house.”

  “Was the house a rental?” said Thom.

  “Owned by Ladder Capital. To my knowledge they were not trying to evict Nitta and Nadeer. The rent was paid on time and the checks were good. Regarding the weapon, the rounds were pretty much broken up inside the skull, which is common in small caliber rounds, the executioner’s murder weapon of choice.”

  Shaw paused to drink some water and for a moment the only sound in the room was Bennie’s frantic typing.

  “When did the murder occur? And who found the bodies?” said Anita.

  “April eighth—apparently, a week after the Westchester murder. The bodies were found that afternoon by a friend coming for tea. It was a standing date. When they didn’t answer the door, the friend went through the gate to the back patio and discovered the broken window. She called nine-one-one.”

  “What I’m hearing so far,” said Seymour “is that other than the manner of death and the message, there is no connection between the victims.”

  “None that we’ve yet found,” said Anita.

  Thom liked that she put one half of S&M in his place. It was early in the investigation; he shouldn’t be ruling anything out. Too bad she couldn’t be this agreeable all the time.

  “That’s right,” said Thom. “Anita? You’re up.”