Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  Thom opened the war room door. Bennie caught his eye and held up his thumb. Email sent. Thom gestured okay in return. Anita and Diego were at the pink box eating. Anita gazed at Thom with an unexplainable expression. Shaw was texting or checking email on his phone. Craig and Seymour were whispering in the corner. George ticked his head toward the door. Thom backed up and they walked down the hall.

  “What did she do now?” said Thom.

  “Who she?” said George.

  “Anita. Did you see her face?”

  “It wasn’t … Craig—”

  Craig and Seymour came through the door.

  “LT?” said Thom. “What’s up?”

  “It has come to my attention that your participation will jeopardize our case. We think it best …”

  Thom’s brain whirled. He’s being thrown off ? Had someone, somehow, found out about Birdie’s eyes on the case?

  “… very disappointing,” Craig droned. “I think you’ll agree the investigation will be better served with Seymour and Silva as lead.”

  Seymour said, “Morgan had a family emergency and George is already up to speed since the begin—”

  “—as of this moment you’re no longer working the case,” said Craig. “We need to have a few private words. Gentlemen?”

  George reluctantly pivoted toward the door. “I’ll call you later.”

  “We’ll need the murder book,” said Seymour, somewhat smugly.

  As soon as the door shut, Thom said, “What the hell, LT? I told you immediately about Jelena. I begged off, but you wouldn’t listen. And now that the case has legs and is gathering speed you’re pulling me? And reassigning my partner?”

  “Trust me,” said Craig. “I’m not happy either. But we got an official complaint.” He held up his hands in defense. “A one-eighty-one was filed. Complaint of Employee Misconduct. The IA investigator will want to talk to you immediately. Call the League. Get a rep.”

  “You kidding me?” said Thom with a hitch in his voice. “You file on me?”

  “Hell, no,” said Craig. “I don’t want this attention. I don’t know who filed. I don’t know what the problem is. Hell, it might’ve been filed a week ago for all I know.”

  Only Internal Affairs—operating under the umbrella of the Professional Standards Bureau—located in the Bradbury Building on Broadway would know who filed. Anyone can file a complaint for any reason. A disgruntled citizen, a fellow officer, a supervisor, anybody has the right to file. The department even made it easy. PDF forms, complete with instructions, were available on the LAPD’s website.

  When Craig initially told him about the integrity audit he actually would’ve preferred a 181. They could be approached head-on. Now, Thom wanted it to go away.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  “Is this aligned with the IA?”

  “You can’t know about that,” warned Craig. “I told you as a favor.”

  Thom felt like he rode the break toward an inescapable fate. About to crash on a reef. Sharp. Deadly. A serious sense of menace vibrated in his body. Who the hell is screwing with me? And Why?

  “I’ve got a good package,” said Thom. “If this dings me in any way, you’re going down with me. Everything will be on the table.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Thom. That’s a hollow threat. We both know I have no control over that situation.”

  “Do we?” Thom mad-dogged his supervisor.

  _____

  Thom gathered a few things from his desk, stuffed them into his briefcase. Most of the important shit lay on that creepy altar Birdie had in her office. He had heard rumors that the tech geeks could block access to email so he forwarded Bennie’s file to a personal email account —just in case. He quickly wrote out a note of thanks to Bennie, looked up his mail stop and dropped it in outgoing near the shared printer. As he turned to return to his desk something hit him in the back of the head. He pivoted to find his friend, Scott in Robbery Special, laughing. A five-gallon container of peanuts sat nearby in an empty cubicle. Thom saw the peanut on the floor. He picked it up and chucked it back. He wasn’t even close to hitting Scott.

  “Guess you’re not on the softball team,” said Scott.

  “Never was much of an athlete,” said Thom.

  “You okay there?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  “You need anything …?”

  “Thanks, Scott. I’m good.”

  At least one guy in the squad had his back. Two if he counted George.

  _____

  Thom threw his briefcase into the trunk of the Mustang. He walked up the stairs, through the lobby, and out the front doors of the PAB aiming toward the smoker’s pole. He lit a cigarette and breathed deep. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Why did it seem that practically overnight his life had gone to shit?

  A body hugged his. He pushed back, not immediately recognizing Birdie. Patches of white dust were on his suit.

  “What the heck?” said Thom. He clocked her construction-girl outfit. “What would Madi say about all that dirt?” He brushed his suit jacket.

  “I snuck into a construction site to see Moysychyn. Please, please, please tell me you left out the part about him being owner of L.A. National Housing Trust at your meeting.”

  “As you asked,” confirmed Thom. “Not that it matters anymore. I have news.”

  “So do I,” she said.

  “Come on then, let’s walk. I have to hit the bank. There’s one on Broadway.”

  “I have money for lunch.”

  “It’s not that, I have to send a wire. That’s how Noa is getting paid.”

  “How much?”

  “Twenty grand.”

  “Geeze, that’s a helluva lot of money. I hope he’s worth it.”

  “Tell me about it. So, news … you first.”

  “I saw Danny this morning. He gave me fresh insight on the great matter.”

  “Bird, family meetings are secret.”

  “You have no idea how much I trust him. Besides, I didn’t tell him everything. I just thought he’d know who was behind the surveillance. He said it’s not coming from his office.”

  They stopped at the corner and Thom hit the pedestrian button.

  “Hence, not the department,” said Thom.

  “Correct. He agrees with us that it’s not the FBI either. He has a theory that we didn’t consider …”

  “Beat added for emphasis? Come on, hit me.”

  “He thinks—well, I supposed it to be a private citizen—that it’s someone with the motivation and means for a high-priced investigator. He used the word vendetta, but I think it’s something else entirely.”

  They started across the sidewalk on the walk signal.

  “This person gave your supervisor the means to hurt you,” she said.

  “And who would this person be?”

  Birdie didn’t answer.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to think me crazy.”

  “I already think that. Now spill.”

  “Anne.”

  Thom guffawed. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It makes perfect sense when you think about it. Look, Thom, she’s having an affair. We’re not talking about a one-night stand, a fling. It’s a relationship.”

  Thom held up his hand. “Stop. You really don’t know the dynamic.”

  “California is a no fault, community property state. With the right divorce attorney you could petition, and probably be granted, spousal support. She’s being proactive by gathering proof of your adultery. To head you off at the pass.”

  “Wow. You really are crazy.” He snuffed the cigarette on the smudgy edge of a concrete trashcan, adding his ash to the blackened rim. “First off, Anne would be horrified of the potential scandal. Scared of the impact it’d have on her business, on the kid
s. Second, we’re Catholics. WE don’t get divorced. Third, she and I have an understanding. An agreement.”

  “What kind?”

  “The kind that has allowed me to do what I’ve been doing all these years.”

  Birdie stopped suddenly. “She gave you permission?”

  Thom turned. “When she was pregnant with the girls. We’ve been roommates since Liam was a child. The twins were conceived during a drunken, one-night-stand.”

  Birdie frowned. “Well, that theory is blown.”

  Thom put his arm around her. “Ah, cheer up. You’re the queen of theories. You’ll come up with an equally outrageous one before long.”

  _____

  Birdie and Thom approached the teller: Anna, according to her nameplate. “I need to send a wire and make a withdrawal.”

  “Yes, sir, swipe your bankcard please.”

  “Why do I need to do that?”

  “So that I may process your transaction.”

  “It also allows her to see your accounts,” said Birdie, winking at Anna. “She’ll confirm that you’re the account owner, check pending transactions and balances.”

  “So she’ll know how much money I have,” said Thom.

  “She could care less,” said Birdie.

  “To make sure you have enough for the transactions, sir,” said Anna. “What is the amount?”

  “Twenty thousand for the wire, twenty-two hundred cash.”

  “Yes,” said Anna, looking at her computer screen. “Are you familiar with the wire process?”

  “No.”

  “Let me get a form.” She stepped away to a back office. A few moments later she came back with a piece of paper and slid it under the thick Plexiglas barrier. “Please fill out the wire instructions. I’ll also need your driver’s license.”

  Thom pulled the license from his wallet and passed it under. “I’m going to make a copy. I’ll be right back, Mr. Keane.”

  “Why does she need my license?” complained Thom. “I already swiped my card.”

  “Are you really complaining about digging out your ID?” said Birdie. “They’re not trying to hassle you by asking for a second form of identification. They’re confirming who you claim to be. Cards and pins can be stolen. The bank is looking after your assets. It’s for your protection.”

  “What do you know about it anyway?”

  “You know how much work it was to close out Matt’s estate? Especially me not being a relative? All the people … all the banks. Each one with different procedures and guidelines and processes, each one with strict federal regulations and compliance. Which gets audited, by the way. Come on, a little inconvenience is worth our piece of mind.”

  Anna returned and passed Thom’s license back. She also had a copy of the signature card he and Anne both signed when they opened the joint account.

  “Triple checking,” said Birdie, smiling.

  Thom looked down at the instruction sheet. There were boxes to check, account numbers to fill in, routing numbers, beneficiary account numbers, addresses, banking information. “Holy cow,” he said, “I had no idea.”

  “Just think what would happen if twenty thousand dollars came from the wrong account, or was sent to the wrong account. They have to be extra careful,” said Birdie. “After Anna does her part, it’ll go to a supervisor for review, then it will get processed and go to the bank’s wire department. The whole process takes, on average, thirty minutes. Providing Anna has no other customers to service, because she’s the one who enters the initial data. Don’t piss her off.”

  “You’re really liking this, aren’t you?” said Thom.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  And sure enough, nearly thirty minutes later they were walking out of the bank.

  He had just paid Noa. No backing out. No return.

  Throughout the financial transaction Birdie had fun at his expense. Teased him. Normally, he’d be resentful. Mad even. But in his heart he knew she meant well. A bit of light-hearted distraction from the emotional process. To move him past the horror of paying a stranger to gather God-only-knows-what dirt on the love of his life. His wife. The mother of his five children.

  What masochistic tendencies allowed him to sell what was left of his pride for twenty thousand dollars for something he intrinsically knew would lead to pain, heartache, loss? Last night he thought he had reached the bottom of the well. Not so, as it turned out. There was a false bottom. More levels of hell remained.

  Birdie slipped her arm around his. “I really am hungry. And I think we need a boost. Let’s walk to the cathedral and light some candles. Take prayer in the sanctuary. Give ourselves over to His grace for a moment of reflection. Stroll in the garden. Appreciate the gift of light through the alabaster and the stained glass and the spiritual nature of the building.” She leaned in, blue eyes gazing upon blue eyes. “Then when our souls are nourished, we’ll grab a bite at the café. You tell me your news, I’ll tell you the rest of mine, and then … we make a plan of attack.”

  Thom reluctantly smiled and nodded as though the side trip was the most obvious next step in a day not nearly half over and already filled to capacity with the morbid for an average fellow. How did she read people so effectively and give them what they needed?

  As they walked toward Our Lady of the Angels on Temple Street, Thom realized he could not reciprocate. He didn’t know how to interpret her deep emotional contours. Didn’t know how to reach the dark places that dwelled inside her. Didn’t know what she needed. Was this because she always seemed so self-sufficient? Self-contained? No, he didn’t think so. As kids, he remembered a different Birdie. Open. Accessible. Carefree. So what changed? Was it the usual teenage angst? Were her burdens so great they lead to a life of alcoholism? At what age did she become so efficient at concealment?

  How could he know? He was too wrapped up in his own life to give notice. Really, did it come down to something as simple as missed observation?

  These thoughts made him sad.

  One thing he knew for sure. His drama came from external sources. Birdie’s came from internal sources. Still, there had to be some tell.

  Thom determined to be more mindful in the future. After all, he was a detective. He already had the skill in some measure. Used it well on the job. It wouldn’t take much effort to hone his gift and utilize it for his personal life.

  If he had, he might have seen Anne’s affair before the bomb dropped.

  thirty-six

  “Hello, my love, guess who’s coming to dinner tonight?”

  “Who?”

  “Elizabeth Keane. That reporter I told you about.”

  “What? Are you crazy?”

  “Why do you always say that?”

  “Okay … sorry … this might actually be good for us. Do you remember what you have to do? The role you are playing?”

  “Yes. I will be an actor.”

  “Be very careful. I remember her from before. She’s …”

  “What is she?”

  “Crafty.”

  thirty-seven

  Birdie wiped her mouth with a paper napkin and pushed the salad away. Whereas Thom had already finished a sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and downed a large soda.

  “That’s it?” he said, suppressing a burp. “You’ve not even eaten half.”

  “I’m full.”

  “How can that be possible? You didn’t eat the breadstick and only dipped your fork into the dressing.”

  “I’m full,” Birdie repeated.

  “I know you eat more than this. Your boyfriend makes sure of that.”

  Birdie leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

  “Ron brings you all that food. Stocks your refrigerator. Controls what you eat.”

  “Whoa. Remember who you’re talking to. Do you think I’d let a man
control what I eat?”

  “Sunday morning the fridge is empty. Ron rolls into town and suddenly it’s full of foods ready to heat and eat. He’s got you exercising. He completely changed your diet.”

  Birdie shook her head. “No, no, no. That’s on me, dude. Okay, at first it wasn’t. Back when I came home from the hospital I didn’t like his interference. But really, he forced me to exercise for rehab purposes and practically force fed me to put weight on, the right way, with a healthy diet. The regime made me feel better so I took it to the next level.”

  “What next level? You don’t cook. Never have. So he’s doing it for you.”

  “Ron has a job. Responsibilities. You think he has free time to cook and prepare a week’s worth of food for me? I buy it from a nutritionist. He’s just transportation.”

  “You pay someone to cook?”

  “Why is that so shocking? Like you said, I don’t cook. So I hire a service to do it for me. The place I use is in Carlsbad, just south of Ron’s house. He picks it up for me when he comes to town, when I go to his house I bring it back.”

  “I didn’t realize that you’re pushing this agenda on yourself,” said Thom. “All this time I thought you had a controlling boyfriend.”

  “Well, he is … by nature. He’s also extremely disciplined, not prone to weakness.”

  “Because of his military training.”

  “He was a Marine for twenty years. You can’t just hang up the uniform and forget the training. Hell, he’d still be there if he hadn’t reached the zenith, the top rank for an enlisted man. But I won’t tolerate that kind of bullshit in my private life so he has to temper his … oh, how do I put it?”

  “Jealousy?”

  “Why that word?” said Birdie.

  “I saw how he beat the bag with Matt’s face on it. He was angry.”

  “He hits hard.”

  “It was right after you guys argued about someone not dead,” he said.

  Birdie was taken aback. He heard their argument? She’d have to be mindful that another person lived in her home. The freedom days of complete privacy were gone.

  “You misheard,” she said.

  “No, I didn’t. I heard it clear as a bell. You said, ‘He’s not dead. Don’t you know how that makes me feel?’ So, who were you talking about?”