Glass Houses

by Terri Nolan

  “The building or the occupants?”

  “Both.”

  Thom followed the driveway lights and the security gate slowly closed behind them.

  “I’m glad we’re outta there,” said Birdie.

  “Me, too. But I wish I could see Todd’s face when he finds the dead goldfish on the cart’s seat.”

  “I can’t believe you did that.”

  “Messing back.”

  “Go down the block and pull over. You’ll have to use my cell. It’s linked to the car’s wireless. No privacy though. Calls go through the stereo speakers.”

  “Surround sound.”

  “It’ll be like the kids are in the car.”

  Thom pulled over in front of a dark storefront with shutters and bars and switched on the dome light. Birdie attached her cell to the port and turned on the system. The face of the phone glowed. “Call Thom home,” she said.

  “Dialing Thom home,” said an electronic voice.

  “Cool. You have the best toys.”

  After a few rings a boy answered, “Keane residence.”

  “Liam, my man.”

  “Da! Where have you been?”

  “I’m on a big case, son. I miss you so much. How was school?”

  Birdie tried to dial down the volume of the voices echoing in the car and turned her attention to her notes. She used Gregg shorthand—something she learned from a nun during a month’s worth of after-school detention. It’d been over a year since she used it and found herself out of practice and struggling to keep up during the second Moysychyn interview.

  Gregg used elliptical figures and lines for sound—not the actual spelling of a spoken word. It was a handy skill for stenography and reporting purposes. And only a few old-time reporters used it anymore—no one of her generation that she was aware of. The method of note taking gave her an advantage at press conferences and interviews. Since no one could read it, there was also a level of built-in security.

  She sped read the stenography and added notations or corrections. She’d been at this for at least ten minutes before she noticed that the cacophony of voices had risen, like each of the kids had picked up an extension and were talking at once, wanting Thom’s attention. Then she realized he wasn’t driving either.

  She nudged him. He frowned and nudged her back in a don’t bother me gesture.

  “Okay, boys and girls, cousin Bird needs her phone now. Rose and Nora, kiss-kiss, Dada loves-loves you. Now get to bed. Liam and Padraig, lights out at nine, love you, too.”

  Pearce said, “Say goodnight to Da and hang up.”

  Four voices said goodnight-love-you-bye-bye all at once and hung up their phones until only Pearce was on the line.

  “What’s up big guy?” said Thom.

  “Are you and Ma getting divorced?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Because you’re not living here anymore.”

  Birdie’s heart ached for what Thom must be feeling after hearing those words from his eldest child.

  “Who said that?”

  “Da, I’m not stupid. Even on the hard cases you come home every day and we haven’t seen you since Saturday.”

  “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you in a few days, big guy, but it’s a big leap from a few days gone to divorce.”

  Birdie mouthed, we can go over.

  “You want me to come over now?”

  “It’s okay, Da. I know you’re busy. It’s just that Ma has all those meetings lately and I’m tired of babysitting the brats.” Meaning the twins.

  “Ma isn’t there?”

  “Naw. But she’s paying me twenty bucks an hour and leaves money for pizza.”

  Thom knit his brows. Birdie returned a perplexed expression.

  “At least you’re saving money for a car.”

  “Uncle Jerome”—Anne’s brother—“offered me one for free if I get straight As this semester.”

  “Well, Pearce, we’ll have to talk about that one later.”

  “Me and my big mouth. I knew you’d say that.”

  “You know me too well. Now, go check on the munchkins, tuck them in tight, and earn your twenty bucks. Don’t forget, lights-out for you at ten.”

  “Promise me first you’re not getting a divorce. It’d totally suck.”

  “Don’t worry P-man. Me and Ma are solid. I love you, son.”

  “Love you, too. Goodnight Da.”

  Thom disconnected the call. He got out of the car and screamed into the night air. Punched the roof.

  “That better not have left a dent,” yelled Birdie.

  “Damnit,” said Thom, jumping back into the car. “What the hell?”

  “Kids are smart. They know when something’s wrong and the big-D is a kid’s worst nightmare.”

  Thom knocked his head against the steering wheel.

  “I suppose this means you have to have that smoke now,” said Birdie. “Go ahead.”

  Thom got back out and lit up. Sat on the hood of the car. Birdie watched his back shudder and couldn’t ignore his anguish. She closed the steno pad and went to sit next to him. She placed her arm around his waist and put her head on his shoulder.

  Even after the cigarette was smoked gone, they still sat this way and listened to the dull roar of the freeway. After many minutes, Thom said, “Thanks.”

  She let go.

  “So? How’d you like your new fan?” said Thom.

  “She’s not a fan. A fan would ask me to sign the books. And the article was never mentioned.”

  “Think Todd’s the fan? Made it up to get you into the house?”

  “Don’t know. Iris couldn’t keep her eyes off me.”

  “I noticed. Maybe she has a crush.”

  “Hum. Did you take your survey?”

  “And then some. I got two photos and a fag. What’d you get?”

  “Todd hired Block Levin to evict Jerry Deats.”

  “He the one who wrote the bully letter?”

  “Yes. He’s an eviction lawyer. Landlords love him. Tenants hate him. He plays hardball. Todd told me he gave Levin leeway to get aggressive to those who refused to move. According to Moysychyn the average landlord isn’t rich, especially since rent controls passed back in ’80. He expanded on what he said earlier today and said that many owners are losing their shirts because they’re forced to float rent-controlled tenants. Some owners can’t even pay their mortgages. They hire Levin to get them out in order to get tenants who can pay market rates. Todd was very clear that he doesn’t feel sorry for evicting tenants. If they break even the smallest contract detail, he can get them out. Meanwhile, he’s selling off his rent-controlled houses and those that need repairs and investing in big projects like the high-rise.”

  “He selling at a loss?”

  “Hell, no. He’s savvy, changing the business model. Diversifying.”

  “Yes, but Deats felt threatened. He wrote that letter about getting killed out.”

  “I know, but I couldn’t say that. Todd was very open. He spoke freely, without hesitation or righteousness.”

  “Nevertheless, he can’t illegally evict.”

  “According to him he’s not. But that doesn’t prevent tenants from fighting back. Most of what he said can be verified. It’s a lot of searching, but I’m good at that. And databases are always open.”

  “Sounds like you’re the fan.”

  Birdie shrugged. “I’m impressed by his transformation. He’s mellowed. Introspective. I mean, he’s a freak, no doubt. Who paints with fish blood? But he didn’t act like a man trying to conceal homicidal mania.”

  “What about cursing when he turned off the lights when we got to the fourth floor? He didn’t like us seeing his stuff. You saw the key machines.”

  “I know it’s odd, and I didn’
t feel comfortable. Didn’t feel safe. But he said something peculiar … I quote, ‘I’m very good at making money and Iris is good at spending it. It’s my big dilemma.’ And something else, when I talked to him up on the tower I mentioned his ownership of Dominic’s house. He never asked how I knew. He even called it the Nobel house. So, why has a man who’d gone to great lengths to hide his ownership within multiple corporations suddenly be so transparent?”

  “Love? Religion?”

  “Don’t know, but he had a lot to say about Rachel. Choked up, actually.”

  “Oh?”

  “He really admired her. He called her Rach.”

  “Sounds intimate.”

  “Yes, it does.” Contemplative.

  “Let’s get home. You know George will call and update me on the day’s developments. We should be ready in the office when he does.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Got any hooch at the house or should I stop at a liquor store?”

  “Ron left the Booker’s for you.”

  “My man.”

  Thom started the engine just as a pair of fast-approaching headlights zoomed toward them. A dark four-door coupe passed.

  Neither Birdie nor Thom needed to say a word. He threw the car into drive and hit the accelerator.

  “That was a CLS,” said Birdie.

  “I know. Did you catch the plate?”

  “Too fast.”

  “Catch the ones in Moysychyn’s garage?”

  “The angle was wrong.”

  “Where’d you put my work cell?”

  “Way ahead of you.” Birdie opened the center console and pulled out Thom’s second phone. She turned it on. “Faster.”

  “No shit!”

  The CLS slowed, made a sharp left, a sharp right, then sped on. The speedometer on Birdie’s Taurus hit 60 with a street speed limit of 45 and still the CLS was a quarter mile ahead.

  “Shit,” said Thom. “That car can move.”

  “What number?”

  “Star five. But not yet. We need the plate. The interchange is coming up. Shit, shit, shit. Which way you gonna go?”

  “Traffic up ahead. Whoa. Left on Union, left on Union. He’s bypassing the interchange.”

  “I’m on it.”

  The light turned yellow. Thom accelerated and drifted through the intersection on the red. A horn honked.

  “Shouldn’t we have the hazards flashing,” said Birdie. “This is unsafe.”

  “We don’t need the extra attention. Okay, red light at Venice. He’s got to stop.”

  But the CLS didn’t stop. It slowed, then blew through the red. Thom also slowed, glanced east and west, then blew the light as well. Birdie white-knuckled the door handle.

  “What?” said Thom, “gonna jump out?”

  “He’ll have to stop at Pico. There are way too many cars.”

  Thom passed a little four banger as they approached Pico, but the light was green. The CLS accelerated, passed three cars, and changed lanes. Thom followed suit.

  “Next major is Olympic,” said Birdie.

  Cars in the first position at the intersection forced the CLS to stop at the red. This gave Thom an opportunity to catch up with one car between them.

  “That may not even be Moysychyn,” said Birdie. “The CLS is common in L.A.”

  “I know, but what if it is? I’m not missing the opportunity.”

  As soon as the light turned green, Thom squeezed the Taurus between two cars and passed the one in front of him, then pulled behind the coupe.

  “Got it,” said Birdie, writing down the plate. “Star five?” She palmed Thom’s phone and he called it in, giving his name, rank, badge number, division, and the license plate.

  “Next major is Wilshire and then I think Union dead ends at Sixth,” said Birdie. “He might be headed downtown.”

  “We’ll know soon enough.”

  The response came back. The Mercedes CLS was owned by Todd Moysychyn. No wants no warrants.

  Birdie stowed the phone while Thom stayed directly behind the coupe and rode its bumper.

  “Don’t you think we’re a bit obvious?” said Birdie.

  “Should I care?”

  They stayed the course past Wilshire and took a right on 6th.

  “It splits under the one-ten and turns into a one-way,” said Birdie.

  Thom slowed and put a little distance between them. At Flower and 6th, the coupe pulled right. A woman ran to the car and jumped in.

  “Holy shit,” yelled Thom. “That was Jelena! Did you see that?”

  “You sure it was her?”

  “Yes, she lives in the Pegasus.”

  “What now?”

  “We follow.”

  They stayed on 6th, past Grand, past Pershing Square on the left, and took a left on Broadway—the first street with two-way traffic—then a left on 5th, another one-way.

  “He’s gonna double back to the freeway,” said Thom. “Which way? North or south?”

  They made a red light stop at Grand.

  “Both use the right lane,” said Birdie. “Can you see who’s driving?”

  “It must be Todd. Jelena lived with the Lawrence’s for years. Their paths probably crossed. Todd was on familiar terms with Rachel so it follows he’d know Jelena as well. And remember, she marks wealthy men.”

  “So they conspired to kill her foster parents? Her boss?”

  The light turned and the coupe moved right. Thom moved right.

  The coupe accelerated, bypassed the northbound onramp. Took the south. It sped and took the ramp faster than Thom.

  “Stay with them,” said Birdie. “There are three options coming up, stay the course, take the ten east or westbound.”

  But it was already too late. Once the CLS hit the straightaway of the freeway it was gone. Speed, agility, red taillights. Thom punched the steering wheel.

  They rode in silence as the adrenalin burned off and Thom took the I-10 west toward the Bird House.

  “At least we have something to work with,” she said. “Remember what Lawrence’s aide, Gordon, told George? That Lawrence worked with councilman Fontaine on housing issues. Jelena could’ve easily spied for Todd. She said in the interview that living with the Lawrence’s was hard. They were tough on her and she seemed resentful that the twins got away with shit. She also had opportunity to destroy the computer files and steal the flash drive.”

  “Yeah, she just got upgraded from person of interest to suspect.”

  forty-two

  Birdie moved her eyes from the computer monitor and looked up at Thom. “Will you please stop pacing?”

  “George should’ve called by now. Jelena, Kidd, and Gordon all gave official statements today. We need that information.” He pointed at the board where they’d been whittling out the pieces and parts of the four crime scenes. He flipped his wrist. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  Yeah, thought Birdie, almost a new day.

  “He probably thinks you’re sleeping.”

  “Bullshit. He’d know I’d be up.”

  “Call him.”

  “I did. My calls went straight to voicemail.”

  “You’re out on personal. Maybe he’s taking that seriously.”

  “All George knows is that I’m off the case. He doesn’t know anything about the personal time. Craig can be a jerk, but he doesn’t talk about employee matters.”

  “How would Craig know?”

  “Personnel forwards leave requests to supervisors for approval.”

  She threw a piece of gum at him. “Chewing helps.” He ignored it and it fell to the floor.

  “He’s probably sleeping then,” said Birdie. “He loves his beauty sleep.”

  Thom snapped his fingers. “That’s right. He’s probably getting laid. He and An
ita, the Santa Monica detective, made a connection.”

  “There you go,” said Birdie. “He’ll call in the morning. Now relax. Go to bed. Sleep.”

  “Too keyed up.”

  “Go downstairs and sweat it out.”

  Thom spread his hands as if to say, what? me, work out?

  “I need a smoke.” He made for the door.

  Birdie felt wired as well. These days she didn’t have the capability to slow down. She filled hour upon hour with exercise, her search. The busywork having become a narcotic; a replacement for booze. She slept four hours on a good night. Averaged three. She was once an eight-hour gal. The hyperactivity took a physical toll. Her bloodshot eyes were in a constant state of fatigue. Headaches, muscle aches, stress in the neck, jaw pain from gum chewing. The only time she relaxed was when she was with Ron.

  Ron. He never called her today.

  She left Thom a note: bath, bed, see you in morning.

  Upstairs, she ran a hot bath, added sweet pea-scented skin softening oil and started the jets. She placed the phone on a hand towel, undressed and slipped into the blissful water and took a deep breath. She called Ron’s house phone.

  After a few rings he answered with a sleepy voice. “Hey, baby.”

  “I woke you.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “How’d your day go?”

  “I’m too old to get wasted like that. I don’t know how Noa does it.”

  “He’s bigger.”

  “And younger by a few years.”

  “There you go.” Birdie moved her right foot directly in front of the jet. It tickled.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I spent the day on the couch in a semi-coma, TV binge.”

  “Ron Hughes being lazy? I don’t believe it.”

  “Sounds like you’re taking it easy, too. Is that the tub I hear?”

  “Yeah, I’m trying to relax. Had a busy day helping Thom with his case.”

  “What happened to wanting to write about the scruffy guy in the newspaper?”

  “Turns out, he’s connected to Thom’s case and I interviewed him this evening.”

  Ron chuckled. “No one can accuse you of wasting time.”

  “Do you want to go back to sleep?”