Glass Houses (10 page)

“You're out of your mind,” said Anita. “Totally wacked.”

“You're probably right,” said Thom as he climbed the ladder once again. “But Jerry Deats is a homicide victim. He deserves my full attention and effort. I'll keep searching for discovery until I'm absolutely sure I completed the task.”

This time Thom was rewarded. Stuck to the bottom of the pine platform was a Tyvek mailer covered on the top side in some kind of science experiment slime that he didn't want to think about. He opened the flap and happily found the papers inside to be dry. It only took a quick glance to know he found something important. His effort paid off. Thom held the envelope aloft in a celebratory gesture.

“
No way
,” said Anita.

Thom jumped down and slapped the slimy envelope into Ah-nee-TA's stomach. Right on top of that beautiful camel jacket.

“Thom Keane. LAPD. At your service.”

twenty-one

Thom ran down the
hall. The medical examiner, an efficient man named Rollie Clayborne—known simply as Clay—would give him an earful about how a scheduled time was a time to keep. Thom shook out a folded disposable gown required inside the exam room and put it on over his suit. The pale yellow cover made him feel like a lemon drop. Just about to push in, his cell rang. Lance Craig.

“LT,” said Thom, breathless. “I'm late for the Lawrence postmortems. What's up?”

“The SMPD bulletin got two more hits,” said Craig. “Two bodies in Culver City. One in Westchester. The big war room is scheduled for oh-eight-hundred for a meet and greet and information exchange. I'm leaving the option open for a taskforce. I've got S&M on their way out to liaise with Pacific. Before he left Seymour wanted me to tell you to check your email. Something about a computer search. See you in the morning. And Thom? You're quarterback. Bring coffee and donuts.” The call disconnected.

Three more? Thom fell back, slowly slid down the wall. Felt the edge of panic. Eight murder victims targeted for a specific purpose.
His job—no, his invocation—was to find out why and bring justice
to victims and their families. Solving murder wasn't simple. The books and the movies turned it into entertainment. Made it seem easy. The reality was far more complicated with untold and uncountable consequences. This he knew from personal experience.

Quarterback. That meant taskforce lead—if it goes there—an investigator's career win. But Thom could not shake the dread. His involvement already compromised the case, especially if Jelena turned out to be a suspect. The what-ifs were storm clouds looming on the horizon and a swift wind waited in the distance ready to blow the darkness his way.

Thom stood and took a hit of stale, chemically disinfected air that filled the corridor. He was glad he'd already called a family meeting. He'd take all the guidance he could get.

Thom slipped into the room. Rachel's supine body was laid out on the exam table in front of Clay. He had just finished the Y incision to dissect the dead and was in the process of peeling back the skin to expose her internal organs.

Thom sidled next to George who stood against the far wall, arms crossed, head turned away from what some detectives called the canoe. George looked just as foolish in the yellow cover. Good company.

“You're late,” said George. “Clay started promptly at one o'clock. And you're putrid.”

“The Deats crime scene,” said Thom. “It stank of garbage and decomp. The aroma infected everything, soaked into the carpet, the furniture. Walls damp with condensation.”

“Enough,” said George sharply. “I get the point.”

“Anyway, didn't have time to change.”

“Thom,” said Clay, “glad of you to join us. You missed Mr. Lawrence's postmortem in its entirety and the external of his wife here.”

“My apologies, Clay.” For George's edification as well, Thom said, “We have a serial. Four scenes, three jurisdictions, eight bodies. Time critical and I'm the lead. We'll stay as long as we can.”

George registered this new information and whistled the first few lines of the main theme song from a familiar Western movie. A distinctive, two-note melody.

“Hey,” said Clay, “
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
. Clint Eastwood. Great film.”

Apropos,
thought Thom. It was about upsides, downsides, and the parts that could be better.

“Well, then,” continued Clay, “how 'bout I have your attention for a short while so I can get you out of my exam room. First, Mr. Lawrence.”

“Let me guess,” said Thom. “Not a natural death.”

“Correct.
Corpus delicti
. Massive damage to the brain incompatible with life. The direction of the bullet was front to back, slightly upward. Skull fragments in the wound track.”

“Anything of the bullet salvageable?”

“Nothing of significant size for comparison.”

“And the one in the groin?”

“A pelvic wound. Also front to back. Missed the penis. Both testes were in the scrotum and without trauma. Had a vasectomy at
some point. A small-caliber round nicked the prostate and ureter, pierced the right kidney. That one was recovered and might prove useful. Were it not for the brain trauma this shot alone would've been survivable with immediate hospitalization. I did note marks on the abdomen strangely similar to resuscitative marks.”

“Conclusion?” said Thom.

“Someone pushed.”

To get more blood to write a message
, thought Thom.

“I'll expedite the written reports,” said Clay. “Meanwhile, the external examination of Mrs. Lawrence's body was unremarkable aside from the apparent gunshot wound to the head. Rigor mortis well-developed in the limbs and jaw. Livor mortis fixed and distributed. No foreign material in the mouth or upper airway. You may talk while I move onward to the internal. Please keep your voices hushed so the recorder doesn't pick them up. I'll give a verbal as I go.”

“Thanks, doc,” said Thom. Then to George, “I notice you're up against the wall. As far from the body as possible.”

“Easier to talk,” said George.

—
The high-pitched squeal of a rotating saw blade cut Rachel's rib bones
.

George flinched.

“
Right.
Did you find Dominic's briefcase?”

“On top of the credenza directly behind his desk, but I couldn't touch it. The Special Master won't be available until four. Meanwhile, I sealed the office.”

“Was Jelena there?”

“She had been. According to Dominic's aide, a guy named Gordon, she pitched a fit when he denied her access to the office. Screaming in Russian. Beyond pissed. Face as red—”

—
Rachel's rib cage was removed with a wet, plunger-like sucking sound.

“—as an apple. Gordon said that when Jelena finally understood she wouldn't get in, she went home claiming she was too ‘emotional hardship' to work.”

“Was she after the briefcase?”

“She didn't expressly say. And when pressed by Gordon she wouldn't say.”

“Why did Gordon feel the need to prevent her from entering? She's his clerk.”

“That's the thing. Gordon never liked Jelena. Never trusted her. He advised Dominic to fire her for her lackluster commitment and work ethic. His words. He also thinks she stole an ironwood bear that the governor had given Dominic. Some kind of California service award. When Gordon heard the news he immediately went straight to the office expressly to keep her out of it.”

“Does he think her capable of murder?”

—
The scale rattled with the weight of Rachel's heart. “Three hundred and eight grams,” said Clay.

“He capitulated and eventually landed on a soft ‘no.' Jelena has a roommate named Claudia Stepanova. Also Russian. No accent. She's a linguist. Speaks and writes several eastern European languages. Floats between divisions. She's been installed in Dominic's office for a couple of months.”

“You're really bothered by the way Jelena speaks,” said Thom.

“I am. Not sure why, but I'm going to find out. For now, Claudia confirmed she was with Jelena earlier in the evening on Saturday and left around midnight. Claudia was upset Jelena abandoned her for an old guy at the bar. That's why she remembers the time so specifically. That squares with what Jelena already told me.”

“Old guy, huh?”

“Her words,” said George. “According to Claudia, she met up with musician friends and hung out at their place. She didn't come home until near dawn. Jelena's bedroom door was closed so Claudia was unable to say if Jelena was home. There's a third roommate named Dona. She and Jelena share a room. Dona left for vacation on Sunday. I reached her via phone. According to Dona, Jelena's bed wasn't slept in Saturday night. It was still made up from the morning. However, Jelena reported that Dona was asleep when she arrived home and still asleep when she left Sunday for her foster parent's house.”

—
The scale rattled. “Right lung weighs 350 grams.” Clay placed it on a slab. Picked up the other. “Left lung weighs 400 grams.” He placed it next to the other then sliced the lung like a loaf of bread. “The visceral pleura are smooth and intact.”

“A made bed could have several interpretations,” said Thom. “The scenario can go either way. Nevertheless, when she returns from vacation bring her in for an official statement. We'll see if her story changes. Are there security cameras at the apartment building?”

“Exteriors and lobby door. I contacted the security company. They weren't cooperative. They insist on a warrant. If I get lucky with time I'll prepare the paperwork and get it signed by the night judge. We'll see. During the interview Jelena reported that she invited the old guy back to her apartment, but he declined. True?”

“Video and roommates.”

“So the backseat of a Honda was better?”

“Apparently not.
They
have photos.” Thom turned his back to the exam table. “I never felt the tingle that someone was watching.”

“You were wasted.”

Thom vigorously shook his head. “I'm an expert scoundrel.”

“What are you thinking?” said George.

“Not sure. Go on, finish up. Who did Dominic have conflicts with?”

—“What the—” Clay leaned over something that held his rapt attention.

“According to several staffers, nobody. One of the lawyers called him a therapist. The one with the magic touch. He's the last person anyone would think of to die via homicide. Of course, they're lawyers. No issuance of guarantee.”

Thom scratched his brow in frustration. “Who knew him best?”

—
Clay sliced into Rachel's reproductive organs.

“The aide, Gordon. He's been Dominic's right-hand man for a decade. He has no clue why someone would want him dead.”

“What was Dominic working on?”

“Gordon wouldn't say. He wanted to confer with the Special Master before telling me.”

“Sounds serious. Stay on it. Meanwhile, maybe we'll get lucky with the office, the files, the briefcase. We also have to consider that Rachel or the twins were the primary target.” Thom gestured toward the clock on the wall. “Don't be tardy. I'll stay here as long as I can. I'm not going back to the office today. I have the book, the Deats file. Seymour might have found something, too.”

“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.