Glass Houses (11 page)

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 fa
ther?”

“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 Ge
rard?”

“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. As 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 child
ren, 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.

“The old woman's continual complaint was that her husband was cheating with the hussy down the street. We never bought it. I mean, come on, the guy could barely walk. That day we rolled out to their house expecting the same ol' shit. Separating them, calming them down, acting like marriage therapists. Only this time, the husband's unconscious on the floor, bleeding from the head. The wife had hit him with a glass candy dish. Butterscotch nibs were scattered all over the house. She said she finally had proof of his cheating.

“Her proof was a flipbook of photographs she found in her husband's underwear drawer,” continued Arthur. “They depicted the geriatric woman down the street. She's sitting on the edge of a bed, wearing a lacy nightgown, legs spread apart, old lady pussy in full view, sagging skin, and straggly white hair.”

“Eeeewwww,” said the collective at the table.

“They got worse,” said Arthur. “I'm giving you the edited visuals. Anyway, the neighbor hussy took the photos herself by setting the camera on a tripod with a shutter cable release in her hand. She clicked a photo every few seconds and put them together in book form. The next few show a bald head covered in age spots between her legs. Then a wrinkled, saggy ass and then an old man on top of her. The last one shows the husband with a toothless grin, placid penis, and a thumbs-up. Sure shit, he had been cheating.

“Matt and I had a hard time not laughing. It was disgusting and extremely funny at the same time. Geriatric porn. Turns out that when the wife took her afternoon nap the husband would take his walker and shuffle down the alley to the hussy's house for a daily screw.”

Birdie couldn't help giggling along with the rest of the family. Street cops always had the best stories.

“What happened to the couple?” said Nora.

“The wife had given her husband a fatal wound. He never regained consciousness and died. The DA was trying to figure out what to do with a ninety-something murdereress when she died in her sleep a few days later.”

“Maybe the hussy down the street drugged her in retribution,” said Birdie.

“Or maybe she loved the scoundrel after all and died of a broken heart,” added Thom.

“Or maybe she just died,” said Arthur. “Anyway, Matt and I were talking about it a few weeks later when he casually mentioned something about that day I had forgotten. The photos the wife confiscated from her husband were all date stamped the day the old man died. Apparently, the neighbor lady had never set the camera's date correctly.”

“It got you thinking about the fishing photos,” said Birdie.

“Exactly. When a battery is removed for charging, the camera's settings have to be reset. What if the date were purposely reset on the McFarland camera for a particular event and then changed back? Easy enough to do. What if they had actually been fishing the day before? Turns out, they had. McFarland charged the launch fee and there was a receipt.”

Birdie shook her finger. “I know where you're going with this. They
had
gone the day before. Witnesses put the two of them together at Lake Castaic all the time. Gerard and McFarland were
regulars. Sometimes they'd go two days in a row. But when the cops come 'round months later asking questions the exact date is fuzzy because—“hey, they're here all the time”—they could've been here one day or the next or both.”

“Precisely,” continued Arthur. “Sanchez planned Paige Street in a hurry and Gerard would need to set up a quick alibi—no time for complication. I began to think that McFarland helped Gerard create one. He changed the camera's date.”

“The dated receipts and photos were irrefutable proof that McFarland and Gerard were at Lake Castaic the day of Paige Street,” said Birdie. “There were two complete sets from both days. But that wasn't unusual behavior for them. There was also McFarland's sworn statement.”

“Max was never my favorite person,” said Maggie, “but I doubt he'd help create an alibi for Gerard for a two-eleven.”

“Agreed,” said Arthur. “But what if he thought Gerard was engaged in some other way during Paige Street? Like an affair? Best friends cover for each other. I do for you, you do for me.”

Thom dropped his fork and looked up at Birdie. She knew he thought of Karen Wilcox covering for Anne's affair.

“McFarland had a well-known reputation as a lady's man,” said Arthur. “Gerard had probably been his cover story many times—the drinking buddy that never was. So when the time came to return the favor, McFarland was only too willing to arrange for his buddy to have an entire day with his amour.” Arthur spread out his hands. Done.

“Gerard never had affairs,” said Maggie.

“But McFarland wouldn't know for certain. Gerard could tell him anything and it'd be taken at face value. They were best friends.”

“How did you prove it?” said Birdie.

“That's where I came in,” said Thom, wiping his mouth. “Arthur told me what he thought our uncle had done. There was no way we could approach Max or his wife without raising suspicion. Sanchez was dead. And we sure as hell didn't want Gerard to know, just in case Arthur was wrong. So we waited and watched. One night we followed Gerard to a bar where he met up with Soto and some unknown guy. Soto stayed behind in the bar, but Gerard and Unknown took off in another vehicle. Unknown drove. We followed them to a flower warehouse. They put on masks and gloves and backpacks and went in packing shotguns. Just like at Paige Street. Not more than five minutes later they came out—just strolled, all casual—carrying a satchel between them. They got into a different car and drove away. Just then, the building began to burn.”

“Wow,” said Birdie, “I can't use any of this.”

Maggie shot her daughter a warning that said,
not funny
.

“Turns out, the flower business was a front for drug smugglers,” said Thom.

“I remember that one,” said Louis. “The fire department found a cut lab. Word on the street was that the smugglers were looking for their stolen cash and put a bounty on the thieves who burned their product.”

“That was the Blue Bandits MO,” said Birdie. “They stole cash and destroyed product. So … since we're confessing … anyone know where the Paige Street money went? Or
any
of the drug or blackmail money? I mean, it's all coming out. Might as well fess up.”

Silence at the table.

“Seriously? No one? Mom?”

“No,” said Maggie. “We lived on our paychecks. There was never a slush fund.”

“Gerard didn't give any clue in any of his depos or letters?” said Arthur.

“None,” said Birdie. “What about a reason? Why did Gerard allow himself to get involved with Soto? What blackmail did he have that would compel Gerard to get involved in Paige Street?”

“We've already been over this,” said Louis. “The answer is the same as before when you asked us about the article. That hasn't changed.”

“I was hoping that someone had a change of heart and decided to share.”

“There wasn't any blackmail,” said Maggie. “I think it was the thrill. He became an administrator and rode a desk. He probably missed the adrenalin rush.”

“He loved the badge,” said Arthur. “He always talked to me and Matt about honoring it.”

“Yet, he dishonored it,” said Louis.

“True,” said Maggie. “But, he never did anything illegal while on duty. He expressly stated that in his letters.”

“It's irrelevant,” said Thom. “Bottom line? He lost faith in himself and disparaged the job.”