Glass Houses (12 page)

“Louis?” said Birdie. “Was there some reason two eighteen-year-old Irish boys decided to immigrate to the West Coast when there was family already established on the East Coast?”

“Yes,” said Louis. “We met these two.” He pointed at Nora and Maggie.

“You weren't running from the Emerald Isle to hide from something?”

Louis slapped his fist on the table. “I already said no. No means no.”

“Alright!” Birdie put up her hands.

“Sometimes you just don't know when to stop. Spoiled only child.”

Now all eyes trained on Birdie. “Okay! I said I'm sorry.” She crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. “But there's something we can't forget.” A quiet groan rose from the table. “Gerard participated. He made money. And yet, there's no evidence of his ill-got income? Where'd it go? If he gave it away, who got it? Also, there's a new department taskforce. A new FBI investigation. The Janko five are jockeying for deals. Not a single one of us in this kitchen is going to be spared the warrant swoop for our computers, our financial statements, and anything else the Feds deem relevant in their search for the money.”

“She's right,” said Thom. “It'll be worse this time around.”

“Alejo feels cheated,” added Arthur. “He'll want in on the action because he thinks the Irish Mob is dirty and he won't stop until he convicts someone. He may even make shit up or engage the Whelans to turn against us.”

“Alejo couldn't manufacture evidence last time,” said Thom. “He can't do it now. Who really needs to worry is the Soto family. He was the alpha.”

“And Frank Senior wouldn't turn on us,” said Louis. “We've had conversations about that very topic. Also … the families will soon be united by law.”

“What are you saying?” said Nora, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Patrick asked for my permission to marry Madi.” Patrick being the youngest of the Whelan boys, a police officer with the LAPD who worked at Hollywood Division.

Nora and Maggie screeched with excitement. The guys rolled their eyes. Birdie couldn't help but feel jealous. The Whelan and Keane clans had always thought it'd be she and Matt to join the families. That dream died along with Matt.

“Madi married?” snorted Birdie, the killjoy attitude seeping through.

“We can't say a word,” said Nora. “We won't take away her moment when she makes the announcement.”

“We all know how to keep a secret,” said Thom.

“You just have to be told it's a secret,” added Birdie.

Thom tapped his watch. “Let's move on. There are other items on the agenda. I'm in deep shit and a killer might escape justice because of me.”

twenty-four

Anticipating a heavy night,
Ron Hughes planned ahead and parked the Audi up the hill near the youth club. A brisk walk afterward would clear his head a bit before the thirty-five minute drive home. He wisely parked the car facing downhill. An easy glide and three right turns would put him on the southbound I-5. Simple maneuvers when impaired by liquor.

The coastal marine layer never burned off today. The ocean mist enshrouded the houses on the hill, pressed down on the baseball field. The wet, heavy air felt good on his skin as he walked to the bar.

He'd rather be home between cool sheets. French doors open, the Pacific air drifting into the bedroom, billowing the sheers. Birdie's warm body spooned with his. Ron wanted to see his friend, Noa, but the pending report put him on edge.

After the big fight with Birdie, it took two days to aggregate his emotions before he could think clearly and another half day of indecision before calling Noa. Planning wartime ops was easy in comparison. Then the long, agonizing wait. Nearly a month. And now he was about to know
exactly
what she'd been up to.

Mulligan's was a borderline dive bar in a place the locals called “the alley” in San Clemente—a funky, light-industrial area of surfboard shapers and consignment stores. Ron pushed through the door at the back to meet his buddy at a semi-quiet booth away from the baseball game on the big screens.

A native Hawaiian, Noa grew up on fresh fruits and the sea. At six-five he was two inches taller than Ron and had sinew that no sane man should challenge. It was he who convinced Ron into eating the whole foods way. It was he who continually gave Ron shit about the cigarettes he smoked. And it was Ron who Noa trusted more than any person alive.

“My brother! Great to see you,” said Noa, clutching Ron in a battle hug. “It's been far too long. Jesus, I've missed you.”

“Roger that,” said Ron, pressing his forehead against his friend's. “It's hard to get together over a beer when you live in D.C.”

“Yeah. I miss the beach. Hey, where's Louise? This place is dog friendly.”

“She'd rather be on soft leather instead of hard floor.”

“Don't blame her. Come on, sit. I've waited to order.”

As they eased into the booth, Ron swept his eyes around the bar. Not many patrons on a Monday night—the Angels vs. Athletics not important enough to draw a crowd.

“How's life in Kalorama?”

“Oh, brother, what's not to like? Kick-ass estates, walls, and bored, rich women.”

“Code for privacy. Still going for the marrieds?”

“Duh. The ones with the kids are the best 'cause they have stricter schedules. Play dates and off home.”

“You're a dog.”

“Never claimed to be otherwise.”

The server arrived, hand poised over an order pad. “You need menus?”

“We don't eat bar shit,” said Noa. “Bring a bottle of Peligroso Anejo. Two glasses.”

She hesitated.

“It'd take a lot more than that to slam us on our asses,” said Ron.

“We're tall, tough men,” added Noa.

“Looks like you guys are outta Pendleton. Don't pull no jarhead bullshit.”

“Don't worry, those days are behind us,” said Ron.

“It's okay, darling,” said Noa. “We're just frisky because we haven't seen each other for a while.”

After she left Ron said, “How long you in town?”

“'Bout a week. Got some legit business, a little freelance, then I'll jet home.”

Noa meant that literally. He co-owned a private business jet and traveled in and out of executive airport terminals.

“What brings you here? Now?” It was a rhetorical question. Ron already knew.

“Bad news deserves an offline briefing.”

Ron punched the table. “Shit!”

“Sorry, my brother. That gal of yours is way too smart for her own good.”

The manager arrived with a beautiful black bottle and two glasses. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He uncorked the tequila and poured a finger in each glass.

“If his girlfriend were here,” said Noa, “she'd take one whiff and tell us what flavors we'd taste. She'd tell us how it was distilled and aged and what proof. Then she'd take a moment to appreciate the glow.”

“Ah,” said the manager, “a connoisseur.”

“An alcoholic with a refined nose,” said Ron.

“Don't be pissy,” said Noa.

“I see,” said the manager. “In her absence I can tell you—”

“—sorry, man, not interested,” said Noa.

“Okay …well, it's strong stuff. I'd feel better if you had some food with this.”

“Bring us a big plate of nachos,” said Ron.

“You got it. Enjoy.” The manager left the bottle.

“Did you forget the rule?” said Noa. “Drinking and eating don't mix.”

“I've no intention of eating. Just pacifying the guy.” Ron raised his glass. “To love.”

Noa raised his. “May it never find me.”

They clinked and said together, “Semper Fi.”

They drained their glasses.

“Damn,” said Ron, shaking off the powerful hit. “Better watch your six. When you least expect it, one of those mamas is going to steal your heart and suddenly you'll find yourself a stepdad.”

“A fate worse than death,” said Noa as he refilled their glasses.

“Quality agave juice is designed for sipping. Enjoy the flavors.”

“A polite way to say you're not gonna match me.”

“Not at all. But before we get shitfaced we've got to do business.”

“Alright,” said Noa, reluctantly. “Here's my official report … that girl of yours is doing what I'd do. She's hacking her way through databases.”

“She can do that?”

“And then some. She has legitimate subscriptions to the same databases that law enforcement uses. It appears she's had them for years. She probably hacked her way in to obtain pay-for-use. Call it pseudo legal. She also gained access to some government servers that even law enforcement can't use without paper.”

The server placed two side plates and set-ups on the table.

“What's she looking for?” said Ron.

“You told me that Matt barely survived a shooting incident that was a hit.”

“Right. He started planning his own death. Got a new identity and disappeared so the cop gang wouldn't come looking for him.”

“Under what name?”

“He never said.”

“Precisely. See, Birdie would need a name to find him. Then she'd need to match the name to his face. Without that basic information she used the next best thing. Application dates. That's what she used to frame her queries.”

“Explain.”

“What do you need to exist in America? A social security number and government-issued ID like a driver's license. Also, a passport would come in handy. She mined state and federal databases for new applications of those three items.”

“To get those documents you'd need a birth certificate.”

“He was a cop. He probably had knowledge of six ID rings in his policing area alone. Of those, he probably had personal contact with two. He could obtain a birth certificate with an official seal and everything. But here's a big
but
. The guy he dealt with would know. Matt's funeral was big news. He couldn't afford a loose end. But he could use a birth certificate he had easy access to. His sister's.”

The server brought over a platter of nachos. Both men stared at it.

Noa said, “Beans fried in lard, tortilla chips from some factory, chunks of overcooked, hormone-fed chicken, a sprinkling of iceberg lettuce, and jalapeño peppers covered with processed milk artificially colored to resemble cheese. I'm not eating that shit.”

Ron stuck his fork into it. “Do what skinny girls do … move it around the plate to make it look like you're eating. Where were we? Right. Matt didn't have a sister.”

“You were at the Whelan family plot for his funeral. Didn't you see the piece of granite marking his sister's grave site?”

“I did. They named the child Mary Junior after her mother, but Birdie told me the child was stillborn.”

“Because that's what the family reported. It's easy to explain a stillbirth because shit happens. Babies die in utero. But Mary Junior lived a day. That's a live birth. That's a birth certificate. And Matt was ten years old when Mary was born. He could pass for someone 10 years younger.”

“She also has a death certificate.”

“A different document.”

“He can't pass as a female.”

“No. But he can pass as a “Marty.” Only the T is missing. On a keyboard, the R, T, and Y are next to each other. An easy misspell. Clerical error.”

“You're telling me his new name is Marty?”

“Not necessarily, but Birdie's considered it. She investigated and discovered Mary's live birth. She's already cross-checked the list for that first name and found some. But she covered her bases and checked
everything
within her search parameters. Male and female. She's also seeking court records of name changes. Let's say he used Mary Junior's birth certificate. He might be able to claim that the first name was inadvertently spelled wrong, but he can't go around using the same last name. He'd petition a court for a change in surname. Birdie started with local counties—Los Angeles, Orange, Ventura, etcetera. It's only a matter of time before she acquires a long list of name-change requests. Then she could match the results with the data she's already acquired and come up with a shortlist of names that matches all three of her parameters. She'll investigate each name by obtaining a likeness.” Noa held up three fingers. “Name, ID, face. She'll find him.”

“How long?”

“Any day now. She might already have his new name, but not know which of the tens of thousands of names is his.”

“She's seriously breaking the law.”

“Yeah, well, algorithms don't have ethics.”

“Thick-headed Irishwoman. He's the only thing we fight about.”

“She's focused, no doubt. That kind of passion spills over to other parts of life.” Noa winked.

“Once upon a time,” said Ron and left it at that. He might've been willing to discuss the pre-Birdie sex life, but when you find the
one
all sharing ceases.

“She's a gorgeous nerdy girl. I see the appeal.”

“What I'm hearing is that you're open to the idea of a proper relationship.”

“Pshaw. I got into her life. Just 'preciating.”

“Did her cousin call?”

“Who?”

“Honorable bastard.”

“Corps values, man. Honor, courage, commitment.”

“Ooo-rah.”

They clicked glasses.

“Why is Birdie looking for Matt?” said Noa. “You never said.”

“She wants a face-to-face accounting of his actions. Answers to outstanding questions.”

“She loves him hard to go through this much work.”

“I keep telling her that you can't pull one thread from a tapestry without destroying the whole thing. But she wants what she wants and nothing, not even me, can stop her.”

“Poetic. You worried she might run off with him?”

“Oh, man … I've obsessed over that question. But to live underground? Logic says no way.”

“Love isn't logical.”

“No question. Their bond is strong. He's not around and yet he is. He invades our space. His power is illustrated by a narrative that didn't end with his death. I don't like it. Most times I feel like the second choice, man. The default.”

Noa took a big pull of tequila, never removing his eyes from Ron. Studying. “Sorry, brother. I know you fell hard and fast.”

“It hurts,” whispered Ron.

The few patrons in the bar cheered when the Angels scored.

“Has she created a new identity?” said Ron.

“No. But now that you mention it … she queried both genders. I thought it was because some first names can be male or female, Blair, Pat, Dylan, Terry, Alex, like that. But, what if she suspects that Matt created a second set? One for her?”

“Son … of … a … bitch,” said Ron. “That makes sense. During the
death scene prep I cleared the house. He came in behind me and
left breadcrumbs in the form of photos. He counted on the fact that she'd do what she does and figure out the truth. He also knew that
Birdie would look for him because that's her nature.”

“Even if she found him, and even if he has a new identity for her, that doesn't guarantee she'd actually join him.”

“He might be able to persuade her.”

“Then why not speak to her directly?”

“Because this way … because of the time and dedication required, she'd come to him of her own free will. That'd be important to him. He put the choice in her hands just like he did with the Paige Street evidence.”

“We'll know eventually, won't we?”

“Will you know his new name and whereabouts when she knows?”

“We'll see. She's being extremely careful. She's spoofing her external IP and using proxy servers. She changes it up every so often.”

“I've no idea what that means.”

“She's making it appear as if she's elsewhere other than Hancock Park. That's why it took me so long to find her—she's slowing down detection. Keyword … slowing … not hiding. Even she knows that if someone's looking in the right places, they'll find her. She's not using her office computer so she probably has a burner laptop—something small and concealable that she can lock up. She'll wipe it clean and destroy it when she's done. Nevertheless, she keeps running security sweeps and my spyware is getting swept out. I have to continually re-insert it.”