Glass Houses (14 page)

“I'm devoted to my wife. I love her.”

“How long are you going to love a woman who no longer loves you back?”

“Good question,” said Thom.

Birdie gently rubbed his upper back. “Let's finish dessert and go home.”

“Give me a few more minutes.”

_____

Nora hugged her son when he returned. “I'm sorry, Thom. My allegiance is with you.”

“Ma … I'm overly sensitive right now.” He kissed his mother's cheek and retook his seat at the table. Thom cast his eyes at the untouched cobbler and pushed it away.

“The encounter with the woman … is there a possibility it was a setup?” said Birdie.

“Maybe,” said Thom. “George mentioned that in Jelena's interview she said the bartender knew me. But, I'd never been to that bar before. And I'm pretty certain that I didn't know him from another.”

“When did you tell George about the IA?” said Louis.

“At breakfast before we split up.”

“Is that normal for you?”

“Breakfast or telling him everything?”

“Both.”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Louis rubbed his palms across the stubble on his face. What a rough night.

“The Paige Street protocols are back in place until we know the score,” said Arthur. “I have your back, brother. Whatever you need.”

“Me, too,” said Birdie. “You can stay at my house as long as you need to.”

“Thanks.” Thom brought ashtrays to the table and the lighting commenced. “I'll clear.” He stacked up dessert bowls.

“Bird, dear,” said Maggie. “We never asked. How did it go for you after the article came out?”

“I got a few calls of sympathy for our family situation. Some colleagues congratulated me on my courage to bring the story public. Mostly, it was people saying shit because they thought they could do so anonymously. There was the usual smattering of crazies. One random person said something about pretty dead fish.”

A loud crash made everyone jump. Their nerves already scrambled by Thom's sudden outburst. This time he dropped all the dishes.

twenty-six

“Drive faster,” said Thom.

“No,” said Birdie. “I have a suspended license. I can't risk getting pulled over.”

“It's weird to be the passenger in my own car. I should be driving.”

“You've been drinking.”

“Not enough to impair my driving skills.”

“Stop worrying. I promise I didn't delete the message. It'll be there when we get home.”

“Is there a way to find out where the call came from?”

“No. It went to my extension at the paper.”

“I might be able to get a hookup on the phone.”

“Don't count on it. The
Times
and the LAPD are not good neighbors. Besides, I haven't had a physical phone in the building for years. Calls go to a voicemail service. Storage is on some switch.”

“That might be better. Can you forward the calls?”

“I think so.”

“Then I'll get a hookup on your phone.”

“You'd have to get permission from the paper. And that would never happen. They'd consider any calls their property. And I'm not sure forwarding would capture the caller ID anyway.”

“I'll still write an affidavit and try to get a warrant. Tell me again what the message said.”

“Quit asking. I don't remember the specifics.”

Thom's stressing gave Birdie a headache. She cracked the window for fresh air, smelled the perfume of the Pacific. Fish and seaweed. Firepit woodsmoke. It gave off a neorealism mystique. What secrets hid in the scented fog?

“Why do you think it's the killer?” said Birdie.

“He wants attention. It's why he wrote dead fish on the mirror. Reaching out to a journalist is a logical step for an attention-seeking psycho.”

“But what's the connection? Your identity as the investigator hasn't been made public. Our family relationship can't be established.”

“It has nothing to do with me. Your article made a splash Sunday morning. He probably got your name from that. Hey, when we get home I could use your help downloading an audio file George sent to my phone. I'd like to move it to my laptop. Also, some emails from Seymour.”

“Easy enough. What else do you need?”

“Would you mind if I use the white board in your office for some meeting prep? I've got a couple of files to go through.”

“No problem.”

Birdie turned onto her street and caught a glimpse of a coyote walking on the sidewalk. The headlights caught the eyes and reflected back gold. She'd seen a few lately. She doubted this one came all the way to Hancock Park from the foothills. It was probably an urban coyote. Born and raised here. Living on house pets.

Birdie pulled into the driveway and braked abruptly. “There's a package on the porch.”

Before Thom had a chance to say a word, she'd thrown the car into park and was out. She came back a moment later and flung the package at Thom. “It's for you.” She pressed the remote for the massive gate. It slowly fanned inward.

“You're disappointed?” said Thom.

“I've been expecting something. No big deal.”

Thom flicked on the dome light and examined the padded manila envelope. It was addressed to him c/o Birdie. A red post office stamp that read: KNOWN CUSTOMER was in the upper left corner where a return address should be. It had a Santa Ana postmark—a city in nearby Orange County. Inside, a cell phone and a sheet of printed instructions.

“It's from Noa. Ron's PI buddy. I'll call him first. Then we'll listen to the message.”

Birdie was going to tease him about being all hot and bothered in regard to the message only to abandon work-related haste for emotional torment, but she saw Thom's misery in profile.

“Good,” she said, trying to be upbeat. “You'll find out about Anne. One way or the other.”

“One way or the other,” echoed Thom.

Birdie drove down the driveway and swung the car around, lining it up for the garage. She hit a second remote and the garage door rolled upward.

“Take my stuff in?” Thom's briefcase, laptop, and case files were in the backseat.

“Sure. Noa's in town, you know. Ron's with him now.”

“Discussing business?”

Birdie shrugged. “None that I'm aware of. They're best friends. Drinking buddies. Ron's gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”

_____

Thom stumbled in the moonless, foggy dark toward the rear of Birdie's property. Water dripped from the trees onto his head and shoulders. The fob light attached to his keyring didn't cut the darkness of late night, but it was enough to illuminate the paper. He
should've grabbed the Mag-Tac in the garage. He wondered why he
always took the hard road. His knee scraped against a viewing bench and he figured he had gone far enough. He sat down and followed the instructions:

1) Walk to back of garden. Check.

2) Turn on phone. Check.

3) Speed dial 2. Check.

4) At prompt, punch in password 2-6-6-3-5-3-2-6-3. Check.

5) Get instructions.

Thom listened to a salty voice: “Aloha, Thom. Noa here. Sorry for the pre-recorded message. During the prelim I discovered you have heavy eyes and ears so I resort to subterfuge.

“This is where we're at. I'm not sure I want to work with you.
We're going to meet in person so I can get a read. Be on call for the
next few days. I'm only going to say this once so pay attention. As our mutual friend, Ron, made you aware my terms are non-negotiable. If you fail to complete the monetary transactions by two p.m. on Tuesday you will never hear from me again. No second chance.

“Call Anne on your personal cell and tell her you're going to wire twenty-grand from your joint BofA money market account to an escrow company. Make up a good lie for the transaction—something she won't question because it's being recorded for posterity and you don't want any more suspicion aimed at your back. The wire instructions are on the reverse side of the paper in your hand.

“We're planning for the future. If I decide you're not a maniac, I'll remove the money for my fee plus expenses. If I decide you are, it will be returned to you. What you won't get back are the twenty-two Benjamins you'll be giving me when we meet. Call it consideration. Tell Anne about this money as well.

“See you in a few. Aloha. P-S, the phone will self-destruct in ten seconds. Kidding. I've always wanted to say that. Keep this phone on your person. I'll use it to reach you.”

Thom felt violated. Again. Leaving the required ‘just the facts' stats had been hard enough when he made the preliminary call. Now it was for real. He covered his face with his hands. An indescribable bit of anxiety struck him. He knew what Noa would find. Felt it as serious as a heart attack.

Alone, on a wet bench, in the darkness, he began to sob. Hidden from sight and mind and feeling utterly sorry for himself, a muffled groan escaped his lips. What would he do when Noa came back with the proof ? Could he win Anne back or would she slip through his fingers? He wasn't frightened of solitude or lovelessness. He had five children after all. He loved them completely. And they him despite the flaws the older ones thought they knew of him. There was a difference between being alone and being lonely. And he'd been lonely for a long time.

He laughed at himself—such a pathetic predicament. If he were at the bottom of the well, he had no place left to go but up. There was value here. Strangely, this thought gave him comfort. After a long while of reflection, he wiped his nose across the sleeve of his dad's sweatshirt and walked toward the light of the Bird House.

twenty-seven

Birdie's fingers caressed the
centuries-old grain of the altar and admired the rare burls that peppered its surface. The new acquirement was quite grandiose—in size, importance, and price—in a house void of purchased indulgence. But Birdie had to have it the moment it went to bid. She loved religious objects and this one spoke to her, sparked her imagination.

People and time moved on and it was forgot, abandoned and left to rot in the suffocating humidity of Louisiana. But this altar was borne of black walnut, an American wood prized for furniture. Straight, strong, and heavy; it resists rot and decay.

It survived, while the church that had once housed its magnificence had not.

Resourced from scavengers and lovingly restored, this solid, unmovable altar was repurposed and became a worktable in Birdie's office. She often wondered what glory or atrocities had occurred on its surface. Was that oxidized blood in the deeper grains? Or cleaning oil? What stories of worship could this wood tell if given the chance? Perhaps it had been a pagan altar where young virgins or animals were sacrificed. One thing was certain: the inscription on the fascia was not Latin. She could have it translated, but the imaginings were far more interesting.

Birdie raised the shade covering the dry erase board. Made of metallic gray fabric, the screen served two purposes: one, to keep eyes off the work underneath; two, to prevent the massive whiteness from taunting her when she wasn't working. Either way, it was an aesthetic choice as well. Who'd want a wall-sized white board staring down at you?

She took a black marker and wrote a header across the top center:
The process to find the truth is methodical, precise, and provable. Intuition is not evidence.
Those words began every new investigation. The compass that prevented her from straying into second guesses or uncertainties. The provable being her path. At least that's how they all started, but sometimes, the absolute truth is not knowable—a recent lesson learned.

Laid out on the table were the Lawrence murder book and the Deats homicide file. She flipped open both and wrote five names and occupations on the board:

“The hell you doing?” said Thom.

“Were the children homeschooled?” said Birdie.

“No. Give me that.” He took the black marker from her hands.

“What school did they attend?”

“Don't know.”

“Then how do you know they weren't homeschooled?”

Under Rachel's name Thom wrote:
pregnant
. Under Dominic's name he wrote:
sterile
. “Because she slept with someone else and the only time that could occur was while the girls were in school and Dominic at work.”

“Ooooh, an intrigue. But your reasoning is flawed. Affairs can take place anywhere, anytime.”

“Keep your paws off my work. I'm a damn good detective. I don't
need your help.”

“You're a
great
detective, Thom. But you're emotionally preoccupied and I'm a good investigator, too. I can keep an eye out for your blind spots.”

“Not happening.”

Birdie thought about sulking for a nanosecond. She didn't have time for Thom's stuff anyway; her secret project was nearly done. “Well, I found the message. Ready?”

“Go.”

Birdie hit the play button on the phone: “
Sunday, eleven-thirty-five a.m. … Greetings, Elizabeth, I read your article on the Blue Bandits. Perhaps you should look at all the pretty dead fish
.”

Thom twirled his finger. Birdie hit repeat and they listened again.

“Jelena was still at the scene at that time,” said Thom.

“Did she have possession of her cell phone?”

“I'll check George's notes for the timeline.” He gestured at the work table where the Lawrence murder book and the Deats file lay open. “Doesn't matter anyway. It's not her voice.”

“I don't think it's your killer.”

“I think it might be. When was the last time you heard those two words put together?”

“Years ago when the massive fish die-off occurred in Redondo Beach.”

“My point exactly,” said Thom. “Millions of anchovies got caught in the harbor and suffocated. What does a biological event have to do with a serial killer? Probably nothing, but this killer … he wants attention. Wants
your
attention.”

“A he? I think the caller is a she.”

“Play it again.”

Birdie pressed repeat.

“I'm not sure we can say one way or the other. The voice is gender neutral.”

“Agreed,” said Thom. “Got any new messages?”

“I haven't checked. But wasn't there some tech thing you needed help with?”

Thom handed her his cell phone. “Jelena's interview. George is bothered.”

“A third opinion might be useful. I'll listen, too. Meanwhile, you can get started.” She gestured at the board. “All yours.”

On the far right side, a newsprint photo of a man was attached by a magnet.

“Who's that?” said Thom.

“Todd Moysychyn,” said Birdie.

“Say again?”

“It's pronounced Mo-session. He's a big property owner in L.A.”

“Why is his mug on the board?”

“He might be the subject of my next project. I'm curious how the housing crisis affected his business.” She took the marker from Thom and drew a vertical line, saving a little space for herself. “One last thing … that header is a phrase Matt used to say.”

“Sounds like him. I'll do my thing while you prepare the audio. And don't forget to copy over the emails. Print, too, please.”

_____

Birdie and Thom read the last few lines of George's typed transcription as they listened to the end of the interview. When it concluded Birdie flipped over the paper.

“I'm impressed with George's transcription skills,” she said, “but there's nothing in the interview to suggest she executed four people. Not liking the twins isn't a confession to murder. I'm not even sure it's worthy of upgrading her to a person of interest.”

“There is one small inconsistency that bothers me,” said Thom. “She reported to George that she heard Dominic's alarm clock. It's what prompted her to go upstairs. Yet, she told the first responder that she only touched door knobs and a magazine. A follow-up with Officer Cross is in order.”

“Don't forget the bartender.”

“George is handling that.”

“What specifically bothers George about Jelena?”

“She speaks with a thick Russian accent even though she's been in America since she was eight years old. He thinks she should've lost it by now. She's twenty-two.”

“Maybe she's attached to her accent as a way to get attention.”

“It is what made me look at her. I heard an intriguing voice—struck up a conversation.”

“Maybe she's a code switcher.”

“A what?”

“Someone who can switch between languages and accents, speak with the proper syntax, pronunciation, cadence, vocabulary, and phonology of each. It's common with multilingual people. Matt was one. He could switch from Mandarin to Korean to Spanish without anyone knowing he wasn't a native speaker. George is one, too. Haven't you ever noticed how easy he goes from proper Anglo English to twangy Spanish? Even Louis did it this evening. You saw how quick he switched to Gaelic. I'd trust George on this one. Give him the freedom to figure it out.”

“I'm going to, but like it says up there on the board, intuition is not evidence.”

Thom's cell rang. “That's George's ringtone. Finally.” He reached for it and wrenched his wrist when the adapter cord tethering the unit to the laptop didn't give way.

Birdie brushed her fingers against Thom's hand and unhooked the device. She laid it flat and answered on speaker.

“Were your ears burning?” said Birdie. “Thom and I were just talking about you.”

“What about?” said George.

“Jelena,” said Thom. “Bird listened to the interview and agrees that something is off with that girl.”

“Well, I've got something more. Remember the aide, Gordon? How he wouldn't tell me what Dominic was working on until he conferred with the Special Master? After the search of his office—”

“—find Jelena's missing file?” said Thom.

“It wasn't in his briefcase or anywhere else in the office. But lis
ten …”

The drop-off was so long that Birdie and Thom looked at each other and shrugged.

“George? You there, buddy?” said Thom.

“I'm here. Take me off speaker. No, wait. I'll call you back.”

The call disconnected.

“That's weird,” said Birdie. “George knows I can keep a confidence.”

“I don't think it has anything to do with you,” said Thom.

No sooner were the words out of his mouth, Birdie's office phone rang. The caller ID read
Silva, George
.

Birdie pressed speaker.

“George? What the hell?” said Thom.

“We have a colossal problem.”