Glass Houses (19 page)

Birdie was momentarily stunned by the rant. She glanced down at the silver recorder and hoped it had picked it all up because she was too flummoxed to take notes. She was still processing all he said when the sound of mastication stopped.

“Sorry 'bout that,” he said.

“You may have lost weight, but not your … enthusiasm.”

“I own that house. He gets a free pass to pay rent on a house that is undervalued as a rental property? At his income level? That's what makes me angry. He can afford to pay higher rent. Section eight is for low-income families. I swear, how people game the system. And he … a city lawyer … gamed it the most. It's disgusting. I'm just looking after my property. Bought and paid for by me and he thinks he can prevent me from making a profit on something I legally own? Damn squatter.”

Birdie kept her mouth shut, tried to still her shaking hands. She didn't want to provoke anymore of his ire, especially since she was on the thirtieth floor of a tower with no walls and a swift wind.

“I should apologize,” she said. “I had no idea of the circumstance behind his residency. I was just wondering how you felt about the murders.”

“Good riddance to him. But Rach? She was a classy lady.”

“Had you met the twins?”

“Those foster kids? Naw. That house was a revolving door of them. That's one of the things he used in his section eight application. You know he got paid for having those kids? He was paying shit rent and had a great salary. What the hell did he do with his money?”

What indeed?
thought Birdie.

“Well, Mr. Moysychyn, thank you for allowing me to sneak up on you.” She gathered her things. “Are we still on for dinner tonight? Also some follow-up questions?”

“Sure,” he said distracted. “My wife will be very happy.”

“What's her name?”

“Iris. Like the flower.”

“Ask Iris if she'd be okay if I brought a date. See, my cousin is currently estranged from his wife …”

“Sure. Bring him along. She won't mind.”

“What can I bring?”

“Nothing. She'd be offended.”

“Tonight then.” As Birdie stood he pulled out his cell to notify her “new fan” of the dinner plans.

“Hey,” he called back, “you got any diet restrictions?”

“I'm not a fan of fish,” she called back.

“Yeah, I don't much like dead fish either.”

thirty-five

Thom pulled two paper
towels from the dispenser and dried his hands. A toilet flushed and Bennie Hy, the clerk, emerged.

“Guess we're almost done,” said Bennie, washing his hands.

“About time,” said Thom, glancing at his watch. He made a quick calculation, still on track to make Noa's wire deadline. “So, hey, how quick can the meeting notes be ready? And Culver City's file copy?”

“I can send you the raw transcription immediately. If you want the edited version, I'll need the day.”

Thom handed Bennie a business card. “My email's on there. Send what you have now. Too bad Shaw didn't bring copies.”

“Yeah, slows the process. Don't know what format he'll provide. But as soon as I get it, you'll get it.”

“It's nice to know someone in this building is efficient.”

“Thanks, detective. We don't get much recognition. See you in there.”

Thom's personal cell pinged. “Yeah, see you in there.”

A text from Birdie:
STARVING. MEET 4 LUNCH?

He texted back:
HAVE ERRAND. COME WITH. EAT ON RUN

WHERE? WHEN?

PAB. NOW. CALL WHEN ARRIVE

Thom grinned as he tucked the phone away. Starving = urgent. Birdie's news was important, and hopefully, valuable.

He felt energized as he exited the bathroom. There were hot leads, new information, cooperation, efficiency. This case might get solved, another life saved. Another thirty minutes of meeting, tops, and he could sprint.

Thom opened the war room door. Bennie caught his eye and held up his thumb. Email sent. Thom gestured
okay
in return. Anita and Diego were at the pink box eating. Anita gazed at Thom with an unexplainable expression. Shaw was texting or checking email on his phone. Craig and Seymour were whispering in the corner. George ticked his head toward the door. Thom backed up and they walked down the hall.

“What did she do now?” said Thom.

“Who she?” said George.

“Anita. Did you see her face?”

“It wasn't … Craig—”

Craig and Seymour came through the door.

“LT?” said Thom. “What's up?”

“It has come to my attention that your participation will jeopardize our case. We think it best …”

Thom's brain whirled. He's being thrown off ? Had someone, somehow, found out about Birdie's eyes on the case?

“… very disappointing,” Craig droned. “I think you'll agree the investigation will be better served with Seymour and Silva as lead.”

Seymour said, “Morgan had a family emergency and George is already up to speed since the begin—”

“—as of this moment you're no longer working the case,” said Craig. “We need to have a few private words. Gentlemen?”

George reluctantly pivoted toward the door. “I'll call you later.”

“We'll need the murder book,” said Seymour, somewhat smugly.

As soon as the door shut, Thom said, “What the hell, LT? I told you
immediately
about Jelena. I begged off, but you wouldn't listen. And now that the case has legs and is gathering speed you're pulling me? And reassigning my partner?”

“Trust me,” said Craig. “I'm not happy either. But we got an official complaint.” He held up his hands in defense. “A one-eighty-one was filed. Complaint of Employee Misconduct. The IA investigator will want to talk to you immediately. Call the League. Get a rep.”

“You kidding me?” said Thom with a hitch in his voice. “You file on me?”

“Hell, no,” said Craig. “I don't want this attention. I don't know who filed. I don't know what the problem is. Hell, it might've been filed a week ago for all I know.”

Only Internal Affairs—operating under the umbrella of the Professional Standards Bureau—located in the Bradbury Building on Broadway would know who filed. Anyone can file a complaint for any reason. A disgruntled citizen, a fellow officer, a supervisor,
anybody
has the right to file. The department even made it easy. PDF forms, complete with instructions, were available on the LAPD's website.

When Craig initially told him about the integrity audit he actually would've preferred a 181. They could be approached head-on. Now, Thom wanted it to go away.

Be careful what you wish for
.

“Is this aligned with the IA?”

“You can't know about that,” warned Craig. “I told you as a favor.”

Thom felt like he rode the break toward an inescapable fate. About to crash on a reef. Sharp. Deadly. A serious sense of menace vibrated in his body.
Who the hell is screwing with me?
And Why?

“I've got a good package,” said Thom. “If this dings me in any way, you're going down with me. Everything will be on the table.”

“Don't be stupid, Thom. That's a hollow threat. We both know I have no control over that situation.”

“Do we?” Thom mad-dogged his supervisor.

_____

Thom gathered a few things from his desk, stuffed them into his briefcase. Most of the important shit lay on that creepy altar Birdie had in her office. He had heard rumors that the tech geeks could block access to email so he forwarded Bennie's file to a personal email account —just in case. He quickly wrote out a note of thanks to Bennie, looked up his mail stop and dropped it in outgoing near the shared printer. As he turned to return to his desk something hit him in the back of the head. He pivoted to find his friend, Scott in Robbery Special, laughing. A five-gallon container of peanuts sat nearby in an empty cubicle. Thom saw the peanut on the floor. He picked it up and chucked it back. He wasn't even close to hitting Scott.

“Guess you're not on the softball team,” said Scott.

“Never was much of an athlete,” said Thom.

“You okay there?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“You need anything …?”

“Thanks, Scott. I'm good.”

At least one guy in the squad had his back. Two if he counted George.

_____

Thom threw his briefcase into the trunk of the Mustang. He walked up the stairs, through the lobby, and out the front doors of the PAB aiming toward the smoker's pole. He lit a cigarette and breathed deep. Damnit, damnit, damnit. Why did it seem that practically overnight his life had gone to shit?

A body hugged his. He pushed back, not immediately recognizing Birdie. Patches of white dust were on his suit.

“What the heck?” said Thom. He clocked her construction-girl outfit. “What would Madi say about all that dirt?” He brushed his suit jacket.

“I snuck into a construction site to see Moysychyn. Please, please, please tell me you left out the part about him being owner of L.A. National Housing Trust at your meeting.”

“As you asked,” confirmed Thom. “Not that it matters anymore. I have news.”

“So do I,” she said.

“Come on then, let's walk. I have to hit the bank. There's one on Broadway.”

“I have money for lunch.”

“It's not that, I have to send a wire. That's how Noa is getting paid.”

“How much?”

“Twenty grand.”

“Geeze, that's a helluva lot of money. I hope he's worth it.”

“Tell me about it. So, news … you first.”

“I saw Danny this morning. He gave me fresh insight on the great matter.”

“Bird, family meetings are secret.”

“You have no idea how much I trust him. Besides, I didn't tell him everything. I just thought he'd know who was behind the surveillance. He said it's not coming from his office.”

They stopped at the corner and Thom hit the pedestrian button.

“Hence, not the department,” said Thom.

“Correct. He agrees with us that it's not the FBI either. He has a theory that we didn't consider …”

“Beat added for emphasis? Come on, hit me.”

“He thinks—well, I supposed it to be a private citizen—that it's
someone with the motivation and means for a high-priced investigator. He used the word vendetta, but I think it's something else en
tirely.”

They started across the sidewalk on the walk signal.

“This person gave your supervisor the means to hurt you,” she said.

“And who would this person be?”

Birdie didn't answer.

“Yes?”

“You're going to think me crazy.”

“I already think that. Now spill.”

“Anne.”

Thom guffawed. “That's ridiculous.”

“It makes perfect sense when you think about it. Look, Thom, she's having an affair. We're not talking about a one-night stand, a fling. It's a
relationship
.”

Thom held up his hand. “Stop. You really don't know the dynamic.”

“California is a no fault, community property state. With the right divorce attorney you could petition, and probably be granted, spousal support. She's being proactive by gathering proof of your adultery. To head you off at the pass.”

“Wow. You really are crazy.” He snuffed the cigarette on the smudgy edge of a concrete trashcan, adding his ash to the blackened rim. “First off, Anne would be horrified of the potential scandal. Scared of the impact it'd have on her business, on the kids. Second, we're Catholics. WE don't get divorced. Third, she and I have an understanding. An agreement.”

“What kind?”

“The kind that has allowed me to do what I've been doing all these years.”

Birdie stopped suddenly. “She gave you permission?”

Thom turned. “When she was pregnant with the girls. We've been roommates since Liam was a child. The twins were conceived during a drunken, one-night-stand.”

Birdie frowned. “Well, that theory is blown.”

Thom put his arm around her. “Ah, cheer up. You're the queen of theories. You'll come up with an equally outrageous one before long.”

_____

Birdie and Thom approached the teller: Anna, according to her nameplate. “I need to send a wire and make a withdrawal.”

“Yes, sir, swipe your bankcard please.”

“Why do I need to do that?”

“So that I may process your transaction.”

“It also allows her to see your accounts,” said Birdie, winking at Anna. “She'll confirm that you're the account owner, check pending transactions and balances.”

“So she'll know how much money I have,” said Thom.

“She could care less,” said Birdie.

“To make sure you have enough for the transactions, sir,” said Anna. “What is the amount?”

“Twenty thousand for the wire, twenty-two hundred cash.”

“Yes,” said Anna, looking at her computer screen. “Are you familiar with the wire process?”

“No.”

“Let me get a form.” She stepped away to a back office. A few moments later she came back with a piece of paper and slid it under the thick Plexiglas barrier. “Please fill out the wire instructions. I'll also need your driver's license.”

Thom pulled the license from his wallet and passed it under. “I'm going to make a copy. I'll be right back, Mr. Keane.”

“Why does she need my license?” complained Thom. “I already swiped my card.”

“Are you really complaining about digging out your ID?” said Birdie. “They're not trying to hassle you by asking for a second form of identification. They're confirming who you claim to be. Cards and pins can be stolen. The bank is looking after your assets. It's for your protection.”

“What do you know about it anyway?”

“You know how much work it was to close out Matt's estate? Especially me not being a relative? All the people … all the banks. Each one with different procedures and guidelines and processes, each one with strict federal regulations and compliance. Which gets audited, by the way. Come on, a little inconvenience is worth our piece of mind.”

Anna returned and passed Thom's license back. She also had a copy of the signature card he and Anne both signed when they opened the joint account.

“Triple checking,” said Birdie, smiling.

Thom looked down at the instruction sheet. There were boxes to check, account numbers to fill in, routing numbers, beneficiary account numbers, addresses, banking information. “Holy cow,” he said, “I had no idea.”

“Just think what would happen if twenty thousand dollars came from the wrong account, or was sent to the wrong account. They have to be extra careful,” said Birdie. “After Anna does her part, it'll go to a supervisor for review, then it will get processed and go to the bank's wire department. The whole process takes, on average, thirty minutes. Providing Anna has no other customers to service, because she's the one who enters the initial data. Don't piss her off.”

“You're really liking this, aren't you?” said Thom.

“Oh, yeah.”

And sure enough, nearly thirty minutes later they were walking out of the bank.

He had just paid Noa. No backing out. No return.

Throughout the financial transaction Birdie had fun at his expense. Teased him. Normally, he'd be resentful. Mad even. But in his heart he knew she meant well. A bit of light-hearted distraction from the emotional process. To move him past the horror of paying a stranger to gather God-only-knows-what dirt on the love of his life. His wife. The mother of his five children.

What masochistic tendencies allowed him to sell what was left of his pride for twenty thousand dollars for something he intrinsically knew would lead to pain, heartache, loss? Last night he thought he had reached the bottom of the well. Not so, as it turned out. There was a false bottom. More levels of hell remained.

Birdie slipped her arm around his. “I really am hungry. And I think we need a boost. Let's walk to the cathedral and light some candles. Take prayer in the sanctuary. Give ourselves over to His grace for a moment of reflection. Stroll in the garden. Appreciate the gift of light through the alabaster and the stained glass and the spiritual nature of the building.” She leaned in, blue eyes gazing upon blue eyes. “Then when our souls are nourished, we'll grab a bite at the café. You tell me your news, I'll tell you the rest of mine, and then … we make a plan of attack.”