Glass Houses (20 page)

Thom reluctantly smiled and nodded as though the side trip was the most obvious next step in a day not nearly half over and already filled to capacity with the morbid for an average fellow. How did she read people so effectively and give them what they needed?

As they walked toward Our Lady of the Angels on Temple Street, Thom realized he could not reciprocate. He didn't know how to in
terpret her deep emotional contours. Didn't know how to reach
the dark places that dwelled inside her. Didn't know what she
needed
.
Was this because she always seemed so self-sufficient? Self-contained? No, he didn't think so. As kids, he remembered a different Birdie. Open. Accessible. Carefree. So what changed? Was it the usual teenage angst? Were her burdens so great they lead to a life of alcoholism? At what age did she become so efficient at concealment?

How could he know? He was too wrapped up in his own life to give notice. Really, did it come down to something as simple as missed observation?

These thoughts made him sad.

One thing he knew for sure. His drama came from external sources. Birdie's came from internal sources. Still, there had to be some tell.

Thom determined to be more mindful in the future. After all, he was a detective. He already had the skill in some measure. Used it well on the job. It wouldn't take much effort to hone his gift and utilize it for his personal life.

If he had, he might have seen Anne's affair before the bomb dropped.

thirty-six

“Hello, my love, guess
who's coming to dinner tonight?”

“Who?”

“Elizabeth Keane. That reporter I told you about.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Why do you always say that?”

“Okay … sorry … this might actually be good for us. Do you remember what you have to do? The role you are playing?”

“Yes. I will be an actor.”

“Be very careful. I remember her from before. She's …”

“What is she?”

“Crafty.”

thirty-seven

Birdie wiped her mouth
with a paper napkin and pushed the salad away. Whereas Thom had already finished a sandwich, a bag of potato chips, and downed a large soda.

“That's it?” he said, suppressing a burp. “You've not even eaten half.”

“I'm full.”

“How can that be possible? You didn't eat the breadstick and only dipped your fork into the dressing.”

“I'm full,” Birdie repeated.

“I know you eat more than this. Your boyfriend makes sure of that.”

Birdie leaned back in the chair and crossed her arms. “What do you mean?”

“Ron brings you all that food. Stocks your refrigerator. Controls what you eat.”

“Whoa. Remember who you're talking to. Do you think I'd let a man control what I eat?”

“Sunday morning the fridge is empty. Ron rolls into town and suddenly it's full of foods ready to heat and eat. He's got you exercising. He completely changed your diet.”

Birdie shook her head. “No, no, no. That's on me, dude. Okay, at first it wasn't. Back when I came home from the hospital I didn't like his interference. But really, he forced me to exercise for rehab purposes and practically force fed me to put weight on, the right way, with a healthy diet. The regime made me feel better so
I
took it to the next level.”

“What next level? You don't cook. Never have. So he's doing it for you.”

“Ron has a job. Responsibilities. You think he has free time to cook and prepare a week's worth of food for me? I buy it from a nutritionist. He's just transportation.”

“You
pay
someone to cook?”

“Why is that so shocking? Like you said, I don't cook. So I hire a service to do it for me. The place I use is in Carlsbad, just south of Ron's house. He picks it up for me when he comes to town, when I go to his house I bring it back.”

“I didn't realize that you're pushing this agenda on yourself,” said Thom. “All this time I thought you had a controlling boyfriend.”

“Well, he is … by nature. He's also extremely disciplined, not prone to weakness.”

“Because of his military training.”

“He was a Marine for twenty years. You can't just hang up the uniform and forget the training. Hell, he'd still be there if he hadn't reached the zenith, the top rank for an enlisted man. But I won't
tolerate that kind of bullshit in my private life so he has to temper his … oh, how do I put it?”

“Jealousy?”

“Why that word?” said Birdie.

“I saw how he beat the bag with Matt's face on it. He was angry.”

“He hits hard.”

“It was right after you guys argued about someone not dead,” he said.

Birdie was taken aback. He heard their argument? She'd have to be mindful that another person lived in her home. The freedom days of complete privacy were gone.

“You misheard,” she said.

“No, I didn't. I heard it clear as a bell. You said, ‘He's not dead. Don't you know how that makes me feel?' So, who were you talking about?”

Birdie remembered clear as a bell, too. Her exact words to Ron were, ‘Why can't you understand how this makes me feel?' She sought his compassion on the topic of Matt Whelan. She still did. And she'd have to have it soon.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

Thom gave her a sideways look. “Alright. Let's move on then. Why have you been pacing our conversation? Avoiding the rest of your news?”

“I sensed you needed a bit more time to deal with the Anne angst.”

Thom dropped his head. “Fair enough, but the day is passing and there's a lot I still need to do.”

“The meeting. Did the case get hot?”

“Yes, but not in the way you're thinking. I'm off.”

“Off the case? That's good isn't it? That's what you wanted.”

“I did, but Craig pulled me off because a complaint of misconduct has been filed.”

“Wasn't he the one that said the decision to keep you on came from upstairs? That blows his story. If
they
could keep you on for an IA,
they
can keep you on for a complaint. I mean, aren't they commonplace?”

“For street cops with constant contact with the public. But not in my position.”

“What is the complaint about? Who made it?”

“Dunno. I'll be able to tell by the line of questioning once the assigned internal affairs hack interviews me.”

“Is it procedure to take someone off an active case before a proper investigation?”

“Depends. In a high-profile case like mine, I might pull me off, too. Craig thinks my involvement would be a distraction.”

“What do you do now?”

“Right now we jet.” Thom bussed their table, filled his soda cup with water. As they walked back toward the PAB he said, “I'm invested in this case. The way we see it, the killer will strike again on Sunday.”

“Why Sunday?”

“Because all his kills took place on Sunday. One every week for three weeks then there was a four-week break before the Lawrence murders. We believe he'll strike again on Sunday. That gives us four plus days. I've been thinking about your plan of helping me. You know, launder the information? Make it like original discovery?”

“You want help after all?”

“I do. Craig is going to assign me menial duty. Desk shit. But I can still help … I mean, we can help, but not if I'm at my desk.
When we get back I'm going straight to HR and put in for personal time. I have loads saved up. I need you to go back to the Bird House and copy all the files. Can you do that for me?”

“Easy.”

“Seymour or George or maybe both won't wait for me to deliver the files. They'll come to me. So copy and put the pages back exact. George and I assembled the book together. He'll know if it's different. Can you scan and color copy photographs and burn discs?”

“All that. What happens if they arrive before I'm done?”

“Stall. Say you won't give them anything without my approval. Make them wait. Under no circumstance let them see the dry erase board. How are you with forgery?”

“Like documents or signatures?”

“The board needs to be re-worked anyway now that I've got additional notes. It has to appear like I've done the writing.”

“I can identify your writing, but for something like that, I'll need exemplars. You have something of significant length that is hand-written?”

“My original case notes and drawings. They're on white sheet paper in the murder book.”

“Okay. I have my assignment. Now yours. You need to be back at my house no later than five. We have a dinner date.”

thirty-eight

Birdie opened the Judas
hole on her front door. George stood on the stoop.

“Hello, George,” she said.

“Hi, Birdie. Thom here?”

She opened the door. “Come on in.”

George stepped into the small entry and clocked Birdie's denim pant suit.

“You look nice,” said George. “Very seventies with the flare legs.” He twirled her around. “Flat front, zipper in the back, very slenderizing.” He tugged at the sleeve. “The miracle of Lycra. Going out?”

“I have a dinner interview tonight. Thom's my date.”

“Is he here?” he repeated.

“I expect him soon. Come on up.”

“By chance you have coffee?”

“You know me, there's always fresh brew in my house.”

“I do know you,” he said with a hint of lascivious.

“You flirting?”

George bit his lower lip. “Is it off limits?”

“You know better.”

George followed Birdie up the curving mahogany stairway; past the collection of crucifixes, the niches with religious artifacts. At the second-floor landing he rubbed the head of the marble statue of St. Joseph. They continued past the office with the closed tapestry entrance and the sound of machinery.

“What's going on in there?” said George.

“Printing some documents.”

They continued to the kitchen. Birdie pulled out a bar stool. “Sit.”

“Where's Thom?”

“Don't know.” Birdie opened a glass cabinet door and pulled out a small porcelain cup and saucer. “We had lunch together and separated afterward.”

“He tell you what happened?”

Birdie poured the coffee and added one cube of sugar. She swirled it gently with a spoon and set it down in front of George.

“Yes. It sucks.”

“Damn straight. Thom's my partner. We have a rhythm. Then we're suddenly yanked apart and I have to work with that asshole Seymour. I don't like it.”

“Where's Seymour now?”

“Getting food. We never had time for lunch and we're between interviews. I'm here to pick up the murder book and the Deats file.”

“Thom will want to know what's going on with the case.”

“I know. I'll call him later.”

George blew on the coffee. “I need the files.”

“You'll have to wait for Thom.”

“Don't play with me. You're copying the files right now.”

“How can I? I'm in the kitchen with you. Speaking of which …” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a black container with a sticker on the lid. She gave it to George. “I'm eating out tonight. This will be better than anything Seymour picks up.”

George read the label. “Tuesday dinner. Roast turkey with fresh cranberry salsa, baby red potatoes, haricot verts with thyme, warm baby greens and spinach wilt. Remove lid, remove greens, microwave two minutes. Add greens and cook thirty seconds. Sounds delicious. You need the container back?”

“No, but don't throw it away. It's reusable.”

George drained the coffee in one large gulp.

Always the same
, thought Birdie.

“Thank you for the coffee. The dinner. Now give me the book.”

Birdie crossed her arms. “Wait for Thom.”

George pirouetted. Headed out of the kitchen and tuned left toward the office.

“George,” said Birdie following him. “You best respect my space.”

“Birdie, I'm trying to catch a serial killer. I don't have the time.” He thrust aside the tapestry and strode into her office uninvited.

“You just crossed a line, George Silva.”

George stopped dead in his tracks and pointed at the altar. “That new?”

Birdie stepped around him and picked up the investigative material. She thrust it at him. “Get out.”

“Sorry, Birdie … just one more thing.” He removed a few papers from the printer's catch and flipped them over. He knit his brows in confusion.

“Not what you expected? Now get out before I really get mad.”

“Birdie … I thought … shit, I'm sorry. Real sorry. Tell Thom I'll see him later.”

A few moments later Thom emerged from the supply closet holding the file copies and an empty binder. “That was close. Poor George, he'll be apologizing for a week. We shouldn't have fun at his expense. He's going to hate working with Seymour.”

“Too bad you couldn't have seen the look on his face. You get the last of it?”

“Everything. Ask about the interviews?”

“Didn't have time. He did say they were ‘between.'”

“Sounds right.” Thom emptied his arms on the altar. “Come on, we need to prepare for dinner. Bring the gun from the desk.”

_____

Birdie and Thom stood in front of the gated weapons locker in the garage.

“You're being paranoid,” said Birdie, punching in the passcode.

“Who's paranoid? You've got more shit in this thing than me, Da, Aiden, and Arthur put together. And we're on the job. Besides, don't you remember the last time you met a fan?”

“He was a stalker.” She opened the gate.

“Precisely. And that's how you got the permit. And now a serial killer may have just invited you to dinner.”

“You're taking the dead fish comment too seriously. In the context of the conversation it was an appropriate thing to say.”

Thom rolled his eyes. “And you're not taking it seriously enough. You said he gave an exercised performance on that job site. Said he hated Dominic.”

“I said ‘enthusiasm' and I don't recall the word hate.”

“You know how I feel about coincidence. Let's plan for the worst, expect the best.” He hefted the Sig from Birdie's desk. “Have anything smaller? You might get separated from your purse.” Thom vigorously shook his head. “Scratch that. You're not taking a purse.”

Birdie pointed. Thom pulled open the top drawer. A selection of antique fist pistols and palm-squeezers lay on deep red velvet. “I inherited those from Matt.”

“Ever shoot 'em?”

“Too afraid they'll blow up in my hand.”

“Smart.”

“Here, let me.” Birdie moved in and opened the second, deeper drawer. She pulled out a lockbox and slammed it on the counter, dialed in the combo, and opened it up.

“Now that's what I'm talking about,” said Thom. “You sure like your Sigs.”

“It's not legal in California.”

“I won't tell if you won't,” said Thom, winking.

Birdie picked up the black pistol and palmed it. “Less than nineteen ounces fully loaded. Seven rounds. Double-action trigger with a ten-pound pull. Three-eighty. Fixed barrel blowback.”

“Shorter than the nine-mil. Will stop a man up close, shit for distance. Got a holster?”

In the end, Birdie carried the pistol on her ankle, her smartphone in its holder attached to her waistband at the small of her back, and a six-inch slim knife on the left side of her rib cage. Car key tucked into her bra. That left her hands free for nothing more than a steno pad and pen which could be easily abandoned.

Thom wore his usual BUG in an ankle holster, Birdie's Sig P239 in the rig under his left arm, a switchblade in the front pocket of his jeans, and his personal cell also at his back.

The plan was to walk in heavily armed, but not appear so.

Keep the hosts at ease.

After all, it was just dinner and an interview.

Oh, and they removed the license plates from Birdie's car.