Glass Houses (21 page)

thirty-nine

Birdie pulled over to
the curb.

“Are you sure?” said Thom, looking around suspiciously.

They were in front of a five-story brick building that appeared abandoned. A row of shuttered warehouses were on the north side of the street, the 10 freeway behind the building on the south and, east and west, a succession of condemned buildings, empty lots, rental garages, and lots of trash, weeds, and broken bottles.

“I've always known this as the Biscuit Building,” said Birdie, confused. “But I've only seen it from the freeway above.”

She looked past Thom at the dark building. It sat almost in the middle of a massive asphalt lot with faded reminders of white lines and broken tire bumpers.

“The weeds are doing well,” she said. “I must get the name of their gardener.”

Thom chuckled. “This isn't a home. It's the backlot of a horror film.”

“The chain-link fencing surrounding the joint a dead giveaway?”

“Maybe the house is full of zombies.”

“Or the ghosts of long-dead bakers.”

The forced humor didn't rid Birdie of the dread. Her antennae were vibrating. Matt once told her to never be afraid to offend, especially if you feel the prick of danger. “Better to get the hell away and, if need be, apologize later. Don't ever risk safety for politeness.” Those words came to her now.

“There's no lighting other than ambient from the freeway. No sign that people live here. And I'm getting bad vibes. I think we should bounce.”

“I don't have the power of authority,” said Thom.

“You're a licensed law enforcement professional with the state of California, which means you're a cop twenty-four-seven.”

“In regard to this case, this instance, all I can hope to accomplish is a survey.”

“He owns two properties where people were murdered in the same manner. What does that tell you?”

“That he owns two properties. Owning houses or not liking someone isn't just cause. But I've been invited into his home. If I see something, I take action. These golden opportunities are rare.”

_____

Todd toggled the camera. He could only see the passenger. A man.

“It looks like they're deciding what to do,” he said.

“Turn on lights!” said Iris.

“No. I want to see if she remains motivated.”

_____

The fingers on Birdie's right hand twittered.

“Okay,” said Thom reluctantly. “We can go.”

Birdie eased off the brake and pulled forward to the corner.

“Is that a frontage road?” said Thom. “Let's just see where it goes.”

Birdie turned right. The pavement smoothed out, felt maintained under the tires. She followed the single lane street to a turnabout in the shadow of the freeway. She was about to make a U-turn when a dimly lit sign caught her attention. DELIVERIES. Next to the sign was a modern security panel.

“I'll check it out,” said Thom. He swiveled out of the car, left the door open.

_____

“Damn, no plate,” said Todd.

“Zoom in car,” said Iris. “What see?”

“Nothing. Just hands on a steering wheel drumming to music. Basic car. Nothing on the dash, nothing on the seat.”

_____

Thom pressed a button marked “assistance.”

The gate electronically unlocked and slowly rolled open. A row of driveway lights clicked on, illuminating the way forward.

“Your choice,” said Thom.

Todd Moysychyn had once yelled at her so ferociously that spittle wet his chin.

But that was nothing compared to this: a dark and formidable building where they were the away team. At a disadvantage.

Her stomach flipped. Did she really think Todd was a methodical killer? Was this visit really necessary? One truth to the journalism profession is that great stories often come at great risk—that's how she earned the Pulitzer—why else did she go up thirty floors on a tower with a swift wind and no walls? Besides, she had a cop at her side and they were heavily armed.

“Let's go in,” she decided.

“That's my Bird. So … leave the car outside the gate and walk in?”

“If we have to leave this haunted manse in a hurry I doubt you could scale that fence. Besides, this car is built Ford tough. With enough speed it'll bust down the fence.”

Thom laughed and got back in. “Okay, Miss Spokeswoman, been drinking from Anne's Kool-Aid container?”

“I need a story.”

“I need a survey.”

“Forward then.”

Birdie followed the runway-like lights to the end. At the southeast corner were five loading docks too low for modern trucks. Too high for regular automobiles. On two, metal ramps were retrofitted to allow vehicular access to the warehouse. Birdie made a three-point turn and parked the Taurus near the perimeter fence facing the exit.

A mercury-vapor light cast a yellowish glow over a doublewide door. Moysychyn sat on the stoop smoking.

“And there's our host,” said Birdie, removing the press credentials from the visor. She unhooked the pass from the lanyard and clipped it to her waistband.

“Help me get one of those butts.”

“Roger that.” She grabbed her steno pad and stabbed a pen into the wire.

“I hope he doesn't mind that your date is a cop,” said Thom.

_____

Iris moved the toggle and zoomed in on the woman, scanned her up and down. Wondered how she got that strange scar on her face. Hard to tell what kind of build lay under that suit. She moved well. Confident. Had a strength about her. She moved the camera to the man's face. Nice looking except for the gray hair. Definitely related to the woman. So far her story held.

_____

They walked toward the light.

“You made it.” Moysychyn pumped Birdie's hand.

Thom swooped his hand out and filched the still-smoldering butt, pinched it out.

“Hello, Mr. Moysychyn,” said Birdie.

“Call me Todd, please.”

“This is my cousin, Thom.”

“Nice to meet you. Welcome.” He gestured inward, closed and locked the door with a retractable key attached to his belt.

Birdie took a deep, silent breath of worry.

“Thank you for letting me tag along,” said Thom. “I hate coming empty-handed, but Elizabeth assured me that your wife—Iris, I believe—would be offended if we brought anything.”

“And that is correct,” said Todd. “Iris likes to be the complete hostess. Elizabeth, I am impressed you found the right way in. We failed to get each other's phone numbers and I forgot to give you directions.”

“Perseverance,” said Birdie.

The threesome walked through a reception office: Formica countertop, sliding window, empty clipboards on the wall, then through another door into a modified garage. Two cars were parked side-by-side in the warehouse: matching Mercedes CLS coupes; one white, one black.

Beyond the dome of light a massive sense of space. No shadows. Just dark space.

Todd jumped into a pristine white E-Z-GO golf cart. “Get in. We live on the top floor.”

Birdie and Thom exchanged quick glances. “We don't mind walking,” said Birdie.

“I do,” said Todd, starting the battery-powered cart.

Thom took the backward facing seat and Birdie sat in front. Todd maneuvered the cart around some barrels and took a sharp left turn and up a wide ramp with a metal railing. The ramp circled the building, spiraling ever upward like an amusement roller coaster about to pitch off the edge. A reflective yellow number marked each floor. Multi-colored carnival lights were strung up on metal brackets attached to the brick. They weren't bright enough to pierce the dark interior, and the decades-old smell of yeast and mold gave Birdie no context.

As the ramp wound around and the big “4” came into view she saw several crookneck lamps that illuminated workbenches, key-cutting machines, metal filing cabinets, and several desks. Todd braked abruptly. The cart stopped with a jolt. He mumbled an expletive and jumped out, opened a metal panel on the wall and started flipping circuits. The lamps went dark one by one. Just as he flipped the last one Birdie's eye caught something moving in the middle of the room. She swore it was a shark.

forty

Todd parked the white
cart next to its black mate.

Thom disembarked and squeezed Birdie's arm in reassurance. “Did you catch all that?” he whispered.

She nodded and took his hand to still hers.

Straight ahead, a massive set of doors. Ten feet high at least. Hand carved and accented with gold leaf, it depicted the twelve animal zodiacs of the Chinese New Year cycle in a writhing, orgy-like relief.

“That's a spectacular door. What's its origin?” said Birdie, her voice shaky.

“Iris had it commissioned. Made it look ancient.”

“She's Chinese?”

“My mail-order bride. She was only seventeen—” he held a finger to his lips—“but had a lifetime of experience, if you get my meaning. Who else would have me in my previous state except someone anxious to live in the United States? Don't let her size fool you. She's the boss around here.”

He pulled a retractable key attached to his belt and unlocked the door. A smaller door within the larger one opened inward.

A woman wearing yellow silk capris, black flats, and a tunic-length red cheongsam with a dragon design stood in an entry created by rolling screens and potted ficus. She had jet black hair tied back in a loose chignon and secured with a jade comb.

“Iris,” said Todd, “may I present Elizabeth Keane of the Republic of California and her cousin, Thom.”

The woman bowed. Neither Thom nor Birdie knew the protocol, but in a familial synchronicity they tilted their heads. The woman didn't reach out to shake hands so the cousins kept their arms at their sides.

“You are Irish, yes?” said Iris.

“Yes,” said the cousins.

“Good. I make Irish stew.”

Thom and Birdie exchanged peptic glances. They were extremely spoiled when it came to stew. No one made it like their paternal Grandma, Birdie. Nora's came close because she understood that good stew took hours to prepare. Stews are patient, simmered over time. A Chinese woman telling the cousins they were about to eat a favored traditional dish didn't thrill them.

Birdie smiled and said, “How lovely.”

“I'm looking forward to it,” said Thom.

Iris waved her hand forward. “Husband, show them, show them.
I finish.”

The loft took up much of the entire fifth floor. The furnishings and accessories were label heavy as if the designer showrooms were emptied of gaudy swag and thrown into a massive space without regard to a theme. Money sure couldn't buy class.

“A designer crib is not what one would expect of you,” said Birdie. “As I recall, you were quite the slob.”

“When Iris came into my life five years ago I lived in my workshop. I had a desk, telephone, a TV, a recliner, and a mattress. She whipped everything into shape. Including me. Those timbers up there are original. She hired an engineer to do the lights. All the screens are movable so we can rearrange rooms, open or close as needed. The wood floor is original, refinished of course. Iris is very good at spending my money. We have a few solid walls. The bedrooms and bathrooms for instance. Guest bath.” He pointed in a vague, right-hand direction.

“When we were out on the street we couldn't see a mote of light,” said Birdie. “Did you have these lights off ?”

“The windows are covered in black acrylic.”

“I don't understand,” said Thom. “There are huge cantilevered windows with yellow panes of glass on every floor, including this one.”

“You like those windows? I sure do. They're original of course. Damaged by vandals and time. The acrylic on the inside blocks the light. See, no one knows we live here. We'd like to keep it that way.” He nodded at Birdie's press badge. “We don't live here legally. This area is still zoned for industrial. Also, the building isn't earthquake safe. Hasn't been retrofitted. I'd appreciate it if you kept that from your interview.”

“As long as it's not relevant to my queries,” said Birdie.

“When the big one hits, you're screwed,” said Thom, quickly.

“What if there's a fire?” added Birdie. “Have an escape route?”

“Two reasons Iris is anxious to move. Plus, she's a little freaked out by the floors below. She likes light and clean spaces. Not dark and dusty.”

And yet the light was artificial. Nothing natural, thought Birdie. Not even skylights as is common in industrial spaces.

Todd gave Birdie and Thom a meandering tour. The art elements were diverse: prehistoric fossil reproductions, ceramic vases, woven baskets, koi fish carvings in wood, stone, and glass. Birdie studied a triptych of square abstracts with highly unusual patinas. It appeared as though reflective flecks were mixed with a wash that highlighted sections of the paintings. It had an odd, fishy scent, as well.

“I did those,” said Todd.

“Very interesting,” said Birdie. “What is that unusual wash?”

“Ground-up fish. I keep exotics. When they die, I puree them and add a gel medium. It's my tribute to such beautiful jewels.”

A riot of exclamation points bounced in her brain. She backed up a step in slow motion and would've keeled were it not for Thom suddenly at her side to prop her up. He led her to a nearby table.

“Look at this.” His voice sounded liquid and distant. “It reminds me of Matt.”

A miniature Dharma Wheel made of plastic was displayed under a bell jar. There appeared to be writing on the spokes. Just as Birdie leaned closer to read it, she perceived a subtle movement of air and heard, “Like it?”

Birdie jumped.

A sudden shift of tone and mood occurred when Iris suddenly appeared behind her, quiet and surefooted like a bobcat.

“So sorry,” said Iris.

“You're a Buddhist?” said Birdie.

Iris pointed at the Wheel. “You know this?”

“Each spoke represents the right view, right thought, right behavior, right speech, right effort, right livelihood, right mindfulness, right meditation. I've never seen one so small.”

“That is one of the few possessions Iris came to America with,” said Todd, sidling next to his wife. “They were tokens. Toys. Given to children to keep in their pockets.”

Iris gave her husband a harsh stare.

Birdie wondered why such a sweet thing should evoke Iris' response.

“Dinner, if you please,” said Iris, tight lipped.

_____

Birdie peered into her bowl of steaming stew, felt bile move into her throat. She didn't trust the meat. Was it beef or lamb? It looked like bloody stool floating in brown broth surrounded by carrots and potatoes. Sweat formed on her forehead. She felt her irregular heartbeat in her neck. She pushed back from the table. “Excuse me.” She pointed toward the area Todd had indicated the bathroom was located.

Thom got up as well. “Need help?”

In her mind she said, “Actually, my pants zipper gets stuck,” as she pointed at her back. What came out was gibberish and she didn't understand why everyone stared at her with alarm.

“I will help,” said Iris.

“That's okay,” said Thom, protectively. “We're family.”

He placed a firm hand across Birdie's back and led her toward the bathroom. They walked behind a cinder block wall and found themselves in a long, narrow passageway painted bible black. A flickering overhead light cast strange patterns on the surface. Shiny bits on the walls caught the light like rhinestones.

“Guess this place is larger than it appears,” Thom whispered.

Birdie felt unsteady. Disoriented. The passageway shrunk, closed around her.

Thom held her tighter. “You're shaking,” he said into her ear. He was about to open the first door they came across when a tap on the shoulder stopped him.

Iris.

Birdie nearly screamed.

Iris gestured. “Bathroom this way,” she said.

They followed her to the passageway's terminus. Near the entrance of the hall was a green lighted frosted glass door.

“Thank you,” said Thom. “We walked right past it.”

He pulled Birdie into the bathroom and shut the door. The glass tint changed to red.

“That's cool,” said Thom. “Must be LEDs.”

“Lock … lock door,” said Birdie.

“There isn't one. It's the light. Green for unoccupied, red for in use.”

“Shit,” moaned Birdie, sitting on the toilet lid. She gasped for air—her breathing fast and strained.

Thom knelt. “Take it easy, Bird. Calm down. Deep breaths … inhale … one-two-three … exhale … one-two-three … nice and slow … that's it.” He hugged her, rubbed her back. “It's okay.” He rocked her until she her breathing returned to normal.

“I think you were on the verge of a panic attack,” he said.

Birdie tried to laugh. “Verge?”

“What's got you so jumpy?”

“Todd paints with ground-up fish and the meat in my bowl looked like shit.”

“It was sausage with red peppers.”

“Huh?”

“Iris didn't remove the casing. I thought it looked weird at first, too.”

“This place is totally messed up. Something lurks in the shadows. That hall? It reminded me of the pump house, but instead of crude I smelled fish.”

“Oh, Bird.” He smoothed the hair from her face. “I'm sorry.”

“It was my mission to talk to this guy. Hell, I went to an extreme. When he invited me to dinner I snatched the opportunity. I thought … shit, I don't know … I thought …”

“The murder weapon would be lying on a coffee table?”

Birdie managed a weak smile.

“I heard what he said about the paintings. I'm getting good intell. I agree, something is wacky, but I don't think we're in harm's way. If you really believe it and can't handle staying, I'll take you home.”

“Nothing will happen to us?”

“Do you think I'd let anything happen to you?” He kissed her forehead. “Except we might not like the stew.”

“I'm not eating it. I'm claiming a sudden stomachache and will ask for crackers.”

“Deal. Let's get back.”

“I need to pee.”

“Make it quick,” said Thom, turning his back.

Birdie got off the toilet and lifted the lid.

She covered her mouth and muffled a scream.

A dead goldfish floated in the bowl.

“That's it!” hissed Birdie.

“Hold on,” urged Thom. “It's the common way to dispose of goldfish.”

“You heard what Todd said. He grinds them up. Get it out.”

Thom took a photo of it with his phone then gingerly put his fingers into the toilet water and picked up the fish by its tail. He laid it on the edge of the sink and poked it. “It's solid. Do fish go into rigor?”

Birdie picked it up and held it close to her cheek. Then she held it to Thom's.

“It's frozen,” said Thom.

“Which means it was just put in there.”

“By Iris. Right before she retrieved us from the hall.”

“She's messing with us.”

“Then we mess back.” Thom wrapped the tiny fish in toilet paper and put it into the breast pocket of his bomber jacket.

_____

After the gawdawful dinner Birdie and Todd moved from the dining area to a well-lit vignette near one of the blacked-out windows to conduct the interview. Thom began clearing the table.

“No, no thank you,” said Iris. “I do. You are guest.”

“Let me help,” he said, carrying several glasses to the kitchen. “I don't mind washing dishes. I'm an expert at loading dishwashers, too. I can overload one without breakage.”

“Yes, yes, very nice. No help.”

“Alright. I'll keep you company then.”

Iris scurried back to the table.

Thom leaned against the refrigerator and looked around. Wood, stainless, stone. A typical kitchen. When Iris didn't immediately return, he pushed off the fridge and accidently knocked a photo and magnet off the door. He picked it up. A fat Todd in a suit and his new bride in a traditional wedding outfit posed in front of the seal of Los Angeles. He was about to put it back when, inexplicably and, without forethought, he slipped it into his trouser pocket.

He peeked into the dining room. Iris wasn't there. She stood behind a table lamp spying on Birdie and Todd who were seemingly engrossed in conversation.

Throughout dinner Thom noted that Iris couldn't take her eyes off his cousin. Yet when Birdie caught her eye, Iris would look away.

Dinner was beyond weird. Todd was upset that Birdie felt bad and kept asking if she were okay. Iris was put out that Birdie was sick and begged off the stew in favor of rice crackers and chewing gum. Todd was antagonistic toward Iris. Iris hateful toward Todd. A match made on a computer and not working in real life? And Thom sat back and observed.

He examined the fridge photos. He found a better one of the pair, a close-up, and made an exchange. There was one of Iris as a young girl. She wore a uniform and posed with some classmates in front of a school. He plucked it from its magnet and peered at the faces, but couldn't see them clearly. It seemed his up-close vision was hit and miss these days. He saw Jelena's tiny face on a driver's license quite clearly and days later couldn't focus on a photo. He made a mental note to make an appointment with an optometrist. He might be ready for glasses. He was about to put the photo back on the fridge when he heard Iris in the dining room. He palmed it
just as Iris returned to the kitchen with silverware and napkins.

“May I please have some coffee?” said Thom.

“No coffee. Tea only.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

Thom didn't want coffee or tea. He wanted an opportunity to talk to Iris alone.

Divide and conquer.

When Iris turned to plug in an electric kettle he dropped the photo into his pocket for a total of three items, none of them legal seizures, all unusable.

“Was Todd teasing when he said you were a mail-order bride?”