Glass Houses (3 page)

seven

“I've been thinking about
kids lately,” said Birdie.

Father Frank spit tea all over his devotional notes.

“Not as in, I want to have them, but as in, about them. In general. More specifically, I've been thinking about childhood.”

“What brought this on?” said Frank, dabbing the paper with his handkerchief.

“Louise.”

“Ron's dog?”

“Exactly. Last time I stayed at his house Louise had torn up a new accent pillow. They weren't cheap and Ron was pissed. He collected all the stuffing and bits of torn fabric and piled the mess on the floor. Ron commanded Louise to sit and then he sat just behind the destroyed pile so that Louise could see him and the pillow parts. So Louise is sitting there, eyes tracking between the pillow and Ron. He's mad, but not showing it. A sort of stare down went on for minutes. After a while Louise began to shake. Ron ignored her. Then she began to whine. Poor thing, after a few more minutes she's beside herself. Shaking and whining, but not moving her butt from that spot of floor. After a few more minutes, I'm really feeling sorry for Louise. I'm about to plead her case when Ron moved the pillow stuff out of sight. Meanwhile, Louise is practically spastic and crying, but still not daring to move from the floor. Finally, Ron releases her and she jumps into his lap. He gives her all his attention and love. Kisses. Belly rubs. The works. Later that day, we were on the couch and Ron threw the other pillow near her. She completely ignored it. She had learned her lesson.”

Frank leaned back in his desk chair. “That can't be all to this child genesis.”

“Louise is prone to eye infections and Ron has to put this gel-like medicine in her eyes. She hates it and always cries and fusses. He shushes her and talks all sweet while he's doing it. Afterward, he cradles her like a baby and distracts her from wiping her eyes with her paw. I've seen him do this before, but this time I think back and realize that he's never hit her. He's trained her, disciplined, loved, but never hit. Not even a swat on the flank. While he's got Louise in his arms, an image pops into my mind and I see him holding a baby. And I think he'd make a great father.”

“Training animals isn't on the same scale as raising babies,” said Frank.

“Of course not. But that doesn't diminish the import of my thought. It was random, but not random at all. You've said that we, as mere humans, self-actualize. I wonder if this is God's way of making us look at ourselves in a new light. Like the proverbial light bulb going on. Anyway, this not-so-random thought leads to another and another until I'm thinking about childhood. My childhood.”

Frank clapped his hands together. “Finally! We're getting somewhere.”

“Frank, I'm serious.”

“Me, too. I have the asperges rite to deliver soon.”

“Okay, I'll hurry. So I remembered one thing about myself that I had never given any thought to. Something I took for granted. Only … I never knew I had taken it for granted because I knew no alternative. It was my normal. At some point in time all children go through a phase where this one thing rules their lives. It becomes a scourge of parents worldwide who lose sleep. This one thing is also a bonding opportunity between parents and offspring. Thing is, I never had nighttime soothing sessions. Mom and Dad never had to come to my room in the middle of the night because their daughter was screaming and afraid of the boogeyman under the bed, or ghosts in the closets. I've been dwelling on this one thing. Really thinking about it.”

“You're talking about being afraid of the dark.”

“Exactly,” said Birdie. “I've never been afraid of the dark. For me, even as a child, the night brought safety. Night swallowed the fear. That's why I've always had blackout shades on my windows.”

“But that changed. You're afraid of the dark now.”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “It drives Ron crazy that the hallway remains lit and there're night lights in my bedroom.”

“It's a symptom of post-traumatic stress.”

“That's what Ron keeps saying, too. And I know that. But the whole point is that I came to this thought on my own. Frank, it may seem trivial to you, but I'm proud about this realization. You always say to me that I have to own what happened to me because it is a permanent part of me now. And I'll try. I promise. But for now, I've learned something. And maybe that something will help me become less afraid of the dark or lead to another something and eventually my comfort level and actions.”

Birdie plopped into an overstuffed chair and a puff of dust floated upward and caught the window light of Frank's rectory office. “You think me silly,” she said.

“No. I'm glad. Even if it's a black pug that gets you there. You're making progress. Slow and steady and forward.”

“Yes. That's what I want.”

A soft knock on the door announced its opening. A young boy with a mop of blond peeked in. “Father?”

“I'm coming,” said Frank. “Go on, I'll be right there.”

The door closed with a soft click.

Frank kissed Birdie's head. “This is good. Thank you for sharing.”

“You know me, Frank. I always share.”

“A little too much sometimes,” he said smiling. “Do you have a confession?”

“Not this week.”

His eyes shot to the cross hanging next to the window. “Miracles do happen,” he whispered. He made the sign of the cross over Birdie. “
In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti
,
Dominus vobiscum
.”

“
Et cum spiritu tuo
.”

“Amen,” they said together.

“By the way,” he said, “how did Ron command Louise to sit?”

“He said in a firm voice, ‘sit' then ‘stay.'”

“How did he release her?”

“He said, ‘come.'”

“Only three words,” he mused. Frank then excused himself. He had a Mass to celebrate. A congregation to attend. Birdie was not his only customer today.

After he left the room Birdie was struck by the feeling that her vulnerability was not a weakness. It was a strength she had to harness.

Where did that come from?

She gazed up at the cross.

Really?
Are you sure?

One thing she did know for sure. Her lungs were beginning to work again.

eight

Detective Thom Keane scanned
the SID crew. “Who's what?”

A woman held up her hand. “Prints.”

Another woman said, “Serology.”

“I'm Reynolds,” said a man, pointing at the camera around his neck.

“Film or digital?”

“What's your choice?”

Thom liked the idea of film for a media case. No one could accuse the department of altering a digital image. “Film,” he decided.

“You got it. I already shot the exterior, points of entry, generals, and compass points in digital. I'll switch to film for interiors and the bodies.”

“Sounds great,” said Thom.

“I'm everything else,” said Spenser Hobart. “There's a nice wood floor inside. Like hair?”

“Love it. I want to know who's been here.”

“I'll bust out the Swiffer.”

“Great. Listen up gang, you know what to do. I want to be out of here by sunset.”

Prints and Serology exchanged smirks as if to say,
like that's gonna happen
.

Thom read their expressions and said, “It's called efficiency.”

He inspected the exterior of the Lawrence residence and made a notation on the fresh note pad:
no sign of forced entry
.

His cell vibrated with a message from George.

HEDZ UP POS TWIN 10YO XX

Thom's skin itched with irrational fear. How many twin-sets of 10-year-old girls could there be in Los Angeles? Hundreds? L.A. was a big-ass place. His girls were fine. His girls weren't in this house. They had no reason to be. But he couldn't help himself. He flicked his wrist. The family would be on their way to Mass at St. Joseph's. He stepped away and dialed his wife's cell.

“Hello,” said Anne Keane with a clip in her voice.

“Hi, Honey. Everything okay this morning?”

“Yes.” Cold.

“The kids … Pearse, Padraig, Liam …” he gulped. “Rose and Nora?”

“We're all fine.” Anne was already impatient, thought Thom. One night without her husband certainly didn't make her heart grow fonder.

“Can I talk to Rose?”

“We're running late,” sighed Anne. “I don't have time for this.”

“Time for what? I just want to talk to one of my girls. Damnit, Anne, you're driving anyway. What's the big deal?”

Thom heard the distinct muffle of a phone being passed from one hand to another and then the sweetest voice. “Da?”

That was it. All he needed. A small reassurance that his girls were okay. “Hi, sweetie-pie. How's my red rose this morning?”

“
Daaaa
,” she said. “I'm a yellow rose today.”

“Grandma Nora said you had to save that yellow dress for your brother's birthday party.”

“Ohhhh, I forgot.” She giggled.

Forgot my ass
, thought Thom.

“Where are you, Da? You didn't make pancakes this morning.”

“I'm working, sweetie. Let me talk to Mummy.”

More muffled passing. “Thom.” said Anne. Then off to the side she yelled, “Watch cross traffic.”

Then he heard less distinctly, “Ma, I got it.”

Then he understood. Their eldest son, Pearse, was driving. Thom had taken Pearse to the DMV on his sixteenth birthday and he passed with a perfect score. That was a year ago and, still, Anne stomped the imaginary brake on the passenger side floorboard.

“Are you planning on taking the kids to the Manor?” said Thom. Magnolia Manor was Thom's childhood home. Every Sunday after Mass the Manor became the gathering place for brunch and family.

“Of course,” said Anne. “The girls planned a one-year celebration for Bird.”

“Girls” referred to Thom's mother, Nora, and Birdie's mother,
Maggie. They'd been best friends since seventh grade. Married
brothers.

“Ron's coming up early,” continued Anne. “It's a surprise for Bird. Why do you ask?”

“I pulled a case. A city attorney named Lawrence and his family.”

“That's too bad. I'll express your regrets. Anything else?”

“I love you.”

“Okay. Bye then.”

Click.

That was truly unsatisfactory
. At least he knew where he stood.

As always.

Thom slipped cloth booties over his shoes and put on a pair of latex gloves. On the way into the house he said to Cross, “Call the coroner's investigator. By the time he gets here, we'll be done.”

Thom made another notation on his notepad:
paper-sized
residue on front door—rectangle
.
He touched an edge and detected tackiness. Something had been taped here. He peered at the deadlock, shone a light into the keyhole.

“Check this lock for graphite,” said Thom to Spenser.

The front door opened directly into a great room. The walls were lined, floor to ceiling, with wood shelving filled with classic and contemporary literature. Upholstered chairs were arranged into several reading suites—the like found in libraries. No television, stereo, or radio, but there were plenty of boxed board games and card decks.

Across the great room was a breakfast bar that separated the kitchen and dining room. To the left a table shoved against the wall held two desktop computers. On the wall, two dry erase boards tracked chores, schoolwork, and rewards.

“This is our lucky day,” said Thom.

“How's that?” said Spenser.

“Look at the Saturday chore list.” Besides the usual dusting, toilets, and trash were three items that excited Thom: doors, floors, and walls. “With an interior this clean, it'll be easier to find what the killer left behind.”
And less trace to process and sidetrack us.
“The floor is immaculate. Can you hydro-stat for shoe prints?”

Spenser squatted to get a sideway angle. “It's a possibility. I'll give it a try.”

As Reynolds snapped photos Thom mapped the interior. Its tidiness and order were a stark contrast to the shambled exterior.

The kitchen was small, neat, and shiny. Several of the drawers and cabinets were locked, probably the ones containing knives or other lethal kitchen tools.

To the right of the great room was a full bath off a short hallway. Perpendicular to the bath was a wall partially covered with a woven blanket hung like a tapestry. It was attached to a rod with linen loops and puddled on the floor. Carpeted stairs branched off the right.

Thom pivoted. Looked at his notes. “A window should be here.” He pulled the blanket aside.

“
No way,
” said Spenser. “A hidden door. With an electronic key
pad.”

“Photo and print. Then we'll pop it open,” said Thom.

Thom took each stair slowly, hugging a wall decorated with framed photos of smiling girls of various ages and races. He tapped his knuckle against one and then another. Plexiglas. A safety house. Near the top was a formal graduation portrait of Jelena.

In the photo she wore little makeup. Didn't need to. Her beauty was natural. Clear, unflawed complexion, friendly green eyes, shiny
blond hair. Her nose sloped downward and flared slightly at the end. Pink tinted lips were pressed closed to hide the braces she told him about. Jelena's lips resembled Anne's. Maybe that was why he liked kissing her.

He remembered her petite body in clothes that accentuated her small curves, the way she cocked her head to get a point across, the way her cool skin felt under his hands when she climbed on top of him and how quickly it warmed. He thought about her laugh in his ear as she teased him, the giggle when he sucked her nipples, the moans coming later. She made it obvious that she was smitten. He liked that.

Reynolds presence at Thom's elbow halted the adolescent reverie. “Man, you're slow. Most detectives go straight to the bodies.”

“I don't,” said Thom. He never did. He walked murder scenes as the killer might've—wanting to see what the killer saw. “This carpet is dark. Might conceal blood. Stay close to the wall.”

“I've done this once or twice,” said Reynolds. He whistled as the shutter snapped. “Isn't it strange there are only portraits of girls? A wall full of suspects.”

The acidic scent of congealed blood in the kids' room prickled the nose. The sight of the Asian twins almost made Thom reel. There was no fury on the bodies, just deadly precision. They were spooned on the floor, covered in a princess comforter of blue and silver. Heads placed on a shared pillow. Their pale faces frozen in sisterly tranquility. One gunshot wound to each temple. Reddish-black goo like Halloween gel matted their hair. A rivulet of blood had spilled into the recess of a closed eye and pooled. The other twin died with her eyes open.

Thom squatted and placed the back of his hand near her plump cheek. “I wonder,” he whispered, “did you hear the shot that killed your sister and open your eyes for a brief moment before your time came? Did you feel the bullet penetrate your skull? Would you have wanted to survive this world without your other half ?” Thom thought of his own twin, Aiden. “I couldn't've.” And Rose without Nora? Thom gritted his teeth. These little girls, both serene and violent, would stick with him. The kids always did.

Mindful that Reynolds was near, Thom stepped back and the hard-ass cop mask dropped across his face. He eyeballed the utilitarian room. It contained a glossy white bunk bed. White dressers with pink knobs were stenciled with their names. Amy and Amber. Two small upholstered chairs were shoved against the wall with a shared reading lamp. There was no toy box, no bulletin board stuck with shiny objects, no dolls, no teddy bears, not even a clock.

Thom said, “Two beds, two comforters,
one
pillow.”

“And no fired casings,” said Reynolds.

“Not expected in an execution.”

Thom moved down the hall to the master bedroom.

On the bed Dominic lay on his back. There were two visible wounds: in the middle of the forehead and in the groin. The faded blue comforter looked as if it had been moved off him, but Thom couldn't inspect it carefully until the CI arrived.

Reynolds pointed at the groin and said, “That's personal.”

“The head shot is personal,” corrected Thom. “It indicates the killer knew his victim. The groin shot is business.” Then why shoot the wife and kids? Personal or business or a little of both? His eye fell to a bloodied item discarded on the floor. The missing princess pillow. Used as a muffle. He pulled out his cell and sent a text to George.

TWINS DONE 1ST

Rachel lay curled up on her left side, bloodied temple peeking from the blanket that she held tight to her nose like a cocoon. She probably felt safe in a childlike way—never expecting to be murdered in her sleep.

Thom leaned over Lawrence, noted the disturbance in the glossy blood of the groin wound. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, “but if this happened because you touched little girls, I hope you rot in hell.”

Thom moved on to the bathroom and stared at two words scrawled on the master bath mirror.

Dead fish

Each letter had sharp edges. Nearly see-through and shimmery in the mirror's spotlighted reflection. A bloodied foam brush lay in the sink. The tool dipped into Dominic's blood to write the creepy words. Something dark caught Thom's eye. He leaned in to inspect what looked like a pubic hair stuck in the letter D.

Prints entered the bathroom. “What does it mean?”

Thom crossed his arms in study. “Pushover? Easy prey? Someone easily defeated or dominated?” Then he thought of Cross' description of Lawrence—‘big fish'. He glared at the words.
Dead fish.
“Mostly it means the killer is a narcissist.”

Prints knit her brows.

“He wants attention.”

“Sick.” Then as an afterthought she said, “The hidden room is ready.”

“Excellent. As soon as George is done with the PR we'll crack it open and find us some dirty little secrets.”