Glass Houses (6 page)

fourteen

Monday, May 14

Thom jerked awake, ears
ringing, body drenched. The image of delicate little girls spooned in death inserted themselves into Thom's dream—burned in like a television image with a bloody scroll across the bottom … dead fish … dead fish … dead fish.

He dreamt that he was in the Work and Home Building. Set for implosion any second. Jelena was there, too. She danced naked with a princess pillow and a gun. Thom felt trapped. Knew that he'd be destroyed. And then the girls. Always the girls.

1:30 a.m. Thom stared at a ray of light that cast a thin opaline stripe on the wall. Still there thirty minutes later. Thom desperately needed to rest. A few hours would be enough to recharge the battery if he could just change the channel.

Thom threw off the sheet in defeat and got up. All the chandeliers in the hallway were fully lit. At the far end of the hall Louise lay curled atop a doggie bed in front of Birdie's closed bedroom door. A paw covered her eyes. Even animals need dark, he thought. He turned off the switches. The only remaining light came from the backlit Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane.

He shuffled down the marble service stairs to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. Birdie wasn't kidding when she told him to check it out. Black containers with pre-made meals were stacked three deep. He pulled one out and read the label. Monday breakfast. They were even stacked in order. Ron's version of helping her with a balanced diet or a way to control what she ate? Thom rooted around. Yogurt, cheese, grilled chicken, brown rice, apples, soup … there was plenty of non-designated food, but he wasn't in the mood for healthy. A stoner package from Taco Bell would taste good.

Thom exited the kitchen through the back door and went down another flight of stairs to the lanai. He grabbed an ashtray off the bar, lit a cigarette, and reclined on a couch.

He concentrated on the silence. The cool night air. The comfortable glow of a glass lamp. He closed his eyes and imagined the summer bloom of lotus flowers in Echo Park Lake. The image always came to him, like a much-touched photograph. Fan-shaped leaves floated atop the water and the delicate pink flowers reached toward the sun on top of thin green stems. It was his calm zone.

Heavy eyes fell shut. Mumbled voices, far away, inserted themselves into a smoky image of Anne on a dragon boat in the middle of the lake. They disturbed his peace. A yell broke through and Thom's eyes popped open. The voices hovered high above him. It took a few beats before Thom locked on. From Birdie's bedroom a night breeze carried an urgent argument.

“He's lost,” said Ron.

“Exactly my point,” said Birdie. “When something's lost, you look for it.”

“You put us at risk.”

“No one will know.”

“I can't support this!”

“You don't have to. Furthermore, you can't stop me.”

“Just watch.”

The air shifted and Thom lost the words. After a drawn-out silence he heard Ron's iron lung become a menacing growl so low and deep it commanded attention. Thom had heard it after Birdie's kidnapping when Ron wanted to tear the city down, brick by brick, stucco wall by stucco wall. But that wasn't the Marine way. The smart way. So he channeled the rage, squeezed it back into his throat and held it there by the strong set of his jaw.

“It matters to me,” said Birdie.

Growl.

“I need the closure.”

Growl.

“He's not dead! Why can't you understand how this makes me feel?”

Growl, growl.

And then a slamming door.

Something sharp bit Thom's finger. “Shit,” he hissed, flicking the cigarette butt into the ashtray. He jumped up and brushed ash from the couch fabric.

The burnt skin was nothing compared to the curiosity amped up by three words.
He's not dead
. There were two people Birdie loved who died recently. Matt Whelan and her father, Gerard. Both were unequivocally dead. The dead person must be a common acquaintance, which seemed unlikely since Ron and Birdie only met each other after Matt died in January. So what did Ron mean when he said she'd put them all at risk?

“Fall asleep with a cigarette in your hand?”

Thom twirled around. Ron stood there in tighty-whities, arms crossed over his chest, a sleepy, ever-faithful Louise at his heels. Thom wasn't easily intimated by men, but this guy was an impressive XY specimen. Straight and hard like a shotgun with attitude to match—safe and secure like a broke-open barrel or deadly reckon with a trigger squeeze.

“What are you doing up?” said Thom.

“Can't sleep.”

“Must be contagious.”

Thom sucked at the burn. Decided to conceal what he heard. “I came down because I couldn't sleep and then I actually fell asleep with a friggin' lit cigarette. What a bright shitty day.”

“I have a cure. Come on.”

Thom followed Ron and Louise to the gym that had once been a carriage house. He squinted when Ron flipped the switch that illuminated the warehouse-sized bulbs encased in bottomless bird cages. The gym was a masterpiece of old and new. Brick walls, hardwood floors, French doors, and the gleaming, modern exercise equipment offset by ornately framed mirrors.

Thom had seen Ron shirtless before. Seen the tattoos. A Saker falcon in flight covered the entirety of Ron's upper back. It was frighteningly realistic. On his right bicep a coiled serpent with gold and red scales had one green eye open, one closed.
Semper Fidelis
and
Semper Paratus,
curved around the serpent. In this light, the tattoos seemed to spark awake. Unlike Louise, who jumped into a
basket of dirty towels. She rolled around in the damp filth, then curled up and covered her eyes.

Ron retrieved two sets of training gloves from a wicker basket next to the punching bag. He tossed a pair at Thom. “Not my thing,” said Thom, tossing them back.

“Suit yourself. I'll punch and we'll talk.”

While Ron warmed his muscles with basic calisthenics, Thom took a closer look at the new tat on Ron's chest. A blue bird over his heart.

“
Sialia Mexicana
,” said Ron, “most commonly known as the Western Bluebird.”

“I'm sure Bird appreciates the testament of your love.”

“She doesn't doubt my feelings.” Ron hit the bag. “With or without the art.”

A large photograph of Matt was attached to the bag with clear packing tape.

“What the hell?” said Thom. “Bird wouldn't appreciate that.”

“She's the one who put it there,” Ron said with a sneer. He hit the face again and again.

“So it's okay for you to disrespect his memory like that?”

“Like what? Birdie comes down here and beats the shit out of him all the time.”

“Why?”

“She's pissed that he died.”

“It wasn't his fault.”

“He was careless with his meds. How is that not his fault?”

Thom caught a twitch of hate on Ron's face while he jumped and swayed and punched.

“You know,” said Ron, “Birdie has a powerful talent of observation. I'd trust what she says about your wife.”

Abrupt change of topic, thought Thom. Even Ron didn't want to talk about Matt.

“I don't want to think about Anne in that way,” said Thom.

“Who would? We dudes always get screwed. Even if we have all the right moves, do all the right stuff, sometimes it's still not enough. I sure as hell can't understand women.” Ron punched left, right, right, left. He hit Matt's face so hard the hang chain shuddered. “Love is a bulky emotion. Relationships are easier without the entanglement.”

“And far less satisfying.”

Ron stopped short. He pointed a black-clad fist at Thom. “Good point.” Then he turned his attention back to the bag.

Thom felt silly standing there watching Ron in his underwear working out an obvious frustration. Thom considered getting on the treadmill then remembered he was in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt. He decided it'd be too much work to put on the proper attire. Like shoes.

“What did you think of Anne?”

“Your wife is smokin' hot.”

“Exactly what I need to hear. Bird said you have out-of-town resources if I want an investigator.”

“One resource. The best. Private investigation is part-time stuff and he doesn't do domestics anymore, but he will with a referral from me.”

“What's his name?”

“Noa. Big Hawaiian dude. A one-man combat force. Don't piss him off.”

“A Marine buddy?”

“Yep. Saved his ass many a time.”

“You trust him?”

Ron threw a faceful of mock disdain.

“How would I reach him? You know, for a consultation.”

“He doesn't do consults. He's referral only. And he has strict rules. When you call, you'll get a recording that says, ‘Just the facts.' You're going to tell him your full legal name and that you were referred by me. After that you'll leave the following information: the reason you want to hire him, Anne's full legal name and maiden name, birth date, driver's license number, social security number, home address, the type of car she drives and its plate number, and the places she frequents the most. And then you're going to give him the same information about yourself. And because you're a cop, you also give him your badge number.”

Ron's breath remained slow and even despite the bag work and the detailed instructions.

“You'll feel violated by the time you're done,” said Ron. “After he gets all the facts, he'll do a prelim to decide if he'll take your case. That will cost twenty-two hundred up front. He'll call you with payment details. Afterward, he'll call again and deliver his verdict and business terms. They are nonnegotiable.”

“Sounds like you've been a customer.”

Ron delivered one last round of explosive punches then stopped to regard Thom. “Yeah, I've used him before.” He shut down further inquiries with a steely glare.

“It's drastic,” Thom said. “And so freakin' invasive. Maybe I should just ask her.”

Ron trapped a wrist strap in his teeth and pulled it free. Took off the gloves and flexed his fingers. “You think she'd tell you the truth? Affairs are selfish.” He threw the gloves into the basket. “Look, Thom, it's a bad business to consider hiring someone for spy work. But what if it's true? What if the lover is some nut case? You have five children. Is it worth the ten or twenty grand to protect your family?”

“Wait,” Thom coughed. “Ten or twenty grand?”

“The best is the most expensive.”

“I can't believe I'm actually considering this.”

Ron shrugged. “Money can buy you peace of mind.”

“Or destroy your world.”

“He's fast and has special resources.”

“What's his fulltime job?”

“He works for a government agency that requires God-like security clearance. Beyond that, I don't need to know.”

“He's discreet?”

“Confidentiality is rule
numero uno
. I provide the referral. What you guys do beyond that is your business.”

Thom thought about all the moral hazards that could be discovered during an investigation. Deep in the brain where denial resides he knew this wasn't just about Anne. What would this Noa guy find out about Thom himself ? There was serious shit to consider. But Thom felt jagged, his pride spent long ago. He
had
to know. And this was a safe—albeit expensive—way of finding out.

Thom couldn't believe what he heard himself saying. “Okay. Give me his number.”

fifteen

A current of discomfort
pulsed through Birdie. She hated fighting with Ron. It always left her with agonizing self-doubt and twittering hands. She felt whittled afterward. Like the words carved a bit more flesh. She threw a cotton-covered pillow against the door he'd slammed a few moments ago.

Ron'd probably go downstairs and work off the stress with some crazy Marine-stud calisthenics. Maybe he'd punch the bag with Matt's face on it and get some satisfaction considering he was the only topic they ever fought about. It'd be hours before Ron would return to her bedroom. If at all. He might just spark out in the spare room across the hall. Last time they fought—about a month ago—he didn't return her calls for two days. At the time, she thought him immature.

Truth be told, she understood, couldn't blame him.

Birdie thought she had learned her lesson after the Big Kahuna fight a month ago. She flinched with the remembrance when—in the effort of good-girlfriend behavior, that open, get-it-all-out-there honesty—she told Ron that she was compiling data and running computer searches. Gathering intel in her quest to find Matt.

Ron's response was swift.

He got quiet.

Ron's quiet expelled out into the air in wavelengths of rage like a dangerous animal. Crouched, watchful, ready to pounce with deadly results.

Ron and Matt had been great friends once. The like of which gave Ron leave to willingly help his friend fake his own death. Not an illegal act of itself. It only became a felony when Ron—in his role as sheriff deputy—knowingly filed a false death-investigation report. Matt committed fraud when he started the process to obtain new identification documents. Birdie committed fraud when she collected Matt's estate and life insurance as his beneficiary. There were others equally guilty of punishable offenses. All subject to prison time. The consequences of a lone decision made by Matt were far reaching and damaging.

This was the crux of the issue. Birdie wanted to know why he was so selfish and put to risk those he professed to love the most. Matt was a man who organized every decision with exacting detail. So why did he leave her hanging with the multitude of unanswered questions? Did he know why Gerard got involved with Soto and his gang of blue brothers? She'd like the answer to that one. Since Soto excelled at extortion and blackmail, she wondered what he had on her father. Matt likely knew that answer, too. Mostly, she wanted to know why he left her breadcrumbs. He knew she'd do what she did. He knew that she knew he was alive and at-large in the world.

Birdie agreed with Ron in regards to the off-limit topic of Matt. He wanted to protect his ass. And Birdie's ass. And the other's, too. He thought that Birdie's search put them all in jeopardy of being found out. And he was right. Birdie knew this. So after discovering the truth about Matt back in February she should've just shut her mouth and never uttered Matt's name again. She should've gone about the business of finding him in secrecy. But she didn't. And now it hung over their heads. Always there. And what really tanned her hide is that she was certain Matt had been in contact with Frank
and
Ron.

“I feel left out,” Birdie whispered to herself. “Why do you continually exclude me, Matt? Why am I not worthy of your surreptitious phone calls? I'm the one who needs the explanations, the closure.”

To free himself from the threat of Matt, Ron had admitted that some secrets were destructive forces. That's why he confessed his role in Matt's death. Birdie reflected on this concept. Put her feet up on the headboard. Their relationship was young and unstable. What if Birdie had discovered the truth years from now when the relationship was entrenched? Built upon a lie? Ron took a risk by giving Birdie that information preemptively. His vanguard was the kind of maneuver military men were used to making. Ron put a lot on the line for her. In this instance the telling paid off.

She popped off the bed. She was doing the same thing. The whole purpose of trying to find Matt was to confront him. She wouldn't be able to conceal that visit from Ron. Nor should she. What might happen between Birdie and Matt affected Ron. She owed him the courtesy of truthfulness. And not just because she loved him. It'd be the right thing to do. Which was easier said than done in these days of compromised concerns.

Birdie flopped back on the bed in frustration.

Why had she been so careless and stupid?

That damned tablet.

George found it shortly after moving into Matt's Koreatown house. Matt had willed George first rights of sale knowing how much care he would take in maintaining the property. George snapped at the deal. Many of the furnishings included? Oh, yeah. The tablet had seemingly slid between the mattress and wood frame of a daybed. And though somewhat protected, covered in a thin layer of dust.

Long forgot? Or a plant?

It was an older model, off-brand tablet. Dead. Birdie bought a power cable and charged it up only to find the device password protected. She tried a number of passwords Matt might've used. After several failed attempts she cracked it open. Removed the back plate, the battery, and some components to get to the micro SD—a tiny memory card about the size of a thumbnail.

She attached it to an adapter and plugged it into her computer. Up popped the folders: application data, photos, movies, books, notes. She found the settings folder and edited some lines of code to make the device think it no longer had a password. Then she had access to the browsing history … a long list of seemingly random animal videos. So not Matt.

And this was where Birdie made her mistake. She left the tablet in plain sight. When Ron asked her about it she told the truth and a battle began.

It didn't help matters when Birdie told Ron that she didn't think Matt had been the tablet's owner. The photos were of people she never met. The movies weren't his favorites. The books she never heard of. The only thing “Matt like” in the device were maps. Lots of maps. State maps, county maps, city maps, weather maps, and even ocean maps of the Atlantic and Caribbean.

Well, nothing she could do about it now. The damage had been done. The words said, feelings hurt, not easily forgotten.

Birdie crawled into bed and pulled up the covers. As she drifted to sleep she was left with one last thought: she could see Ron's point of view in regard to the Matt issue. Why couldn't he see hers?