Glass Houses (7 page)

sixteen

Thom waved his keycard
at the street entrance reader. The gates protecting the underground parking garage of the Police Administration Building were blast-proof roll-ups that went up and down lightning fast. Thom drove his vintage '75 Ford Mustang coupe—a gift from Anne—through the gate and parked it on the P1 level. The privilege to park here cost a monthly fee—worth the payroll deduction to keep his car safe and close. Somewhere below him he heard maintenance workers keeping the building alive and operational. The PAB never slept.

Thom stopped suddenly on his way to the elevator on the lobby level. He thought of Anne and what Birdie had said, “
For Christsake, she's having an affair
.” Eleven years ago Anne was through with Thom. Fell out of love, she said. Going to seek a divorce. Funny that. She insisted they display the happy façade to the world. Dinners out. Public events. Live in the fancy house. Send the boys to private school. Drive the newest cars.

Then one night of drunken intimacy resulted in pregnancy. The
girls. Oops babies. Anne agreed to stay with Thom for appearances and gave him permission to discretely seek sex elsewhere—so long as she or the kids never knew and as long as it didn't affect their household. That was an age ago. Thom had had more than his fair share of women since. But he'd never had an affair by the classic definition. Never fell in love with another. And still, he desired his wife more than any woman.

Thom managed to skip through the last ten years, ignoring the fact that their life was a fraud. Inside his soul, where wishes dwelled, he hoped that one day Anne would forget their outlandish agreement and go back to happily-ever-after.

Instead, Thom got a beat down with one word. Affair.

What did that mean? Sex? Love? Either option devastated Thom's hope.

Birdie was right when she insisted he needed to know for certain and he already set that wheel a'rolling. If it be true? Then what? Murder her lover and rewind to what had been a threadbare relationship?

He knew, for certain, that she'd loved him once. They'd had an intense love affair. Marriage, children, and responsibility was the bucket of water that extinguished the flames. Perhaps it's
that
guy he needed to find. The one she fell in love with. The cocky young stud that fought for and won her attention.

Thom hitched his pants. Felt the strain on his waistband. Mindlessly, he headed for the stairwell. He'd never been up the stairs before.

_____

Thom arrived on the fifth floor winded from vertical exertion. He stopped to take a breather. Good thing he didn't have to give chase anymore—all the runners would escape. Once his heart rate returned to normal, he rounded the corner and saw George in the glass-walled kitchenette making them coffee on the pod machine. Thom swiped his keycard and entered.

Once inside the building, the keycard was required for every door except the bathroom. The LAPD big brother/security geeks would know every move Thom made once he swiped the card with its special chip at the parking garage, or when he came through the front door and used it to get through the lobby turnstiles. They tracked all the employees, sworn or civil, and probably created performance reports with pie charts and graphs. Nothing was private. Except a piss. And, hell, they could probably guestimate when he'd taken one by how long it took before he swiped again.

George lifted his chin in greeting. “You okay? You look peaked.”

“What does peaked mean exactly?” said Thom.

“Sick. You look sick.”

“Just say you look sick. Why use a fancy word?”

“Because fancy guys use fancy words”—in Valley speak—“like, fer-sure, fer-sure, like totally.”

Thom turned his back. “God, I hate morning people.”

“The proper response would be, barf me out, or gag me with a spoon.”

“Sometimes I really hate you.”

George followed him out with a cup of coffee in each hand, briefcase strap slung across his torso. They walked the long corridor with the pumpkin-colored interior wall on their right. Out the
left wall of glass, well-placed lights illuminated the bone structure of City Hall. She looked like a movie star awaiting her close-up.

The corridor ended at Robbery/Homicide's door.

Thom swiped his keycard and they entered the expansive squad bay. Long rows of high-tech lights hung from the acoustic ceiling on white cords. They snapped to life with the movement. Row after row after row of business gray cubicles sat empty.

The room was invisibly divided into three sections: homicide on the east, robbery on the west, special in the middle—they're the rowdy ones that wore street clothes.

“Freaky,” muttered George. “I've never been the first one in before.”

“Be here long enough and the novelty wears off.”

“It's hot in here.”

“Temperature's master controlled. The air won't kick on until daylight.”

Thom dropped his briefcase on his desk chair and closed the vertical blinds. Their cubicles were located on the far east side of the squad. Their backs to the “100 building”—Caltrans District 7 HQ—with its four-story high numbers. Thom didn't like his back to the glass. Sniper-proof or not.

_____

Thom and George assembled the Lawrence murder book containing what they had so far: various sign-in logs, law enforcement entry map, sketches of the home's layout, preliminary victim(s) background, Thom's entry notes, Field Interview cards, surveillance disc, signed consents, notes on SID's forensic evidence, the CI's body notes, checked evidence reports.

Reynolds had come in with the morning crowd to deliver the crime scene photos and CD. Thom was nearly done labeling the printed matter. He carefully slid them into acid-free sleeves and snapped them into the three-ring binder. George hunched over his computer, buds stuffed in his ears, fingers flying across the keyboard, finishing the transcription of the taped interview of Jelena Shkatova, person reporting, and now, person of interest. They had clerical for that, but that involved paperwork. George was faster.

Thom wrote a thank-you note to Reynolds for the speedy delivery of the photos. A hand delivery deserved card stock and it always made an impression. He'd be remembered—good future-favor status—just as Reynolds would with the fast processing. They both knew the game.

Thom rolled his chair over to George's cubicle and plucked a bud from his ear, tucked it into his own and listened. Jelena's voice—a raw mixture of nicotine and alcohol—gave him much pleasure Saturday night, but made him bristle on this Monday morning.

—Were you drunk?

—No.

—Did this man … Thomas, take advantage of you?

—No. I ask him for sex. He say ok. We go to my car and have good sex.

—Not your apartment?

—I ask, but Thomas say no.

—Then what?

—Thomas leave at two-thirty. I go to apartment for sleep.

—Were your roommates home?

—Not Claudia. Her door is open when I go home, but it is closed when I leave in morning. I share room with Dona. She is sleeping when I go home and sleeping when I leave.

—Can anyone verify your whereabouts from two-thirty until seven this morning?

—I not think so unless Dona wake up during night.

—I'll need to verify with Thomas. How can I reach him?

—I did not get his number. But bartender knows him so I can see him again.

—You had sex with a man you don't know?

—Is it necessary? I talk with him. I like him. He call me ‘little Jelena.' I like having sex with him so I will see him again.

Thom removed the bud and flicked it away. He felt sick and disgusted. He nearly sprinted to the bathroom and ran cold water over his wrists. Relax, he told himself, don't hyperventilate. It's not that bad. How could you know she was connected to Lawrence? Who could've predicted that they'd be murdered hours later? The randomness was enormous.

Thing is, when it came to cold-blooded murder Thom didn't believe in random.

He shoved that thought deep down. The water was nice, but he needed a pick-me-up and didn't want to take the time to go outside for a cigarette.

When he returned George said, “Lena has been in the states since she was eight. That's fourteen years. Don't you think a child would've lost their native accent in that amount of time?”

“Eight, huh?” Thom searched through a messy drawer full of pens, Post-it notes, paper clips, and desk junk in search of nicotine gum. “I don't think it's that simple,” he said. “She wasn't a native speaker when she moved here. She had to learn to speak English. Grammar, too. But I suppose it depends on the motivation. When Da and Uncle Gerard immigrated they worked hard at learning American English because they wanted to fit in. Maybe Jelena thought her speech pattern made her special. Or maybe she's a slow learner.”

Thom finally found the gum and pushed a piece through the foil bubble.

“Something about it bothers me,” said George.

“Roll with the gut.”

seventeen

By now the squad
had a quiet, library-like buzz as detectives worked their phones and computers. The air was on, too.

Lieutenant Lance Craig breezed in, stopped in front of Thom and George and frowned. After a few beats he said, “War room in ten,” then went to his large desk in the corner and picked up the phone.

George whispered, “What the hell did we do?”

Thom shrugged.

Craig was two heads shorter than Thom—the type of short guy that would've worn a leather belt with a big-ass buckle in high school. The kind he could easily whip off and swing when he got jumped. Thom held no doubts that Craig's scrappy upbringing made him the prick he was rumored to be. Personally, Thom had no problems with Craig and seemingly he had no issues with Thom. They got along fine because Thom treated his supervisor with respect. That was the way in his father's house. Show disrespect and get punished. But Thom's relatively easy rapport with Craig was an anomaly in the squad. Craig had a chip on his shoulder that said don't-underestimate-my-shortness-because-I-can-kick-your-ass.

At the eight-minute mark, Craig nodded to Thom and George as he passed their cubbies. They gathered all the Lawrence materials and followed Craig to a war room. It was being used, so they ducked into an interview room for privacy. A glassless room about twelve-by-eight with a table bolted to the floor and three chairs. Small, cramped, and not designed for comfort.

George opened the murder book.

Craig flipped through the front pages and pointed at the disc in a plastic holder. “What's on this?”

“A neighbor's security surveillance with a partial street view,” said George. “The resident lives three houses up on the other side of the street from the Lawrence's.”

“Relevant?”

“Yes. At oh-four-fifty-seven an arc of light appeared on the right side of the frame. As if a car came up the hill and made a U-turn. The view is limited—doesn't get the vehicle, just the light—but it's a distinctive tell because the CI estimates TOD between oh-four-thirty and oh-six-hundred. It's possible our murder suspect drove up the hill, turned around, and parked on the opposite side of the street, pointing downhill.”

“The potential parking area has been examined,” added Thom. “That portion of the street is flanked by a hill of ivy. A perfect hiding place for a murder gun. It was exhaustively searched with metal detectors but yielded nothing of interest. No other vehicles came up or down the street until nearly oh-seven-hundred when the camera recorded another set of lights that didn't arc.”

“Indicating that whoever drove the vehicle didn't make a U-turn,” said Craig.

“Precisely. That squares with the PR's statement of an oh-seven-hundred arrival time. Also, her car was parked uphill when we arrived.”

“Thoughts?”

“We don't have enough facts to shake out a theory,” said Thom.

“Then why aren't you monkeys shaking trees?”

Thom patted the book. “We organized what we have so far so you can make an informed decision in regards to passing the Lawrence homicide to another team.”

“This investigation is not headed toward round three. I made myself clear.”

“Yes,” said Thom. “But I had sex with their twenty-two-year-old foster daughter the night they were killed. She was the person who discovered the bodies and now she's a person of interest. I must iterate that I'm compromised. Even a rotten defense attorney will smear our case if I'm associated. It might already be too late.”

“Did you know her relationship to Lawrence?” said Craig.

“We met at a bar. I had no knowledge of her family and limited personal background. But that doesn't diminish the severity of the matter. If she's involved with their murder we're screwed. If she's not involved we're still screwed. Four people were targeted and their murder was heinous. Justice won't prevail for our victims if at the backend the integrity of the investigation is questionable in any regard.”

“You really had to stretch your mouth to get all that out,” said Craig.

Thom snapped his mouth shut.

“I get the situation,” said Craig. “You don't have to get all highbrow.”

“Sorry, LT.”

“Why is she a person of interest?”

“During the interview,” said George, “she made it clear she didn't
like the kids, nor was she sorry they were dead.”

“They were killed first,” added Thom.

“Did she have opportunity?”

“Maybe,” said George. “According to her statement, she and Thom parted ways at oh-two-thirty and she went home. It's to be determined if one of her roommates can place her there.”

“Motive?”

“Only whispers,” said Thom, pointing at the binder. “There are a lot of angles. Lawrence was a city attorney and that fact alone smells like a hit. But a total blackout? It could be personal. And the message on the mirror is unclear right now.”

Craig curled his fist around a coffee tumbler and took a long slug. “Step out, George.”

George eyed his partner with a quick swipe of panic.

“It's okay, LT,” said Thom, “Say what you need.”

Craig ticked his head toward the door.

“Sure. Okay.” George squeezed Thom's shoulder as he left the interview room.

Thom's sexual escapades finally bit him in the ass. He expected news of a discipline hearing, or forced counseling, but nothing prepared him for what Lance Craig said next.

“I'm in a fix here, Thom. What I'm about to tell you is off the record. If I get the slightest whiff that you've repeated what I'm about to say, I'll make it my mission to ruin you. Am I clear?”

Thom nodded and braced for the blow.

“Seymour and Morgan drew the case. They were the team on call. It was important to remove S&M before they got too involved. I took them off because I already knew you had been with the girl.”

Fury lit Thom's face. He knew what would be next.

Craig ran his finger around the lip of the coffee tumbler to avoid eye contact. “You're the target of an integrity audit.”

That he didn't expect. Thom fisted his hands and said nothing. Forced Craig to explain.

“It started when the feds were invited to assist with the Blue Bandits.”

The Blue Bandit case was Gerard Keane's mess—Thom's uncle wasn't the mastermind, but he finished it in a big way. At the top were Ralph Soto, a retired commander of Central Bureau, Deputy Chief Theodore Rankin, and Gerard, a captain at Hollywood Station. Along with five other cops, they used the Janko Medical Center as a base of operations to conduct off-duty bad business: extortion, blackmail, high-end drug dealing. They revived the legend of a cop gang called the Blue Bandits to take credit for murders they didn't commit in order to induce fear on the street and keep their cop employees in line.

Due to Birdie's investigation into Matt Whelan's death, she discovered his undercover role and it all came crashing down to a horrific end. Rankin committed suicide, Ge
rard killed Soto, and the Highway Patrol killed Gerard. Janko's
police staff were left to fend for themselves. In part two of Birdie's article coming out tomorrow, it will be revealed that Gerard was also the long-sought-after suspect in the Paige Street murder—a home-invasion burglary turned deadly. For sixteen years, his role remained unknown to the LAPD and the FBI. Instead, suspicion landed on Thom's brother, Arthur, who shouldered the scrutiny for his uncle. It was a shameful legacy to live with and all the Keanes in the department had to deal with the aftermath of suspicion and contempt.

Thom expected a formal 181 complaint: a status quo, run-of-the-mill, internal affairs complaint that went through the Professional Standards Bureau. An investigator would interview the target of the complaint, his co-workers, and anyone else of interest. Once the investigation started there was no way to hide the fact that it was taking place or who filed the complaint. Cops are big gossips. They liked to talk.

But an IA was an entirely different animal.

They were secret. Run by unknown officers out of unknown offices. The Police Protection League had tried for years to rid the department of the practice because there was no defense, no recourse. The verdicts on internal audits never saw the light of day unless charges were filed, leaving him no way to defend himself. If found guilty you were gone. Early retirement. Out on disability. Whatever.

If there had been a 181—so named for the form—Thom could fight off the beef, his reputation could be restored publicly to his peers. If word got out about an audit, the suspicion would solidify into fact—especially since Birdie brought the topic public in the newspaper article. It was going to be a long haul to save his marriage; and now, he'd have to stretch his limits to salvage his job.

“And my family?” said Thom in reference to those on the force.

“I can't speak to that,” said Craig.

“Integrity audits usually involve money or drugs planted at a crime scene to catch dirty narco cops. As a homicide detective I rarely come into contact with either.”

“That makes an IA a little difficult. You're not checking money or drugs into evidence so we can't determine if your hand's in the till. No, you've been under surveillance.”

“To determine if I had a role in Gerard's business?”

“SOP and you know it.”

“Why not ask, LT? No one has interviewed me since I testified for the Grand Jury.”

“Would you admit guilty knowledge? Don't answer that. Look, there've been rumors about the Teflon coating of your family for a long time—and the close relationship with the Whelans. You're a bunch of slickers.”

“I know. They call us the Irish Mob. So what? We're made to suffer for the sins of one?”

“Precisely,” said Craig. “The department as well as the feds are pissed that Gerard went undetected for the Paige Street incident for so long. They don't forget shit like that.”

“Who's surveilling me?” Thom hoped it'd be the FBI. They don't work in the same building. If it were the feds, his phones would be wired, a tracker on his car, and a crew of two following. That would equal six, twenty-four-hour monitors. A lot of man hours. What really burned Thom was that
they
probably had photographs of him and Jelena in the backseat of her Honda.

“It's so expensive I doubt the bill is being paid by L.A.,” said Craig. “You were seen with the girl. Her plate was run, her identity established. Later, when she turned up again and discovered a crime scene it became my job to make the case yours to test your integrity.”

“Damn you!”

“Okay, I'm damned. But that doesn't change the fact that you came clean about your intimate relations. You passed.”

“You should've known better, LT. I'm the guy who thinks about the endgame.”

“True. You're one of my best in that regard. I like you, Thom, this is the only reason we're having this confidential conversation.”

“So now what?”

“You and George work the case.”

“Seriously? After all this?”

“It's not my call.” Craig pointed upward. The command staff offices were upstairs on the tenth floor. “Work it tight and right.”

And keep looking over my shoulder, thought Thom.

When Thom stepped back into the squad bay, he detected a perceptual hush. Seymour and Morgan were standing together two rows over, their eyes on Thom. No one other than George and
they
knew about Jelena so something else must have happened.

George said, “We have another—” he quoted his fingers— “
‘message
murder.'”

“A serial,” said Thom.

“The victim is Jerry Deats of Santa Monica. The SMPD sent a law enforcement bulletin looking for similarities to their murder. I called the DIC. She sent me this.” He gestured at the photo on his computer screen.
Dead fish
was scrawled on a bathroom mirror.

“Damnit!” said Thom.

“I told her we'd come by today to take a look.”

Thom sped from the squad. Found Craig pacing the corridor, cell to his ear. Thom hung back while Craig finished.

“I just heard,” Craig said a few minutes later. “We have a potential serial. The SMPD is willing to let us take the lead.”

“This is a perfect opportunity to get out from under the train wreck. We should let them take it.”

“We have the resources and manpower.”

“Yes, but—”

“We're lead. That means
you
. Get to it.”

When Thom returned to his desk, S&M were leaning on George's cubicle looking down at him.

Thom noted the impeccable press job of Seymour's white shirt. Morgan's muscular, squat frame was covered in black on black, with a bolo, and cowboy boots, as per usual. He reminded Thom of a frontier undertaker.

“Ever work a serial before?” said Morgan.

“No. You guys?” said Thom.

“Was on the Grim Sleeper taskforce,” said Seymour.

“Your work just amped up exponentially,” said Morgan. “Once it goes public the story will be chum in a shark-infested kiddie pool.”

“Thanks for the visual,” said George.

“Better you than us,” added Seymour. “But really, if you need help, let us know.”

Seymour passing out assistance? On the day after Birdie's article came out? Perhaps he felt bad about mucking up the investigation of her abduction and this was an attempt at penance.

“I mean it,” said Seymour.

Whatever the motivation, the offer was a first and Thom wasn't going to let the opportunity expire. “How 'bout the computer rounds while George and I do the flat foot. And search the newspaper archives?”