Glass Houses (8 page)

“Done,” said Seymour.

Morgan registered his unhappiness with a nostril flare and followed his partner back to their cubicles.

George leaned in. “Busy day ahead. We better fuel up.” Besides the obvious food reference, fuel was code for ‘share' as in ‘need information now.'

“You got that right,” whispered Thom. “
Huevos Rancheros
at El Tepeyac. We'll take two cars. We're gonna split up afterward. LT won't let us give it back.”

“I work Lawrence. You work Deats. We meet in the middle.”

“I wish it were that simple.”

eighteen

El Tepeyac Café was
on the east side of the Los Angeles River on Evergreen Avenue in patrol area 456 of Hollenbeck Division. In deference to the cops that populated its tables, many of its burritos bore the station's name. Hollenbeck
de Asada
, Hollenbeck
de Machaca
, or the most popular Hollenbeck—pork in chile sauce,
rice, beans, and guacamole. Thom maneuvered his city car in the tiny lot and parked between a Lexus and a dingy pickup. El Tepeyac
was popular with the high and low.

Thom pulled out his business cell. He liked this phone. It supported a full range of data capabilities. Photos, emails, reports. Information. Priceless for a homicide detective. Thom started carrying two cellphones a year ago. The department didn't reimburse work-related cell phone usage. Thom had tired of divvying up lengthy bills for the tax write-off—same as for his firearm, handcuffs, and other job-related hardware. With dedicated phones he no longer had extra work at tax time.

Thom realized he held the wrong phone. He replaced it with the personal cell and punched his parents' number.

Nora answered with sleep in her voice. “Thom, why are you calling so early?”

“Ah, Ma. Did I wake you?”

“No, I haven't had my coffee yet. You okay?”

“Fine. Sorry I missed brunch yesterday.”

“Solving murder is important work. What's up?”

“I'm in the mood for coddle tonight.” An authentic Irish casserole of onions, bacon, potatoes, and pork sausage.

Nora took a long, sad breath. “You want soda bread with that?”

“Ballymaloe would be better.”

“Okay, son. I'll fix dinner. See you later.”

“Thanks, Ma.”

Thom had just told his mother to arrange an emergency family meeting at the Manor. Coddle = all hands on deck. Ballymaloe = wire sweep required. Paranoia or good measure? When Arthur was under suspicion for Paige Street, the FBI made no secret of their surveillance. They relished the intrusive nature of monitoring and the invasion of privacy forced upon the entire clan. The family established codes so they could meet and talk freely. No one liked the subterfuge, but they got used to it.

_____

Thom leaned against the car and lit an after-meal cigarette. He took a deep pull, then handed it to George.

“I'll take a full one.”

Thom wasn't surprised. George had been fidgety and unfocused throughout breakfast. “The IA is really upsetting you.” He shook the pack.

George plucked one and fired it up with the tip of Thom's.

“The IA was to be expected,” said George, blowing out smoke. “What bothers me more is the FBI surveillance.”

“
Alleged
.”

“Whatever. Think I'm at risk?”

“You have something to hide?”

George looked away.

“I'm sure the feds don't care if the person you're sleeping with has a dick.”

“What the hell?” groused George.

“Whoa. Gallows humor, man. Why are you so sensitive all of a sudden?”

“It's your crude delivery.”

“It wasn't crude yesterday when we gave Spenser a hardon.”

George got much worse from some guys in the squad. The most popular prank was a photo of two dudes having sex. George's head would be taped over one of them. Sometimes the top, sometimes the bottom. Occasionally, his face would be with a woman. The ac/dc hazing usually didn't bother him. He played it up like he did with Spenser. As the newest guy, it was George's role to be pizza boy until someone replaced him. So for now, he took it. What mattered was that people actually cared because no one knew for sure. Damn that stint in Vice.

“Hell, I know you're not a catcher,” said Thom.

“What if I am?” All serious.

Thom loved George like family. He could care less. One way or the other or both. “Then you stop wearing pink, man.”

George hit Thom in the arm. “Gotcha.”

“Hell with you,” said Thom.

They enjoyed the smoke in silence. After a few minutes Thom said, “Let's go over the game plan.”

“Get a signature for Lawrence's office. Briefcase and laptop is priority.” A warrant wasn't technically required, but they wouldn't give any future judge a reason to bounce a search in a high-profile homicide. Especially one involving a city attorney with a potential suspect tucked away in a file. Privacy rights and all.

“The judge that signs will probably appoint a Special Master to supervise us.”

“Like we need a babysitter,” said George.

“What then?”

“I'll interview the roommates. See if any of the girls can substantiate Lena's alibi.”

“Don't call the person of interest by her nickname. Too personal and informal. Any misstep can be a disaster.”

“I hate when you correct me.”

“I've been doing this longer. Hit the bar, too. Hank's. On Grand. Track down the bartender. See what he has to say. What he remembers.”

“What's his name?”

“Why should I know?”

“Hold on,” said George. “Jelena told me you knew the bartender. She said she could contact you through him.”

“I chatted him up. But I've never been to that bar before. Never met him before. I remember he was a young guy. Looked barely legal.”

“Lie number one.”

“Good enough reason to haul her ass in,” said Thom. “Think she'll go anywhere?”

“Don't think so.”

“Okay, let it sit for today. Bring her in tomorrow. We've got the cut at one. I expect you there.”

Autopsies made George squeamish. They were hard business. The stench of disinfectant, the fluid on the floor, the medieval-like tools, and the general ickyness. As the lead detective, Thom's presence was non-negotiable. He let George off the hook when he could. But not this time. The high-profile situation made his presence necessary.

“George, keep in touch and be careful.”

“As always.” George flicked the butt and ground it into the pavement until it turned to dust.

nineteen

Birdie leaned into the
file box on the floor and grabbed the last clipping. She glanced at the headline and tossed it back in. Around her in a semi-circle were three piles of yellowed newsprint: throw away, possibilities, put-back. She scooped up the put-back pile, dropped the articles in the box then shook it to settle them straight.

“Knock, knock,” said Ron, entering the office. “I'm back.”

Birdie hadn't seen him since their fight last night. He never did return to Birdie's bedroom. At least he left her a note by the coffee maker telling her he was going out on a run. He held a freshly blended green smoothie in one hand and a small china bowl in the other.

“Hey, babe,” said Birdie, her tone bright and happy. “How was your run?”

“Long and tiring. I need a shower.”

Louise looked up expectantly from her cushion. Ron poured a bit of green stuff into the bowl and set it down. Louise immediately stuck her short muzzle into it.

“Hmm,” said Birdie. “Kale, cucumber, tomato. Just what a dog needs.”

“Better than meal and byproducts. She knows what's good for her.”

Birdie patted the floor.

“I ran twenty miles,” protested Ron. “Surely your nose can pick up my stink.”

She did smell the musk of exertion—lactic acid—the result of glucose conversion to feed the muscles for anaerobic activity. She also smelled the ocean carried in on the marine layer. Spongy grass. Wood shavings. Tar. Crushed rock. The makings of the earth that is the genetic scent of all men.

“I'm sorry about last night,” she said. “I hate arguing with you.” She scooted closer and leaned forward, lifting her chin in invitation.

“Me, too.” Ron moved the rest of the way in.

Their mouths joined in forgiveness. Birdie ran her fingers across the fleece of his razored hair—always kept at a tidy quarter inch. They moved down his neck and across the hard muscles of his back. The soft down on Birdie's arms raised in suspense. Her nipples tingled. The erotic response took her by surprise—the first since the kidnapping. Just then she saw the promise of passion on the horizon. A future that did include intimacy. Of life slowly improving. Birdie watched Ron's hazel eyes light up in recognition. Felt his grin against her lips.

Their tongues caressed to a silent, sensual rhythm. Birdie tasted vague remnants of coffee and nicotine and … nothing else.

Her mouth broke away. “Kidding me? You ran twenty miles on an empty stomach? What about all the lectures about working out with the proper nutrition? And then you smoked a cigarette?”

Still in a hormonal daze, Ron said, “
Wha
? How do …? Really?
Really
? Are you purposely trying to kill me?”

Birdie's instant laugh filled the room with glee. The last time she laughed so purely was at her birthday party back in January. Before the deaths. Before the kidnapping. Before her dad was gunned down. And before being burdened with the truth. The laugh came from a true and honest place. Like happy fireworks in her belly. More healing than afternoon tea and conversation with Father Frank.

She rolled onto her back and guffawed. “I wish you could've seen your expression.” She contorted her face into surprised interruption.

Ron laughed, too.

Of course, Louise wanted in on the action. She jumped up and barked. Ran in circles. Chased her curled tail. Knocked over the licked-clean china bowl.

A shrill beeping stopped Birdie cold.

Coming from the kitchen?

Ron sat up. Alert.

“Are you cooking something?” said Birdie.

“That's my phone. Crap.” He hustled up off the floor and disappeared through the office curtain.

A deputy with the San Diego Sheriff's Department, Ron was the only detective in an area that covered nearly fourteen hundred square miles and a rural population of sixty-three hundred. His territory included the cities of Lake Henshaw, Warner Springs, and
Borrego Springs. The last of which sat in Anza-Borrego Desert State Park—the largest state park in California and bigger than Delaware.

Being the lone detective meant 24/7 call. Interrupted days off weren't that uncommon. Ron worked Friday, Saturday, and Sunday when weekenders swelled the population. Monday and Tuesday were his “weekend days”—except this week because he drove up on Sunday for Birdie's one-year birthday celebration.

Continuing her project with the newspaper articles, Birdie gathered the throw-away pile and pushed it into the trash can. She picked up a few clippings from the possibility pile and quickly reviewed them for inspiration. She must be quick. Let intuition determine whether to drop it back in the box or set it aside for deeper consideration. Pieces of newsprint flew into the file box. Nothing striking an interest.

Ron returned. A grim expression on his face. He held out the phone. “It's for you.”

Birdie knit her brows in confusion and uttered a meek hello into the phone.

“Bird, dear, it's Nora. Don't bother yelling at me. Ron already did. I hated to call his number, but you've not been answering any of your phone, and so, well … I needed to reach you to say I'm making coddle and ballymaloe tonight.”

Birdie's eyes flicked to Ron who stared at her expectantly, arms crossed in his
I'm not happy
pose. “Okay. I'll be there,” she said, punching off and handing the phone back to Ron. “Sorry about that. I've been avoiding the phones because of the article. Nora wants to have a special family dinner. Emphasis on family. Nothing personal.”

“That's okay,” said Ron. “I took Sunday off so I should get back to the job tomorrow morning anyway. I'll drop you off at the Manor on my way out of town. Thom can bring you home.”

“Great. I'm glad you're not mad.”

“But remind Nora that family dinner isn't worthy of activating an emergency.”

Birdie held her tongue. Coddle and ballymaloe wasn't just any dinner. Only matters of extreme seriousness warranted a secret meeting of the entire family. Who called it? Aiden had lived on the East Coast for many years. Madi was at the
Festival de Cannes
with her movie star client. Nora was a housewife. That left those local and in law enforcement: Louis, Maggie, Thom, or Arthur.

“Why are you avoiding the phones?” said Ron.

“Major articles bring out the crazies.”

“Your lines are unlisted.”

“I still have the
Times
phone and email.”

“What're you expecting?”

“Trash.”

“Want me to sit with you while you listen?”

“No, thanks,” said Birdie. “I'll be okay, but I should get to it today.”

Birdie heard the soft puff of air pushed from Ron's nose. A tell of displeasure. And rightly so, she thought. Ron didn't drive ninety miles to watch her work. But he'd not say anything because he bore witness to her struggle when faced with the decision to write the article in the first place. And for that she loved him more.

She reassured him. “I'll take care of it while you're in the shower.”

Ron seemed pleased with her response, evidenced by a smile. He sat on the floor, feet together and bent forward to stretch his back and hips.

“What's with the clippings?” he said.

“I enjoyed the process of writing again. Of finding my voice. I'm thinking about doing more. These are pieces of interest that I've saved over the years. Some have cycled and will have current relevance. Most don't.”

“Don't you have enough work? What about the book coming out in the fall?”

“Finished except for line edits. Those won't take long.”

“What about the new one?”

“Finished. I already had the bulk of it written anyway. With the documents Dad left me it practically wrapped itself. The topic is hot so my publisher may flip the two books and release
Darkness Bound
first.”

“You said it wasn't done,” said Ron, sweeping his fingers through the clippings.

“I said I wasn't happy with the ending. Not as in I have to rewrite it, but in that there's no answer to why Dad did what he did.”

“What happens if you find out?”

“It gets included in the reprint. Why the sudden interest in my work?”

“I'm always interested,” he said with mock hurt.

Ron picked up a clipping at random—a photo of a scruffy man.

“Who's the homeless fat dude?” he said.

Birdie took the crispy piece of newsprint from his hands and her radar pinged. “This guy isn't homeless. He's Todd Moysychyn. One of the richest people in Los Angeles.”

“This dude?”

“Don't let the appearance fool you. He's a large property owner. The foulest, scummiest bastard.”

“Please, don't hold back. Tell me what you really think.”

“Among other shady dealings, he's a slumlord who exploits the poor.”

“WOOOOO,” said Ron, wiggling his fingers. “Sounds scary.”

“He's the worst caliber of human.”

“There's an unbiased journalistic statement.”

Birdie punched him. “What I write doesn't have to square with my personal opinion.”

Ron held up his hands in defeat.

Birdie returned her attention to the image. The cutline had been removed. But that didn't matter. She knew who he was. The kind of dirty business he engaged in. He hadn't been in the news lately. How had he weathered the housing crisis? What had he been up to? She put the photo aside and raked up the rest of the possibility pile and dropped it into the box.

Inspiration found.

“You're wired to the world,” said Ron. “I'm surprised you keep clippings. So old school.”

“I'm an enigma.”

Ron laughed. “There's no truer statement. Just when I think I've figured you out—”

“—I surprise you?”

“Yeah,” Ron whispered. “You surprise me.” He brushed his lips against hers. Wove his fingers through her hair.

“Time for that shower?” she said.

“A cold one.”

Ron had been counseled. Birdie knew he'd wait for her to make the first move. He'd act on his desire only when asked.

She'd also been counseled. A failed attempt at intimacy could set back the progress a couple makes when dealing with the aftereffects of violent crime. She had the discipline to take it slow. Not push it until she was one hundred percent certain she could handle it.

Wet, naked, soaped? Not there yet.