Glass Houses (5 page)

twelve

Thom lit a cigarette
and inhaled.

The sun reflected badly off the cloud deck and cast a slate glare over the Southland. May Gray. Marine layer. Onshore flow. Whatever Angelenos called it; a dip in the Western jet stream scooped up Pacific moisture and slammed it into the warm air of the mainland. It was so heavy today that Thom thought it was probably drizzling at the coast. The weather pattern was common for spring and early summer in Southern California. Yet, despite the haze, downtown lived up to its responsibility and rose like a sentinel from the colorless view.

Thom liked this weather; the low cloud cover kept the TV helos grounded and prevented them from filming his crime scene. He passed the cigarette to George.

It was silent up on the hill looking over the vast density of the city. No sound of humanity. No freeway. No birds or insects. Not even a breeze to rustle the eucalyptus.

Life on pause.

They passed the cigarette between them, soaking up the absolute quiet. They should've been talking about the case, comparing notes, evaluating the information Birdie had shared, but Thom was in his own head trying to avoid the cognitive bias that is a human predilection to see what it expects to see.

He worked the collection part of every crime scene internally. Inputted all the pieces and parts, then organized and sorted. It took several scenes together before George figured out how to work within the confines of Thom's strategic tic.

Crime scene tech, Spenser, joined them out on the crabgrass with his own cigarette in hand. “That is so swish,” he said. “Two dudes sharing a cigarette like chicks.”

Thom felt the silence-breaking intrusion at the base of his skull. “We also share chewing gum,” he said with an irascible scowl.

“And bodily fluids,” added George.

Spenser's jaw dropped.

“Jealous?” prodded Thom.

Confusion passed behind Spenser's eyes as they flicked from Thom to George and back again trying to get a read. Spenser was openly gay and it was no secret that he had a sweet spot for George. But no one knew for certain which way George swung. Thom saw the uncertainty in Spenser's eyes as they finally settled on George. Spenser allowed a small smile to eke out and murmured, “Maybe” before making a hasty retreat back to the house.

Thom grinned. “I do believe he hit on you.”

“Only took him a year to work up the nerve,” said George.

“We shouldn't tease the poor schmuck.”

“Don't spoil my fun.”

They chuckled as they walked toward the house to finish processing the home office. Thom dropped the cigarette butt into the coffee cup on the planter next to the folded newspaper. Someone had written the words
Police Fags
on the side.

_____

Spenser ducked into the Lawrence office and said directly to Thom, “Press just landed.”

“They'll have to get by with external shots and speculation.”

“They already know that Dominic Lawrence and his family were murdered.”

“There's no word from the detective in charge. They can contact Media Relations.”

“Roger that,” said Spenser as he left the room, his gaze avoiding George.

“What am I? Chopped liver all of a sudden?”

“He's probably embarrassed,” said Thom. “The press will go nuts over shots of four body bags coming out. Especially the miniatures. See what you can do about setting up a screen.”

Just then someone yelled, “Coroner's here.”

Thom flicked his wrist toward George.

“Yay,” said George. “Dinner with Birdie's buffed-out, former Marine, Deputy Detective boyfriend. Lucky you.”

“Look at the bright side. Food gives me energy. Rest gives me stamina. Requirements for a thorough investigation.”

“What does booze give you?”

“The ability to deal with it all.”

thirteen

Thom passed Birdie's second
floor office. The drawn tapestry curtain meant one thing. Privacy please. As he rounded the corner into the kitchen, a black pug ran full out toward him, nails scratching the tile. She skidded to an abrupt stop and performed a doggie dance of excited circles.

“Hey, Louise,” said Thom. “Nice to see you, too.” He knelt to rub her head. “Come on, girl, give me a kiss.” Louise licked his face.

Ron, dishtowel over his shoulder, greeted Thom with a hug—a quick chest bump and a slap on the back. “Thomas, my friend, I hope you're hungry.”

“Starving. Been working all day on cold caffeine and nicotine.”

“Dinner's tardy. I can offer an appetizer.” Ron uncapped a bottle of Booker's bourbon and poured three fingers into a Waterford lowball, pressed it into Thom's palm.

Thom took a big pull. “Good shit, man, thanks.”

“Anytime,” said Ron. “Louise has a new trick. Interested?”

“Hell, yeah.”

“LOUISE, roll over.”

The dog lay on her back, feet in the air.

“LOUISE, play dead.”

She opened her mouth and hung out her tongue.

Thom guffawed. Endorphins warmed his belly, cleared his head. He enjoyed the feeling.

Ron's satisfied grin was quickly erased. “Birdie wants to see you before dinner.”

“Sounds serious.”

“Sorry, man.”

Yeah, Thom had a feeling. He was thankful for Birdie's help today, but he wasn't keen to discuss the Lawrence case. He wanted a good meal and a full night's sleep. As he noiselessly parted the tapestry and entered Birdie's office, he noted how the computer monitor held her intense interest. It lit her complexion with a bluish glow. When she became aware of Thom's presence she casually and discretely closed a book. A thin thing. Black leather with gilt edges like a fancy journal. Her hand nudged it into an open desk drawer. As she turned to greet Thom her right hand turned off the monitor and the left quietly closed the drawer. It was all so graceful and deliberate. And his first thought was, w
hat is she hiding
?

She leaned over the desk, kissed him in greeting, and sat back down.

Thom knew that despite the sleeveless cotton sundress, this conversation was going to be business, thus, the desk barrier. He determined to drag her off course.

“Look at you,” said Thom, reaching over and pinching a bicep. “Ron is whipping you into great shape.”

“In more ways than one.”

“Really?” Thom took a seat across from her. “The sex must be good.”

A flush moved across her cheeks. “He's got me on a healthier diet. Check out the fridge later.”

“So the sex isn't good?”

She looked away—a fleeting moment before giving Thom a brave stare. “There's no sex. Not since the rape.”

Thom shouldn't have teased her into revealing a confidence and his stomach clenched at the impropriety. It happened nearly four months ago to the day. Birdie had been kidnapped, bound, drugged, raped, and beat to shit for an entire week. She barely survived.

“You've been tight-lipped. Why now?” he said.

“It's human nature to confront tragedy and move on.”

“I hear Father Frank in those words.”

Frank was the family's priest, but most especially, Birdie's close friend.

Birdie picked up a pencil, tapped the eraser on the desk. “Yeah, Frank keeps telling me to embrace the experience. Declaration is the first step in a process to regain my power over the intimate terrorism. Like acknowledging I'm powerless over alcohol.”

“As if you follow the program.”

“You know me. Have to do it on my own terms. But this is me bearing witness. Hello, my name is Birdie Elizabeth Keane. I'm an alcoholic and a crime survivor.” She snapped the pencil in half.

Thom glanced away. He couldn't bear to see the damaged woman behind the blue eyes. Birdie had spent her teens and twenties drinking her way through life and loving an unavailable man. She'd never dealt with emotional issues in a cerebral way before
going sober. In many respects she was an emotional retard just learning how to deal with life.

“Keep this on the downlow for now,” she said, flicking a pencil half off the desk. “I intend to bear my vulnerability on an individual basis. Also, I'd like your help in silencing the topic during family discussions.”

“No one has ever spoken of it. That way it didn't happen.”

“Our family is great at denial. We'll see how much they can drum up this week. Was there any blowback at work from the article?”

“There wouldn't be at a crime scene.” Thom steered her away from work-related topics. “Ron must be a saint if he's sticking around.”

“He's the best.” She swept her eyes toward the window and the dark beyond. “Going sober was the hardest thing I've ever done. Surrendering to love has been the scariest. But I do love him.”

“More than—”

“You know, Thom, we got sidetracked.”

Thom respected that she didn't want to talk about Matt Whelan. The only man she ever pined for. The Whelan and Keane clans believed that one day Matt and Birdie would be joined in holy matrimony. That Camelot dream died when Matt overdosed. Another touchy subject no one talked about.

She slid a printout of the key log and a disc across the desk. He had forgotten all about that. No escape now.

“You came in at three-fourteen a.m. Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Were you with a woman?”

Thom's non-answer was an affirmation.

“The reason I ask … well, there's something in particular we need to talk about.”

“I don't want to discuss the Lawrence case.” There. He said it outright.

“That's not …” Birdie slowly swiveled her chair. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then snapped it shut.

Thom knew then he was completely wrong. This was something else entirely and he couldn't escape the dread. Might as well get it over with.

“What?” said Thom. “Spit it out.”

“When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Yesterday.”

“The last time you
really
saw her?”

“What do you mean?”

“I think you should follow my example and stop denying there's a problem. You screw around. Do you think Anne does as well?”

“Hell, no.”

“Why not?”

Simple. There was no consortium in their marriage. Not by choice. Anne didn't desire sex and refused to perform for Thom's sake or for the marriage. It was legitimate grounds for annulment, but Thom'd never.

He hiked his shoulders.

“How many times has Anne asked you to leave?” Birdie said. “I bet you've lost count.”

“You don't know the dynamic of my relationship.”

“Continuing to separate and getting back together is a symptom of a broken marriage.”

“All this time I thought you had a degree in journalism, not psychology.”

“Ha-ha. Have you noticed that Anne's lost weight? Her clothes less conservative?”

“Her weight fluctuates.”

“She's wearing a new shade of lipstick.”

“Fashion in lip color changes.”

“Today she wore a pair of pricey designer sandals that highlighted a pedicure. Thom, I've never seen her toes on Sunday.”

“Open-toed shoes are not a sin. Not even at the Tridentine Mass
we attend.”

Birdie sighed. “After Mass she and Karen were huddled closer than usual. I noticed that Anne kept fingering a new necklace. A silver chain with a small coin pearl that nestled in the hollow of her throat.”

“So she bought a new necklace.”

“Anne has turned into a butterfly.”

“My wife is a butterfly every day.”

“Thom, she was glowing.”

“So?”

Birdie slapped her hands on the desk. “You are such a
guy
when it comes to the opposite sex. For Christsake, she's having an affair.”

Thom froze like he'd just been hit by an iceberg. The world slowed. He saw Birdie's mouth move and form words he couldn't hear. They floated in whispers and slowly gathered together like molecules. Then they slammed into Thom's forehead with such a realizing force that his head snapped back.

“Not true!” tumbled out of his mouth in an eight-year-old whine.

“I love you, Thom. But you need to get your head out of your ass and take control of your personal life.”

“Like you have?” Thom sniggered.

“At least I'm working on it.”

“I appreciate your concern. Trust me, Anne is not having an affair.” How could she? She hated sex.

Stalemate. Neither side would budge from their view. Thom hit the bourbon. Birdie played with silver balls of used chewing gum. Finally, Birdie pressed a button on the phone. A dial tone echoed.

“I get it. You're a detective. You need evidence.” She held a finger to her lips and punched a number.

“Who you calling?” he whispered.

“Roger Wilcox. Shush.”

Roger lived across the street from Birdie in the Tudor revival. His roses consistently won blue ribbons at the county fair. More importantly, his wife, Karen, had been Anne's best friend since they were in diapers.

“Hello,” said a froggy voice.

“Hi, Roger, it's Birdie. Sorry for the speakerphone. You know me, multitasking as usual.” Birdie flicked her fingertips across the computer keyboard. “I'm calling to see how you liked Buddakan last night.”

“What?”

“I thought the food was atrocious. Totally didn't live up to the hype. How was your experience?”

“I didn't go there.”

“Roger, I saw you and Karen.”

“No. Karen and I were home all night. I'm fighting a cold.”

“Oh, my mistake. Sorry for bothering you. Feel better soon.”

“Don't worry none. See you later.”

Birdie disconnected and said, “Who covers for you?”

“My best friend,” said Thom, with a scratch in his voice.

“
Like I said, Karen and Anne were huddling after Mass. At brunch
I asked Anne what was going on. She told me they had a fabulous time at that new restaurant, Buddakan. She told me in detail what wine they drank and what food they ate.”

Thom shrank in the chair, hit the booze. Unbelievability squeezed
his brain. There had to be another explanation. Like a business dinner.
Anne was co-owner of a very successful business. A working professional. She had luncheons and dinners with associates, men and women alike. But on a Saturday night? Date night? And why would she need to enlist Karen to confirm a cover story if she were conducting legitimate business? It made no sense.

“Thom,” said Birdie. “I'd never hurt you with news like this if I weren't certain.”

“I'll hire a private investigator. To prove she's not.”

“Good idea. But Anne can smell a retired cop a mile away. If you
want to be assured of privacy you can't use local guys. The family is too connected.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Ask Ron. He'll have out-of-town resources.”

“He knows your suspicions?”

“Why do you think he gave you such a large pour of his bourbon?” She leaned over the desk, waved her hand over Thom's glass and inhaled. Then coughed. “Yikes. One-twenty-five proof, bottled straight from the barrel, unfiltered.” She waved again. “Oak with a hint of tobacco.” She winked. “Just because I'm an alkie doesn't mean I can't enjoy distilled beverages.”

“Be careful, cousin.”

“I know. Alcohol is always seeking ways to seduce me. It's the lover I constantly yearn for.” She shook it off. “Anyway, Ron will be discreet. Once you know what you're dealing with, you'll have the tools to get her back.”

Thom was less certain.

He didn't want to admit that this had been coming for a long while.