Glass Houses (25 page)

Thom removed the pillow. She hadn't even hit the cantaloupe.

“How in the hell did I miss it completely?” she said.

“See? Not so easy.”

They collected the trash and walked toward the house.

“We're both familiar with a variety of weapons,” said Birdie. “We're both great shots.”

“On the range. But in a real-life scenario? How many times have you had to squat or bend over your target? In a life or death gun battle, I doubt either of us would do well.”

“That's disappointing.”

“Well, our little exercise just brought to light a new option.”

“What?”

“A professional killer.”

“A professional isn't going to leave a message to draw attention to himself.”

“Unless he was setting someone up.”

“Like a landlord who uses an aggressive eviction lawyer. ‘If they can't kick me out, they'll kill me out.'”

“Like an oddball cigarette butt left at a crime scene to be discovered two weeks later.”

“The killer, or someone, came back to open Deats' curtains. Why
not deposit a fresh butt then? Make sure the forensic material is intact.”

“Here's a big but. Who'd have motive to hire the professional? The one who'd benefit is Moysychyn. Why hire a killer and set yourself up?”

“Someone else hired the killer.”

“Iris?” they said together.

“A money-hungry, mail-order bride.”

forty-five

“Anita,” said Thom. “I've
got you on speaker while I type.”

Birdie tapped her fingers across the keyboard, looking up the Westchester address on the Internet.

“Just a quick question about the A residence in Santa Monica.”

“I heard you were off the case,” she said.

“Who said that?”

“Seymour.”

“He's a kidder. Has a bad sense of humor. Naw, I'm following the money. It doesn't take two. About that A residence … your team determined it was owned by Mobeck Finance Holdings. Did you ever find out who had rented it?”

“Yeah, under threat of subpoena Mobeck granted us access to the house file and we contacted the last occupants. A middle-aged couple. Been in the house nearly twenty years. Raised a son there.”

“They were the ones who altered the bedroom into an apartment?”

“They said no. They said it was there when they moved in. As was Deats. They didn't benefit from what little income it generated.”

“Was the house rent controlled?”

“The couple paid just under nine-hundred a month. Deats paid two-fifty.”

“No wonder he didn't want to move. Where else could he live for that rent? Were the people in the A residence evicted?”

“Yes. They received a letter from an attorney that gave a long list of reasons why. They got so scared they packed up and left within a month. Deats obviously decided to stay on and fight.”

“Until the end.”

“Right.”

“Hey, thanks for your support in the meeting yesterday morn
ing.”

“I give credit where credit is due. I don't like what you did to my jacket, but considering my stinkin' attitude I can't blame you.”

“Thanks. Oh! One last thing. About that oddball cigarette butt … was it soggy when you collected it?”

“Strangely, no. Nor was it fresh. It was somewhere in between.”

“Thanks, Anita. See you around.”

Thom punched off. “Next up?”

“The Westchester house on Boeing Avenue,” said Birdie. “Built in '48. Still in original condition. Look at the floor plan. It's tiny, just nine-hundred-eighty square feet, single-car garage, has a picture window with a city view and unobstructed downtown from the
backyard. Look here at the neighborhood.” Birdie maneuvered the
mouse to zoom out. “The only one on the street not remodeled.
Most current sale of a comparable model puts it over six-hundred-thousand.”

Thom coughed. “For less than a thousand square feet? Wasn't there something going on with Westchester? Something in the news?”

“Yeah,” said Birdie. “They've teamed with Playa Del Rey to fight the LAX master plan. They think moving the northern runway two-hundred-sixty feet and upgrading the terminals would generate more air traffic, thus, more noise and air pollution.”

“Let's play landlord. What's the value here?”

“If it were my property, I'd add a second story, remodel, upgrade. There's plenty of lot to do so. Then I'd sell it before the airport agency gets a re-do.”

“You did say he was selling some stock, diversifying. So far, we're three for four in motivation to get people out. Culver City?”

“Located on La Cienega,” said Birdie. “This one is an oddity. It's a townhouse set back from the street. It's actually above the boulevard. Across the street is a field of pump jacks. Not sure what the story is here. It's going to involve more research.”

“The message is the only thing that ties it to the others.”

“And the tenants were not in the process of being evicted.”

Thom flipped his wrist. “I'm going to take off now. See about gathering a few more clothes before the kids get home. I don't want them seeing me moving things.”

“I'll see what I can dig up on Iris. Chances are that isn't her birth name. Easy enough to look up marriage licenses. If I get lucky I might find her current immigration status. Where'd you put the photos you stole from the refrigerator?”

“They're on the altar.”

“Okay, I've got plenty to do. Go. Say hello to the kids, give them hugs and kisses from their cousin Bird.”

_____

Thom was mid-raid on the cookie jar when Anne entered the kitchen.

“Thom? You should've called.”

He whirled around. Chocolate chip cookie in his mouth. Glass of milk at the ready. He swallowed and took a gulp to wash it down. A little too fast, he choked and coughed up the cookie into the sink. Drank some more milk and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. What a way to receive the woman he hadn't seen in three days.

He noticed the butterfly before him. The teenage freckles across her nose were long gone, but the blue eyes were just as vibrant as the first time he ever saw them. Her lips, luscious with an understated nude tint and a bit shiny made them all the more desirable. Gone was the red lipstick that had been her trademark for years. Hair, a few shades lighter and cut into a stylish bob tucked behind her ears. Feet, slipped into a pair of jeweled sandals that buckled across the vamp. She wore slender slacks that stopped at her ankles and a gauzy blouse with embroidery. Simple, clean, and free of the stiff, constructed business dark she usually wore.

She took his breath away.

If she'd only give him a smile he could die a happy man right now.

“I'm worried about Pearse,” said Thom.

“Me, too,” she said. Agreeable. A good sign. “He thinks we're getting a divorce.”

“I told him we're solid and that the only reason I haven't been home is because I'm on a big case.”

“You shouldn't have lied. He's old enough to know the truth.”

“Which is?”

“That we're not. We haven't been good in over a decade. How much longer are we going to pretend that our relationship is working for either of us?”

Thom felt the blood drain from his face. He backed up, went into the sun room. Anne had the lights and heaters going, simulating summer. A book lay face down on the chaise, a glass of white wine sat on the cocktail table. It felt as cozy as the brief fire at Birdie's house this morning. He sat on the adjacent chaise.

“You didn't go to work today?”

“I've been backing off hours.”

“But still have evening meetings?”

“Yes.” She jutted her chin in a defensive manner.

“Shall I pick up the kids from school?”

“Pepper is getting them today.”

Pepper was the UCLA undergrad Anne employed occasionally on a part-time basis. She ran errands like picking up/dropping off dry cleaning, grocery shopping, driving the kids to soccer practice, piano lessons.

“What does she know?”

“About us? Nothing. It's none of her business.”

“Who do you confide in?”

“Karen is my only confidant.”

Of course, Karen Wilcox. The best friend who covered for Anne's dinner out. Anne picked up the glass and took a petite sip.

“May I have one of those?”

She nodded and went to the kitchen to pour him a glass. He watched her walk away. A slight sway of the hips. Thom always appreciated this backward view of his wife, no matter the wardrobe.

She returned and handed him the glass.

“Thank you,” he said and took a man-sized gulp.

“Thom … I've consulted a divorce attorney.”

The words were a stab to the heart yet he held steadfast in her presence. She had always been strong and he determined to be the same.

“Do you understand the ramifications of that decision? You've always insisted we maintain a pretense.”

“Life is too short to be unhappy.”

“Are you seeing someone else?”

“Of course not. We're still married. Honestly … I've been thinking a lot about it lately.”

“Have anyone in mind?”

“No.”

“I don't think we should get divorced.”

“We're not going anywhere as a couple and neither of us is getting younger.”

“You seem to be.”

“I've lost some weight, that's all.”

“You know what Bird said to me on Sunday? She said you had turned into a butterfly. I told her you were a butterfly every day. God, Anne, I love you just as much today as the day I met you. But I feel like I'm always playing catch up, still chasing the girl in the white sundress. It's like you're just outside my reach. How could we have disintegrated into this mess? It wasn't like this in the beginning. What happened?”

Thom reached out to her. She turned her head. She had already left him.

“Life happened, Thom. Kids, responsibility, the business, it all took a toll.”

“You didn't mention my job.”

“I signed up for that. Against my father's wishes. I knew full well what it'd be like married to a cop. I don't blame you for any of this. Nor do I blame myself. We let it happen, Thom. Together. We're both to blame in equal measure. I have no illusions about how tough a divorce would be on the kids. If we work together it's doable.”

“If we couldn't work together to make our marriage work, why do you think we'll succeed at divorce?”

forty-six

Birdie liked photos on
her work board. Next to the original scruffy Todd she put the photo of the happy couple on their wedding day. She squinted at the school photo taken in front of a building. The only clear face was Iris'. It was as if the other girls turned their heads at the same time to look at something off camera, slightly blurring their profiles. Pretty useless. She added a photo from the newspaper article Birdie wrote about Dominic and his foster-child-clerk that Seymour had called up from archives and sent to Thom. In it, Jelena sat in a chair and gazed up at Dominic with an expression of adoration.

She flipped through the photos she printed for Thom. Her eye kept going back to the photo of the bloody message. Dead fish. She added it to the others on the board.

She got to work on the marriage license. Good thing Todd had an unusual last name. As is true with most public records the query must be framed exactly. It's not like a search engine on a navigation bar where similar criteria pop up. The city doesn't make it that easy. Birdie utilized a hand-drawn grid on graph paper. Each box represented a date. She checked boxes as dates came back negative. An easy, old-school way of keeping track. Unfortunately, each query had to be typed in one by one. All those Ys. It was tedious and strained the eyes. She put on her glasses, turned on the TV, popped a fresh piece of gum, and settled in for the long haul.

An hour later, she finally found what she was looking for. Todd Moysychyn and Li S
Å«
were wed at city hall five years ago February 14. Valentine's Day. How sweet.

So where did Miss Li S
Å«
come from?

Birdie started with a basic LexisNexis search. Available to anyone who paid for subscriptions, it offered one of the largest databases of legal and public records in the world. Birdie thought that a name as unusual as Li S
Å«
should pop on the immigration grid. She found thread after thread but never a complete picture. She kept running foul in crap searches and dead ends. Her frustration level rose with each key stroke.

Data searching wasn't uncommon of late. But this wasn't her project. It was Thom's. And while he was home playing with his kids she was doing his work.

“Screw it,” she said aloud.

She called Ron's cell. She usually didn't call when he was on the job, except when important—which this was not—but she wanted the diversion.

“Well, lucky me,” he answered. “Two days in a row.”

“Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“I'm good. What's happening?”

“I'm doing some research for Thom's case and it's proving to be frustrating.”

“How so?”

“My subject is a mail-order bride.”

“Are you sure?”

“What do you mean? Of course, I'm sure.”

“The multiple Thom caught on Sunday, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, unsure where this was going.

“When investigating homicides assume everyone is lying.”

“So, she's not a mail-order bride?”

“I don't know, babe.”

“I don't understand what you're saying.”

“What specifically are you looking for?”

“Her immigration status.”

“Why?”

“Um … I'm looking for background. She's a person of interest.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-two-ish. She hooked up with her husband when she was seventeen.”

“Did you check the ‘looking for love' websites?”

“I went straight to the government agencies.”

“Simplify your search. Think back to when you were that age. What did you like to do?”

“Party.”

“Exactly. Go to the social networking sites. Check out the websites of the hot clubs. Look at their online photo albums. That will complete a profile better than her immigration status.”

“Why didn't I think of that?” groaned Birdie.

“Because you've been going at breakneck speed for too long. You make life difficult for yourself. All it takes is a deep breath. When was the last time you binged on TV or read a book for pleasure or dug up weeds in the garden? The only time you relax is when you're with me. Or Frank.”

“Because neither of you will tolerate anything different.”

“Expect that of yourself. Stop avoiding self-examination.”

“Heal thyself. That's the drum you keep beating.”

“I'm your boyfriend—it's a job requirement.”