by Terri Nolan
“I’ve always known that Matt loved you.” He patted his chest with his fist. “I always thought he’d marry you. I gave my blessing despite my concerns.” He nodded at her in a way that suggested she knew to what he referred.
“Yet why did he always back away when we got too close?” she said.
“I wish I could give you the answer. Matt kept his own counsel. Well, that’s not entirely true. This gentleman is Mr. Martin Reidy of Deeney, McMahon, and Desmond.”
A lawyer.
Reidy gave her a firm handshake. “I apologize for the suddenness of my business at this terrible time. Matt left explicit instruction. He made you heir to his estate.”
Her breath stopped. The only sound in the room was the tick tick tick of the clock on the fireplace mantle. Equilibrium snapped and the room began to spin. She was in a state of confusion. There was already too much to bear.
“You’ve been given a tremendous responsibility,” said Reidy. “If you’re unable to take on the task, we have the authority to manage the estate until you’re ready.”
“I’m flabbergasted,” she managed to say.
“Even in death my son continues to take care of you,” said Frank. “That’s proof of the depth of his feelings.”
Frank’s words spoke part of the truth. They were as close as two people could get without physical intimacy. He had always been an important presence in her life. Her trusted friend. The one she called when she needed bail money. But his heir?
“What do I have to do?” she said to Reidy.
“I’d like to come to your home tomorrow morning with some boxed possessions he left in my safekeeping. We’ll need to go over the terms of his trust. There are papers to sign. I expect we’ll need a couple of hours.”
“Tomorrow is as good as any day I suppose,” she said. Then to Frank, “Did you know?”
“Yes. Matt began the process while still in the hospital after the domestic.”
Reidy added, “It’s not uncommon for people to think about their loved ones after a medical crisis.”
“How do you feel about it?” she said to Frank.
His cheeks moved upward in a rare smile that spread out like an alluvial fan from the corners of his eyes. A beautiful sight. “I didn’t approve at first. But he had a persuasive argument and I conceded
to his decision. Know this, Birdie, the Keanes and Whelans are like family, and families stick together. Regardless.”
Birdie waited. The balance went unsaid.
“We’ll give you some privacy,” he said. “Come eat when you’re done in here.”
Reidy handed her an envelope and a business card. “Monday’s are tough traffic-wise. Is a thirty-minute warning sufficient notice?”
“I’ll make myself available.”
When they had gone, Birdie inspected the envelope. Matt’s monogram was engraved in the upper left corner: a gold M interlaced with a black W, the W had an arrow pointing upward like on a stock graph. It looked like a corporate logo. She opened it with shaky hands.
The letter was written in Matt’s neat cursive:
_____
Dearest Bird,
The day I met you was a beautiful and dire day. The temptation of you pulled me to pieces. From then forward my life has been divided in two: before Bird and after Bird. We certainly can’t control with whom we fall in love and I fully understood its forbidden nature.
I watched you stumble in your efforts to become a part of the adult world. I’ve seen you blossom into a successful, determined woman who has a huge capacity for love. I’ve experienced first-hand the stubbornness, tenacity, and fierceness with which you protect the people you love.
Now it’s my turn. I’m obviously gone and can no longer be a physical presence in your life, but I will be with you today and forever in spirit.
Every conversation and every moment we spent together has been precious to me. Even if you received a fraction of the happiness you’ve given me over the years then you, too, have been blessed. You were not the first love of my life, but you are the greatest and the last. Please continue to dance and follow your heart—it won’t betray you.
I love you now and forever, M
_____
She crumpled the letter and looked up at the family portrait above the fireplace. It was brown, faded with age, and covered with ashy grime. Frank Senior and Mary flanked their seven sons. In birth order: Frank Junior (the priest), Michael, Eric, Colin, Emmett, Matt, and Patrick. All, excluding Junior, were cops, and they had inherited equal shares of the glamorous movie star appearance of their Irish parents. As she stared at the faded portrait, she became angry at what could have been and the trick Matt had played.
“Damn you Matthew Francis Whelan!” She double-fingered the portrait. “It’s too late. Hear me, asshole?” She sobbed. “Why’d you lie to me? Do you think this is adequate compensation for my broken heart? Huh? Answer me!”
The bitterness of profound grief stuck to the roof of her mouth. If Matt loved her so much as demonstrated with words and kisses, a love letter, and an inheritance, then why would he betray that promise of forever love by taking his own life? Was the answer behind the wrong thing Matt needed to atone for? Was it so bad he had to take his life?
As questions swirled in her head, a terrible realization crashed down on her. Matt Whelan’s life wasn’t as slick and shiny as she’d thought. It was darker. Baser. She hated the flat sensation that nothing was as it seemed. Worst of all, he robbed her. A futile, loveless, emptiness lay in her future.
six
If one were to look at a map and draw a straight line from Birdie’s historic neighborhood of Hancock Park to downtown L.A., the line might cross over Matt’s house in Koreatown. He spoke fluent Korean, Spanish, and Mandarin and loved the languages of his ethnic neighborhood. A step through the front gate transported one back in time. The Kyoto-like courtyard was hedged by bamboo, Japanese boxwood, ferns, and ficus. Dormant pink jasmine and honeysuckle wound around redwood lattice. Come spring, they’d fill the air with sweet fragrance. A large variety of exotic acacias provided winter blooms of cream and yellow. The courtyard offered a private sanctuary and transition from the street. On the right side of the porch, a copper rain chain hung from the edge of the roof. Rain water gently twinkled down the teacup-sized bowls and into a large, round basin. The overflow spilled over the sides and disappeared onto black, shiny rocks.
Birdie let herself in. The interior was tidy as usual. Clean-lined Asian furnishings in muted colors were punctuated with ornate accessories, statues of Buddha, and a large Wheel of Dharma. Matt practiced Catholicism, but was especially taken with Buddhism after finding the wheel at a flea market. In the days before statues of Buddha were made, the wheel was the object of worship. Eight spokes represented the right view, right thought, right behavior, right speech, right effort, right livelihood, right mindfulness, and right meditation. The wheel became Matt’s compass.
Birdie had been here last week. She had brought Chinese. They danced in bare feet on the bamboo floor of the great room. During breathers they drank Orange Crush from glass bottles. Matt inadvertently sprayed soda from his nose. This gave them the simples and they laughed until their sides were sore. He seemed relaxed and happy.
She yearned to go back in time and grab that opportunity to express how she ached for him and admired him and trusted him. How she felt his presence flow through her body, as if life-giving. Maybe if they had expressed their love then things would be different now.
Birdie perused Matt’s home. Looked for locks and touched his things as if pieces of his soul could be transferred to her. In the library, she caressed his beloved writing desk that once belonged to his maternal grandmother. It was pear green with a Dutch-style still life painted on the front of the flip down. Randomly plucking a book off the shelf, she opened the pages and stuck her nose in the gutter. The dusty
smell of wood pulp and printer’s ink filled her nostrils with one of her favorite scents.
Framed photos eased past the periphery of her vision as she walked down the hall to Matt’s bedroom. She slid open the screened closet door, sniffed the leather polish used to clean the Sam Browne, fingered his pressed uniforms and smiled at the immaculate spit shine of his boots. She bent down and unhooked the handcuff key attached to the boot laces. Part talisman, part just-in-case, he’d worn it since his academy days. She attached it to the chain around her neck. It clinked next to the medallion of Saint Francis de Sales.
She pulled back the coverlet of his bed, shook off her mules and slid between the cool sheets. She rubbed her bare feet together to warm them. The bed smelled like Matt after he did some light work at her house—a heady earthy kind of smell. A delightful scent. She buried her head in his white, silk-covered pillow, took a full breath of him and fantasized that they had spent the night together. Matt lay next to her, rested from lovemaking. In profile, his eyes were closed and his breath as soft as a butterfly’s wake. She ran a finger down his forehead, traced his nose and his full lips. He bit her finger in a playful gesture, turned on his side, and placed his warm hand on her bare hip and pulled her close. He combed fingers through her hair, gazed at her with lovely green eyes.
Her eyes welled as she remembered the day they met.
_____
Birdie was a jaded fifteen-year-old who thought she had the world figured out. She disregarded her parent’s strict rules and her surliness often earned restrictions. Mostly, she was bored. Madi had gone to Ireland to visit relatives and every one of Birdie’s friends seemed to be on European vacations.
There she was, in her favorite red-and-white bikini, floating on a silver raft in the middle of the pool, hiding behind dark sunglasses and ignoring a Fourth of July party. One hand lazily dipped into the cool blue water that contrasted with the smoggy gray sky. The palm trees that bisected Magnolia Street, and towered over the house, looked dirty. She gazed at the white, square beast of the house called Magnolia Manor (so named for the street and often shortened to the Manor). It was the home of her dad’s brother, Louis—also a cop—and his wife, Nora, a nurse/homemaker.
The Keane family and their friends didn’t need a reason to party, but the holiday was a good excuse for swimming, barbeque, drinking, loud music, and Irish dancing. It wasn’t yet noon and already the party was noisy and raucous. It’d be only a matter of time before the neighbors called the police. It happened every time. The dispatchers would tire of the neighbor’s complaints. They’d tell the callers that the cops were already on scene. It was as true then as it was today. The Keanes were a cop family that hung with other cop families.
Birdie loved parties. But not that day. She felt an electric restlessness as if on the verge of a big bang. She wasn’t interested in a bunch of drunken buffoons with loaded guns. That is until her cousin, Arthur, showed up with his new partner.
The first time she laid eyes on Matt Whelan he stood near the French doors greeting other cops. He was the handsomest man she ever saw: tall with slender muscles, clean-shaven, with dark hair that hung in wisps on his forehead. His lips had a broody, sexy pout. His poise suggested a peacefulness that was disarming. His gait smooth and even. She watched from her silver island and pretended to be nonchalant and unaffected by the newcomer.
Arthur pulled a couple of chairs next to the pool and motioned Matt to sit.
“Bird,” he said, “get your ass outta the water and meet my partner.”
She pushed the glasses on top of her head and exited the pool with a push-up from the side. She stood as close to Matt as space would allow while water slid down her body.
Never one to buy into her precocious bullshit, Arthur said, “Give it a rest. He’s too old for you. Besides, he’s married.”
Maybe. But Matt took a long hard look at her. If nothing else, he noticed. Ding ding ding. Matt stood and extended his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you,” said Birdie, returning the firm grip.
He held her hand briefly and studied her face with his bright shamrock-green eyes. That’s the moment she fell in love. Arthur would later say that he felt the current pass between them.
As the afternoon wore on, partygoers were getting drunk in typical Manor fashion. Birdie was no exception. A handsome cop and a hazy veil of alcohol had resuscitated her day. When her dad called for more lime daiquiris, she begrudgingly stumbled into the kitchen for bartending duties. Deep in thought, she didn’t notice that someone had entered behind her. Nor was she expecting an arm to suddenly wrap around her neck. Matt. Misunderstanding his advance, she allowed her body to relax, thinking he was going to kiss her.
“Never go limp,” said Matt. “An attacker will dominate you.”
“Huh?”
“Hasn’t your cousin taught you the simplest of self-defense moves?”
“What do I need self-defense for?”
Matt spun her around. “You’re a very pretty girl who drinks and flirts. Liquor compromises good judgment. Boys will take advantage. Pay attention. We’re family now. You’re my little sister.”
“I don’t want to be your sister.”
Matt blinked with helpless fascination. “Do you at least know how to scream?”
As a response, she screamed as loud and shrill as she could. Before she was finished, a dozen men with firearms stormed the kitchen.
Matt threw up his hands.
“Yeah,” she said, “I know how to scream.”
Matt didn’t wear a wedding ring and Birdie conveniently forgot he was married, and it was at that moment his wife arrived at the party. The gunslingers parted for an exquisite woman. No introduction necessary.
Linda was a female version of him—long and lean with grace and serenity. Her long blonde hair shone against her luminescent pale skin.
Linda’s eyes perforated the kitchen. Her red-faced husband, hands in the air, stood next to a bikini-clad teenager who wore a broad smile of satisfaction. Even an impetuous girl could see the hurt, and Birdie quickly wiped the smile off her face. After a brief conversation with her husband, Linda left the party the way she came—alone.
_____
Every Fourth of July since was a private anniversary. Matt stated in his letter that his life was divided in two. So was hers: before Matt and after Matt. Getting up from his bed to continue her search, she reflected on how people divided their lives. Was it possible that Matt was the man she always knew him to be except in this bizarre situation? Maybe he purposely hurt her to pique her interest. After all, the key and note were obviously intended to be found after his death. But the pesky whys bothered her.
Birdie walked to the other side of the house through the small dining area to the kitchen. A sudden chill of cool air caressed her arms. She spun around and saw a shadow move across the window. She pressed against it, gazed into the backyard. No one was there. She shook it off.
On the kitchen counter, next to the rice cooker, five items were in a neat row: his wallet, cell phone, keys, Beretta handgun, and a change purse. The items missing from Henshaw House laid out so deliberately.
The wallet contained no cash. All the credit cards seemed to be in their proper slots. She picked up the Beretta, did a press check, put the unloaded gun on the counter. She turned on the cell and scrolled through the incoming and outgoing calls. Nothing unusual. She opened the change purse and counted out eighty-nine dollars and thirty cents.
Four twenties, one five, four singles, a quarter, and a nickel.
The same amount and the same denominations as the money found in the truck.
Finding that amount of money in one location wouldn’t be memorable. Two? Neon sign.
She retrieved Deputy Hughes’ business card and punched the number.
“Elizabeth Keane,” she said in greeting.
; “Official for real this time?”
“Absolutely. This is no longer personal. Tell me about your relationship with Matt and don’t leave out any details.”
“We didn’t have a relationship. I met him in Mammoth. It was a ski trip organized by the Southern California Gun Association so there were lots of enthusiasts on the mountain. Matt was there.
I was there. We met. I didn’t see him again until yesterday.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t intentionally conceal it—the topic never came up.”
“What about Jacob?”
“Our paths cross every now and then over a dead body. I’ve known him for years. I hope you’re not worried about integrity. Jacob—”
“—knew Matt. You knew Matt. Both of you were there at his death.”
“Correction. We were there after his death. As was another deputy.”
“Why didn’t you search Matt’s Koreatown house or send someone up to do it?”
“Matt died in Lake Henshaw, not in Los Angeles.”
“He was a cop.”
“Cops aren’t allowed to die?”
“Guess what I found at his house?”
“His cell phone, wallet, and that gun you mentioned?”
“And another case of money in the exact amount, in the same denominations, as the cash found in the console of his truck.”
“That’s random.”
“Matt didn’t do random. Or accidental. Or coincidental. He micromanaged his life. The items were laid out in a row so the money would be noticed. It means something.”
“It means he was organized. He laid out his stuff to check it before putting it into his pockets. Only he forgot. His father is a retired cop. Don’t you think he’d go himself or send an investigator if he were suspicious of his son’s death?”
This fact stopped her cold.
“It’s validation of an accidental overdose,” he continued. “How else do you explain ingesting too much pain reliever? He was distracted or absent minded.”