by Terri Nolan
Gerard swept her into a hug. “Shush, sweetheart. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Bird. It’s the cop in me speaking.” He held her until she calmed down and then led her to the couch to sit.
“What was he after?” said Gerard.
“Those boxes I told you about at dinner,” said Birdie. “The ones that belonged to Matt.”
“What did they contain?” said Thom.
“Stuff. Six boxes of it. You know, Eagle award, school reports, journals, photo albums, like that.”
“Man, I must not have a life. I have only one box of shit.”
“You possess enough common sense to throw crap away.”
“Nunez will want to look at them. He’ll have an obligation to inspect those boxes. After all, they were the reason for the break-in.”
“I’m not going to let that happen,” said Birdie.
“My guess is that Bird’s protecting Matt’s privacy,” inserted Gerard.
“He has no privacy,” insisted Thom. “He’s dead.”
“I’ll get the tab if there’s hell to pay,” said Gerard.
“How big is that tab?” said Thom with a slight sneer.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” said Birdie. “I lied to Nunez. I told him it was my crap.”
Thom shook a finger at Birdie, “You’re a troublemaker. You can get arrested for that.”
He sat down and promptly stood up again. “Shit. Anne will be worried. I’ve got to get home.”
Birdie lay down on the sofa.
Gerard said, “I’ll talk to Thom. We won’t say anything about the boxes. Now tell me everything.”
For the third time she retold the tale. Gerard listened intently. Finally he said, “Matt was on disability. What could this guy be looking for? Then he offs himself instead of answering questions? He was scared. Definitely not your typical burglar.”
“Maybe he was hired by someone and he was afraid of that person.”
Gerard nodded. “Let me think on it.”
_____
Gerard shook Birdie awake. Dull morning light shone through the window.
“You fell asleep,” he said. “It’s morning.”
“I hit a wall.” She got up, rubbed her face. “Cops still here?”
“Left at dawn. Your neighbors will be talking about this one during the next HOA meeting.” He handed her a cup of black coffee.
“I feel filthy. Will you stay while I take a shower?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Take your time. I’ll fix some breakfast when you’re done.”
Birdie’s job as journalist was dichotomous: her best day was someone else’s worst. This time the two halves belonged entirely to her.
She slid back the carved wood screen separating the shower enclosure from the rest of the bath and turned on the cold water. She stepped in, clothes and all, and sat down. The frenetic activity of last night came crashing down along with the icy water. She shivered. She used to do this when she felt strung out and needed a quick pick-me-up. When the despair dissipated she turned the knob until the water was piping hot. The heat gave her a sense of forced bravery. And she’d need all she could get in the days to come.
fifteen
Wednesday, January 11
Day 243. One day and one day only.
Birdie’s long wavy hair took forty minutes to blow dry and straighten. She didn’t mind spending time on a mindless chore. Her brain needed the reboot.
The Mason Pearson paddle brush with the nylon and boar bristles that she pulled through her hair was a seventeenth birthday present from Matt. Her mother, Maggie, considered a hairbrush to be an intimate gift. She thought an older, newly divorced man giving such an item to her underage daughter was inappropriate and told Matt as much. He came to the house, apologized, and delivered a substitute gift—a generic mall gift card. Maggie asked Birdie to return the hairbrush. She refused, and a shouting match with a lot of tears ensued. Birdie almost laughed now as she pulled the brush through her hair. That seemed a lifetime ago. Since then, Maggie regarded Matt with high esteem. Loved him. She wanted him as a son-in-law, to father her grandchildren.
“Camelot has died, Mom.” Birdie said aloud. “There will be no babies now.”
It didn’t surprise Birdie that past events had new meaning. Death could do that. One is compelled to look back as a form of condoling. Remember the sweetness. The tiny moments that brought smiles. Hear the soundtrack of a relationship. In her case, dance music. Matt and she liked to dance together. Of course, it was Matt’s guilty pleasure. If his cop brothers found out he’d be razzed big time.
After dressing in a favorite pair of woodland camouflage pants and baby-blue T-shirt, she returned to the kitchen. The smell of fried eggs and toast made her hungry.
“I know it’s not much,” said Gerard, pouring orange juice.
“It’s perfect,” she said, taking a seat at the bar.
He slid an official damage report across the countertop. “It’s an inventory of what got damaged last night. The laundry room door and jamb will have to be replaced. Also a stained-glass door was broken. I swept up the pieces and put them in a box in case it can be repaired. You can use this for the insurance company.”
“Thanks, Dad. I hadn’t given any thought to this.”
“Why should you? You’ve had other important matters to deal with.” Gerard eyed the artsy graphic on the tee. Boys like Catholic girls. “Is that a photo-shoot hand-me-down from Madi?”
“It was a gag gift from Matt.” She stuck a corner of toast into the egg yoke and stuffed it in her mouth while her dad washed the skillet.
“I liked Matt much better than any man you’ve dated,” he observed.
“We were friends, Dad. George and I dated.”
“Like hell. Why George put up with it is beyond me, but then he is a longhaired faggot.”
Birdie suppressed a smile. Poor George. When he worked vice he did undercover work as a drug-addicted male prostitute who wore his hair long. Off duty he was a dapper dresser; a good- looking man who took care of his image. Designer suits and fitted shirts in bright colors, florals, patterns—Miami style. The cops couldn’t square his undercover work with his personal life and ragged him relentlessly. Birdie knew him to be straight, but hey, it’s not like she discussed their sex life publicly.
“Geeze, Dad, I never knew you didn’t like him. And you know he doesn’t have long hair anymore.”
“Well I didn’t like it, I don’t like him, and I didn’t like him with my daughter. That snake Denis was worse. And that black prosecutor is a cop hater that listens to that pack of pinkos on the Police Commission.” Gerard kicked a cabinet door. It shuddered under his boot. “Goddamn waste of a good man!”
Gerard checked his emotions. His verbal missive unnerved Birdie. He flicked his wrist and said, “I have to get home and change before going to the station.” He kissed her on the nose. “I’ll call you later. Oh, a guy named Ron Hughes called. Said he’d be here at twelve. Who is he?”
“The detective investigating Matt’s death.”
“Glad to hear a cop will be here. I’ll worry less. Love you, sweetheart.”
Birdie had just finished what was left of her breakfast when Thom called. “Your burglar is a ghost. He had no wallet, no ID, no money, no keys. Not even a scrap of paper with your name or address.”
“The intruder was after the contents of Matt’s boxes and would’ve needed transport if he had found what he was looking for.”
“Unless he was looking for something small that could fit in a pocket.”
“Good point. Just in case, call Nunez and have him check for abandoned cars. There might be a parked car nearby with keyless entry. Speaking of … I’ve gone over and over it. He either bypassed the alarm or had my house key.”
“He had no keys.”
“Maybe he had a wheelman t
hat got scared off when the patrol units arrived. Maybe that guy had the key.”
“How would he have gotten it?”
“Beats me.”
“Dig this; the curly red hair on his head was a wig. And he had no fingerprints. He might’ve been a professional thief.”
“This means he’d have the skill to bypass the system—I’ll notify the alarm company. They have this upgraded program that could tell me what time any door or window is opened. Maybe I’ll get that and video surveillance.” Birdie paused to think. “You know what? About a year-and-a-half ago I was out of town and Denis stayed here while his house was being painted. I gave him a spare. I’m not sure I ever got it back. Damn. That means I have to call him.”
“I’m sure he’s forgiven you by now.”
“He left a sympathy message.”
“That’s progress. Why are you so sure that the burglar was after Matt’s boxes?”
“When I heard him he was upstairs. Matt’s boxes were the only thing touched. It wasn’t a random break-in. He must’ve seen Reidy make the delivery. I didn’t leave the house until last evening. He waited until I’d gone.”
“Doesn’t make sense. If he had prior knowledge, he could’ve intercepted them at the source or carjacked the delivery.”
“There’s less risk the way it went down.”
“Still doesn’t add up. We’ll have to wait for his ID to find out if he had a prior relationship with Matt. The gun the guy had? A Sig P229, the heavier version of yours.”
“40-caliber?” said Birdie.
“Yep.”
“Speaking of which, the cops took mine. See if you can get it back sooner rather than later?”
“You have other guns.”
“It’s my favorite. Hey, I appreciate you doing all this legwork. It saves me from cajoling Nunez.”
“No prob. I’ll call with anything new. Don’t forget your promise to call George.”
Birdie grimaced. She didn’t want to.
_____
Birdie stood over the tornado that represented Matt’s life. He had entrusted his history to her and her alone. She was now the curator of his legacy. There was no way Nunez could find out she lied about the ownership of the mess spread out on the floor—unless he or Rankin or one of the other cops examined the contents. If they had, and if a relationship between the intruder and Matt was established, then he’d have probable cause to compel the surrender of the boxes. She couldn’t allow anyone to rifle through the private life of Matt and those he knew. A possessive responsibility to his memory made the decision for her. She repacked the boxes. She put aside a pile of photos to add to the others from Matt’s shed. She plucked the last journal to have a look at the final passage. Rereading it didn’t provide a light bulb moment, so she carefully ripped the page out and tucked it safely into the cargo pocket on her pant leg. She followed Matt’s numbering system, but it wasn’t nearly as pretty. Stuff bulged and the lids teetered.
By the time she had loaded each box into the lift, she knew exactly what to do.
In the garage she unlocked the wheels of a Sears workbench and pushed it aside. Behind it a hidden panel led into a narrow crawlspace. It’d been found shortly after she moved in and demoed a cheap storage cabinet made of fiber board that had warped under too much weight. When it came off the wall she discovered the passageway hidden behind it. It led to a cavern about the size of a bathroom under the stairwell, abutting the entry coat closet. It was the perfect hiding place.
The remnants of Matt’s life would be safe under the stairs.
sixteen
Birdie had just finished concealing the panel with the workbench and was slapping off the dust when the phone rang. She picked up the extension in the garage.
“It’s Detective Hughes. I’m here. You must not have heard the doorbell.”
“I’m in the garage. On the left side of the wrought-iron gate is a postern entrance. I’m unlocking it now.” Birdie punched a code into the panel next to the gun locker. “Follow the drive to the back of the house. I’ll meet you there.” Birdie closed the garage door and waited.
When Hughes strode around the corner of the house Birdie was surprised to see him in civilian clothes. He wore casual black shoes and Levis. A black T-shirt fit snug against his muscles and highlighted his tan. The day-old scruff on his face was a rugged accessory. A partial of a colorful tattoo on his right bicep peeked from under the sleeve. His firearm was holstered on his left hip and the deputy badge clipped to his belt. He wore a watch and a silver cuff on his right wrist and carried a portfolio. He waved at himself. “I dress casual for travel,” he pointed at the hardware, “but I’m on call.”
“Guns don’t bother me.”
“What shall I call you today?”
“Birdie.”
His smile was quick and wide. “Call me Ron. This is a big house. Live here alone?”
“Mostly. Would you like coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am, I mean, Birdie.”
As they neared the plot of grass staked off with yellow crime scene tape she smelled damp grass with a twinge of iron and cordite and something sickly sweet. Ron broke away to take a closer look, disturbing shiny green flies. They buzzed, manic and irritated. “What the hell happened?”
Birdie decided she had no obligation to tell the full story. She shoved her hands into the front pockets of her pants and shrugged. “A man broke into my house. I surprised him and triggered the alarm. He tried to elude police and killed himself instead of allowing capture.”
“Melodrama. You okay?”
“Not really. Why would someone do that? It makes no sense. Of course, my imagination is going wild.” She leaned back on her heels. “Mind if we not talk about it?”
“I can respect that.”
She jerked her head. “Kitchen’s upstairs.”
When they entered the house Ron’s gaze fell immediately to the black wainscoting in the breakfast nook. “It’s hideous.” His eyes grew round with disbelief. “I can’t believe I said that out loud. I’m so sorry.”
Birdie puffed out a grunt of surprise at the tactless remark that morphed into a chuckle. She forced it to the back of her throat, but it spat back out in a surprising laugh. Ron’s face went blank with confusion. The laugh grew in strength and she snorted, which caused her to laugh harder. She knew it was an inappropriate response to an unfiltered remark, but she couldn’t help herself. With each second of laughter Birdie felt a vapor evaporating from her skin—the tonnage of grief lightening its load.
She sat in one of her grandmother’s antique chairs to compose herself. Ron had a look of what the hell did I do?
“Nothing like a little levity to break the ice,” she said.
Ron gave a tepid nod.
“Oh, yes, coffee.” Birdie hopped up and waved Ron to sit. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t like the black either.”
Ron sat and stretched out long legs and crossed his ankles. While she made coffee she checked out the reflection in the sink window. Birdie watched Ron’s eyes clock her. Then he inspected the cabinetry, the appliances, the antique mirror. His eyes settled on a cardboard crate of fruits and vegetables on the counter. He got up and examined the contents.
“You’re a whole foods eater?” he said in a hopeful tone.
“No.”
“Then why would you have this box of goodies?”
“My version of goodies is cupcakes and cookies.”
He chuckled. “As it is to most people. Why have it then? It’s a lot of food.”
“My cousin, Madi, is under the mistaken impression that I’ve developed an eating disorder since I stopped drinking.” She opened a cabinet and pulled out two cups. “I’ve been dropping pounds and the busybody in my family is worried. She’s a vegan and that box is her way to get me to cross over to the dark side. She has a box del
ivered every Friday from an organic co-op. Sad thing is, it goes to waste, but she refuses to suspend the delivery. And don’t ask me why losing weight has anything to do with fruits and vegetables, because I don’t understand her way of thinking.”
“You’re what? Five-eight? One-twenty?”
“Exactly right. Madi’s thinner than me so where she gets off thinking I’m skinny is beyond my logic. I think she’s just used to seeing me as a puffed-up alcoholic.”
“You look very healthy,” said Hughes, leaning against the stove.
“Thank you. How do you like your coffee?”
“Black, please.”
She poured and handed him the cup. “What is a whole foods eater?”
“I try to eat only what nature provides, not what man makes.”
“Sounds boring. What about meat and bread?”
“Grilled steak, a fat piece of fish, chicken—good stuff. Certain breads are okay.”
Birdie poured herself a cup and sat down at the bar. She pointed at the portfolio. “Where do we begin?”
His face couldn’t conceal the disappointment of getting to the business. He slid the portfolio off the bar onto the countertop. “I have an update on the tox screens. The alcohol came up negative. Marijuana positive. Do you know what 6-acetylmorphine is?”
“Sounds serious.”
“It’s the base compound of most natural and synthetic opiates, such as codeine, heroin, methadone, or morphine. The lab did an immunoassay, which is a preliminary opiate test. Matt tested positive, which confirms the conclusion that he took an overdose of the methadone.”
“Could it have been one of the other opiates you mentioned?”
“Sure, but only remnants of methadone were found in the house. I’d like to get more background, but do we have to discuss it now? I was enjoying talking with you.”
“Fine. Hang out here long enough and you’ll get to meet Matt’s brother. He’s a priest.”
“I met Frank when he came for the body.”
“I’d forgotten.”
“Are you hungry?” said Ron. “Would you like to grab a bite?”