by Terri Nolan
“The boxes contained memorabilia, awards, journals, stuff. You know about stuff, don’t you, Detective Seymour?”
“Why did you lie to Nunez? You told him the boxes contained your work.”
Ron’s stoic expression gave no hint of his thoughts.
“An unidentified man who was with Nunez frightened me.” She’d keep Rankin’s presence off the record for now until she figured out what brought him to her home and why he and Thom didn’t acknowledge each other though they had past history. “I had looked at the contents, but didn’t inspect every item thoroughly.” That was true. “There are some rumors going around that Matt was a bad package. I wanted to protect my friend from anything that might disparage his reputation.” Also true. “As it turned out, the contents were benign and of no concern.” Maybe true. Truth was, Birdie really didn’t know. Especially in regards to the last entry.
Seymour scribbled in a portfolio. “Something important enough was in those boxes to bring out a hired jobber. We’d really like a look.”
“The boxes are no longer in my possession.” Birdie was going to have to start keeping track of her lies.
“What did you do with them?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
Morgan sneered. “You’ve interfered with a murder investigation. You’ve lied to an investigator. We can get a warrant for those boxes.”
“Don’t try to intimidate her,” said Ron. “She’s done nothing wrong and has no obligation to talk. She extended a courtesy, return the favor.”
Seymour and Morgan’s sharp glares left no doubt they didn’t like his interference.
“I appreciate Detective Hughes’ chivalry,” said Birdie. “But I didn’t know that Reidy had been murdered. I didn’t know there was going to be an investigation. I am the legal heir to Matt Whelan’s estate, so it’s within my authority to do whatever I wish with his property.”
“Miss Keane …” said Seymour, sighing.
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do.” She crossed her fingers hoping they were bluffing about coming back with paper and she blessed heaven that she had already hidden them. “Can we go back to something? Is there a possibility that Reidy’s death is connected to O’Brien and possibly Matt?”
“How do you mean?” said Seymour.
“Everyone who has had contact with those boxes is dead, including the man who had them the longest.”
Ron interjected. “We’ve ruled out homicide in Mr. Whelan’s death.”
“Undetermined, according to my information,” said Seymour.
“Officially, until the coroner signs off,” said Ron.
“Do you know who killed Reidy?” said Birdie.
“We don’t have conclusive proof of the shooter’s identity. But we have the weapon that killed him. O’Brien used it on himself.”
“A ballistic comparison? Already?” said Birdie, indignant, not believing the fairy tale thrown at her. “How could you have even known to look? O’Brien’s gun was with Wilshire.”
“And you’re able to jump the line and have a tech willing to do a speedy comparison?” said Ron. “Do you have a personal crime lab?”
“I don’t know how things work in San Diego,” said Morgan, “but we have resources.”
“O’Brien might be connected to Reidy with the gun,” said Birdie. “Reidy was connected to Matt as his lawyer. What connects O’Brien to Matt?”
Seymour stood. “Triangular thinking is premature. We don’t know if there’s a connection.”
“And even if there were,” added Ron, “it may not be relevant to what might have occurred between O’Brien and Reidy.”
“That’s right,” said Seymour. He plucked the mug shot off the coffee table and slipped it into his portfolio. “Thank you for your time, Miss Keane. We’ll be in touch.”
Morgan snorted in agreement.
Ron escorted them out.
Birdie’s hands shook with a tight jittering. RHD doesn’t launch an investigation unless the crime is significant. A dead lawyer? A nonviolent break-in? What makes these two events important? How did they connect the gun so soon? It was too convenient. Birdie felt there was a splinter of explanation working its way out. Tiny. Piercing. It was an irritant she couldn’t reach.
Warm hands were on hers. “You’re shaking,” said Ron.
Birdie’s breath snagged the moment she felt his hands holding hers. They were big. Thick-fingered. Hard-working. Strong. Yet gentle as they stilled hers. She liked them and she liked them touching her.
Madi and Patrick’s post-coital chuckles swirled from above. They came bounding down the stairs in drunken ignorance and bliss. Ron quickly dropped Birdie’s hands, a look of interest passing between them.
“Babe,” said Madi to Birdie. “We must consider the possibility that you’ll be photographed tomorrow. What are you wearing to the funeral?”
“The Phillip Lim trench dress.”
“The sheer, pale gray one with the black weaving? Perfect. Wear a flesh-colored sheath underneath and you’ll stand out from the usual funeral black. Wear the silver mantilla for the church and take that webby black hat and Jackie O’s for the graveside.”
“Madi’s been styling me since we were kids,” said Birdie to Ron in response to his expression of perplexity.
The doorbell rang. Madi yelped, “That’s Frank. I’ll get it.”
Birdie whispered to Ron, “No need to tell everyone about Seymour and Morgan’s visit.”
“Roger that.”
eighteen
It hurt to look at Father Frank; he wore Matt’s absence on his face. Four sleepless days gave his usually sharp green eyes a weepy appearance with inky reminders like crushed paper underneath the lower lashes. Frank’s ash hair, salted with gray, was in need of a trim. His mouth taut in a downward pull. He raised his palms over the dining table. “Let us pray.” Birdie placed her hands on her lap. Patrick took Madi’s hand. Ron lowered his head.
“Lord, our beloved Matthew Francis has left us. We experience his loss as a traumatic injury. Please grant us the strength to heal, to take care of our bodies, and our spiritual health. Please forgive us when we strike out against you in our anguish. See us through the good days and the bad. By your grace, please do not let us sink into depression and overindulge in grief. Let us not feel the guilt when we experience the light moments. Please grant us the courage to laugh.
“Lord, when the well-wishers have departed, the food has been eaten, the trash barrels are filled with empty bottles, after the stories have been retold, the photos passed around, please grant us the strength when the loneliness creeps back. Grant us the wisdom to push aside the regrets and second guesses.
“Bless us, oh Lord: Patrick Thomas, Madigan Birdie, Birdie Elizabeth, our new friend, Ronald, and your humble servant Francis Owen Junior, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bountiful hands, so lovingly created by Ronald, through Christ our Lord. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”
“Amen.”
Frank raised his glass. “To friends and fellowship and this wonderful soup.”
Everyone’s interest focused on Ron. Being the newcomer to the table, he answered questions about his career in the Marine Corps with a gracious shorthand that suggested he was uncomfortable being the center of attention. His voice was soft spoken but had a tenor that suggested one used to barking commands or throwing his voice to the back of the room. Birdie became aware of his every gesture. The way the corners of his mouth turned upward when he smiled. The way he swiped his mouth with his napkin. The way he flicked quick glances in Birdie’s direction. The way his hazel eyes seemed to hide behind his lashes. The way he held his spoon ambidextrously in his right hand.
There was an exciting buzz in the dining room, an oblivious distractedness from suffering and grief. Like an exchange of pain for
stories about being the youngest child, the only boy, in a household of women with an absentee father.
“Well, we know where you learned domestic skills,” said Madi, “but it’s peculiar that you entered into such macho professions. First the Marines and then the cop business.”
“No, it’s not,” said Patrick. “He had to swing to the far side to avoid being a swish.”
That made Ron blush and Birdie thought it was cute as hell.
_____
Birdie dried a bowl and stacked it atop another in the cabinet. Patrick maneuvered a hand towel around a fist full of spoons. Stopping the drink and eating the thick, stew-like soup was sobering for Patrick.
“Why do I always get stuck with washing? I’m the one that needs pretty hands,” said Madi.
“Don’t be such a diva,” said Patrick.
“There’s lotion under the sink,” said Birdie. “The good stuff you sent from Italy.”
“Where’d Frank and Ron disappear to?” said Madi.
“The library,” said Birdie. “Ron’s getting background for his report. I need to steal your boyfriend for a few minutes.” She slid her arm around Patrick’s.
“Great,” said Madi. “Leave me slaving away.”
Birdie led Patrick to her office. “I hope you know what you’ve gotten into.”
“Don’t worry ’bout me,” said Patrick. “I know she can be a handful.”
“You won’t be able to tame her.”
“I wouldn’t want to.”
“I’m happy to hear that. Madi’s strong personality is uniquely hers.”
“So, what’s up with Ron? Did he know my brother?”
“He says they met just the one time,” said Birdie. “The photo was taken during a ski trip. Does it bother you that all three men in the photo were either at the scene of Matt’s death or handled his body?”
“Luck of the Irish. If I were to die, I’d like my friends handling me instead of complete strangers. Why does it bother you?”
“I don’t like coincidence.”
“Matt didn’t either, but not everything in life and death can be managed.”
“Speaking of management … I need some information and I need you to keep our conversation private. What can you tell me about Theodore Rankin?”
“Chief Rankin?” Patrick raised an eyebrow. “He’s more politician than cop. Why are you asking?”
“He was here last night. After the break-in. He was here when the dude killed himself, too. He seemed extremely interested in what had happened.”
Patrick shrugged. “Wilshire is one of his divisions. You’re the daughter of one of his captains. We look out for our own.”
“He wasn’t wearing a badge and he wouldn’t identify himself.”
“Don’t take that personal, he’s an arrogant ass. What say Gerard?”
“Rankin had gone by the time Dad got here.” Until she figured out what was what between Thom and Rankin, she’d rather keep the incident quiet. “Forget I asked. Please.”
“Consider it forgotten.”
“About Emmett … why weren’t he and Matt getting along?”
“That’s a can of worms.”
“Tell me everything.”
“E was a wee bastard. Too much like the old man. He’d bully Matt. Call him sissy, homo, weakling. He’d trip Matt, break his toys, spread rumors at school. Once, Matt got a beautiful new baseball mitt for his birthday and E shredded it with a razor blade. Dad allowed his boys to scrape and shove our way through childhood. But after the mitt episode, Mom had had enough of E’s meanness and persuaded Dad to intervene. His response was to beat the shit out of E for picking on Matt and to beat Matt for not fighting back. After that, Matt became extremely competitive when it came to E. He had to get better grades, date the cuter girls, shoot better, run faster, study harder.”
Matt’s early box was full of childhood memories. Birdie wondered if his rough relationship with Emmett was the catalyst for his unwavering order. Had he been forced to box up the precious, the good, and lock it away to keep it hidden and safe? She imagined him sneaking into a dark corner of the attic to spend time with the things that gave him a sense of pride or comfort. These thoughts made her sad.
“They settled into a truce after E married Eileen,” continued Patrick. “Then Matt married Linda and all the old shit surfaced. E once had a thing for Linda but couldn’t close the deal. Matt did. And what really burned E’s hide was that—from his perspective—Matt practically threw his marriage away after he met you. E called Matt a pedophile and cradle robber. It was apparent to anyone with a pulse to see how you felt about Matt. Matt tried to hide his feelings about falling for a teenager. E’s constant belittling and name calling just made it worse. The truth is Matt worked harder at making his marriage work. He went to counseling. Took Linda to a marriage encounter. In the end, it was Linda who walked away.”
“I had no idea,” said Birdie.
“Matt’s emotional downfall was his problem not yours. He protected you with a fierce desire to keep you from blame.”
But she wasn’t blameless. Birdie was an impetuous teenager. Cocksure and aggressive. When she was sixteen she surprised Matt with an open-mouth kiss. His return kiss was unrepentant. For a few seconds anyway. Afterward, she scolded him for wrecking her. How could she date boys her own age when she felt the power of a real man? “I know you’re married and it’d be wrong,” she had said, “but I want to be your girlfriend.” She saw the flash of consideration cross his face, but he told her no. It was a few months before she saw him again. For her part, she was encouraged. Matt wanted her, and yet, he couldn’t have her, which made him want her more. His absence was proof of his desire—he had to stay away because of the temptation.
“What’s the prevailing gossip about why we never got together?”
“I got a sense that Matt was embarrassed from carrying around the shame for so long, but he told me it was a complicated issue and he refused to elaborate.”
She wondered if years of guilt made it complicated. Or was it the secret thing? But they had gotten off track. “Did Matt have problems with the other brothers?”
“Just E. Eventually, they settled into a neutral existence.”
“Do you have problems with Emmett?”
“We get along fine.”
Childhood was difficult enough in a strict and traditional household without the added burden of a brother’s hatred. Birdie became dispirited to hear Matt had such a hard time and wondered why she didn’t read much about their relationship in his journals. Then again, she’d sought specifics about herself. She read tidbits out of sequence and context. At least now she knew why she had a sixth sense that Emmett didn’t like her.
“I think I know why you’ve asked,” said Patrick. “Matt left E out of his will and you’re wondering why.”
“Exactly.”
“Matt got the last word. Good for him. Whatever you do, don’t give Emmett anything.”
“Is he going to ask?”
“Probably.”
_____
Birdie entered the library. “Madi and Patrick have gone. Ron, they say thanks for the excellent soup. Frank, they’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Come in,” said Frank.
The curtains were open and the city lights stretched farther than usual, twinkled brighter in the rain-washed clean air. Frank sat in his favorite wingback chair; the one that allowed him to gaze at the city view and see the rest of the room. The advantage spot. He may be a priest, but he learned a thing or two from his cop father. “I think we’ve picked apart my brother’s brain thoroughly enough to fill three files of background.”
Ron nodded his head in agreement.
Frank yawned. “I must get back. Tomorrow will be a busy day. Bird, I invited Ron to the funeral. He said he was already scheduled to attend. Y
ou both may ride to the cemetery from the church in one of the family limos if you like.”
“I find limos uncomfortable,” said Birdie. “I’ll drive myself.”
“You have a suspended license,” said Ron. “I’ll be happy to escort you.”
“What clothes will he be buried in?” said Birdie.
“His Class A,” said Frank. “The department will have a large presence.”
“Who’s the celebrant?”
“Me.”
“What?”
“Why are you surprised? He’s my earthly brother, and I can care for his soul better than Father Gabriel or Ignacio.”
“Competition even in priesthood.”
Frank snorted in dismissal. “Ron, I must have a private moment with Bird. Do you mind?”
Ron excused himself and closed the library door. Birdie sat in the vacated warm seat.
“I want you to invite Ron to stay the night.” There was earnestness in his voice. “I inquired and he said he hadn’t yet made arrangements so I know he’d be amenable. I know, Bird, you’re going to say he’s a stranger and you hardly know him, but he won’t let harm come to you. Let a grieving priest rest his eyes in peace knowing you’ll be safe.”
“I don’t need a man to protect me. John O’Brien, that was the intruder’s name, didn’t break into my house to hurt me, and he had ample opportunity. It’s over. Please don’t worry.”
Frank was too tired to even attempt to disguise his concern. She could see it in his face. It was clear in the way his eye twitched and the pleading expression. A shiver pricked her arms. “Frank? What are you afraid of? What do I need to know?”
He lowered his head and shook it vigorously. “For once, will you please just acquiesce without argument!” he said sharply.
“Okay. I’ll invite him. But don’t be mad if he declines the offer.”
“He won’t. I’m not blind to the way you two look at each other.”
“Are you setting me up?” Birdie teased, trying to lighten the mood.
“Certainly not.” He stood. “I really must go now. Thank you for a fine afternoon. Dominus vobiscum.”