by Terri Nolan
“The old woman’s continual complaint was that her husband was cheating with the hussy down the street. We never bought it. I mean, come on, the guy could barely walk. That day we rolled out to their house expecting the same ol’ shit. Separating them, calming them down, acting like marriage therapists. Only this time, the husband’s unconscious on the floor, bleeding from the head. The wife had hit him with a glass candy dish. Butterscotch nibs were scattered all over the house. She said she finally had proof of his cheating.
“Her proof was a flipbook of photographs she found in her husband’s underwear drawer,” continued Arthur. “They depicted the geriatric woman down the street. She’s sitting on the edge of a bed, wearing a lacy nightgown, legs spread apart, old lady pussy in full view, sagging skin, and straggly white hair.”
“Eeeewwww,” said the collective at the table.
“They got worse,” said Arthur. “I’m giving you the edited visuals. Anyway, the neighbor hussy took the photos herself by setting the camera on a tripod with a shutter cable release in her hand. She clicked a photo every few seconds and put them together in book form. The next few show a bald head covered in age spots between her legs. Then a wrinkled, saggy ass and then an old man on top of her. The last one shows the husband with a toothless grin, placid penis, and a thumbs-up. Sure shit, he had been cheating.
“Matt and I had a hard time not laughing. It was disgusting and extremely funny at the same time. Geriatric porn. Turns out that when the wife took her afternoon nap the husband would take his walker and shuffle down the alley to the hussy’s house for a daily screw.”
Birdie couldn’t help giggling along with the rest of the family. Street cops always had the best stories.
“What happened to the couple?” said Nora.
“The wife had given her husband a fatal wound. He never regained consciousness and died. The DA was trying to figure out what to do with a ninety-something murdereress when she died in her sleep a few days later.”
“Maybe the hussy down the street drugged her in retribution,” said Birdie.
“Or maybe she loved the scoundrel after all and died of a broken heart,” added Thom.
“Or maybe she just died,” said Arthur. “Anyway, Matt and I were talking about it a few weeks later when he casually mentioned something about that day I had forgotten. The photos the wife confiscated from her husband were all date stamped the day the old man died. Apparently, the neighbor lady had never set the camera’s date correctly.”
“It got you thinking about the fishing photos,” said Birdie.
“Exactly. When a battery is removed for charging, the camera’s settings have to be reset. What if the date were purposely reset on the McFarland camera for a particular event and then changed back? Easy enough to do. What if they had actually been fishing the day before? Turns out, they had. McFarland charged the launch fee and there was a receipt.”
Birdie shook her finger. “I know where you’re going with this. They had gone the day before. Witnesses put the two of them together at Lake Castaic all the time. Gerard and McFarland were regulars. Sometimes they’d go two days in a row. But when the cops come ’round months later asking questions the exact date is fuzzy because—“hey, they’re here all the time”—they could’ve been here one day or the next or both.”
“Precisely,” continued Arthur. “Sanchez planned Paige Street in a hurry and Gerard would need to set up a quick alibi—no time for complication. I began to think that McFarland helped Gerard create one. He changed the camera’s date.”
“The dated receipts and photos were irrefutable proof that McFarland and Gerard were at Lake Castaic the day of Paige Street,” said Birdie. “There were two complete sets from both days. But that wasn’t unusual behavior for them. There was also McFarland’s sworn statement.”
“Max was never my favorite person,” said Maggie, “but I doubt he’d help create an alibi for Gerard for a two-eleven.”
“Agreed,” said Arthur. “But what if he thought Gerard was engaged in some other way during Paige Street? Like an affair? Best friends cover for each other. I do for you, you do for me.”
Thom dropped his fork and looked up at Birdie. She knew he thought of Karen Wilcox covering for Anne’s affair.
“McFarland had a well-known reputation as a lady’s man,” said Arthur. “Gerard had probably been his cover story many times—the drinking buddy that never was. So when the time came to return the favor, McFarland was only too willing to arrange for his buddy to have an entire day with his amour.” Arthur spread out his hands. Done.
“Gerard never had affairs,” said Maggie.
“But McFarland wouldn’t know for certain. Gerard could tell him anything and it’d be taken at face value. They were best friends.”
“How did you prove it?” said Birdie.
“That’s where I came in,” said Thom, wiping his mouth. “Arthur told me what he thought our uncle had done. There was no way we could approach Max or his wife without raising suspicion. Sanchez was dead. And we sure as hell didn’t want Gerard to know, just in case Arthur was wrong. So we waited and watched. One night we followed Gerard to a bar where he met up with Soto and some unknown guy. Soto stayed behind in the bar, but Gerard and Unknown took off in another vehicle. Unknown drove. We followed them to a flower warehouse. They put on masks and gloves and backpacks and went in packing shotguns. Just like at Paige Street. Not more than five minutes later they came out—just strolled, all casual—carrying a satchel between them. They got into a different car and drove away. Just then, the building began to burn.”
“Wow,” said Birdie, “I can’t use any of this.”
Maggie shot her daughter a warning that said, not funny.
“Turns out, the flower business was a front for drug smugglers,” said Thom.
“I remember that one,” said Louis. “The fire department found a cut lab. Word on the street was that the smugglers were looking for their stolen cash and put a bounty on the thieves who burned their product.”
“That was the Blue Bandits MO,” said Birdie. “They stole cash and destroyed product. So … since we’re confessing … anyone know where the Paige Street money went? Or any of the drug or blackmail money? I mean, it’s all coming out. Might as well fess up.”
Silence at the table.
“Seriously? No one? Mom?”
“No,” said Maggie. “We lived on our paychecks. There was never a slush fund.”
“Gerard didn’t give any clue in any of his depos or letters?” said Arthur.
“None,” said Birdie. “What about a reason? Why did Gerard allow himself to get involved with Soto? What blackmail did he have that would compel Gerard to get involved in Paige Street?”
“We’ve already been over this,” said Louis. “The answer is the same as before when you asked us about the article. That hasn’t changed.”
“I was hoping that someone had a change of heart and decided to share.”
“There wasn’t any blackmail,” said Maggie. “I think it was the thrill. He became an administrator and rode a desk. He probably missed the adrenalin rush.”
“He loved the badge,” said Arthur. “He always talked to me and Matt about honoring it.”
“Yet, he dishonored it,” said Louis.
“True,” said Maggie. “But, he never did anything illegal while on duty. He expressly stated that in his letters.”
“It’s irrelevant,” said Thom. “Bottom line? He lost faith in himself and disparaged the job.”
“Louis?” said Birdie. “Was there some reason two eighteen-year-old Irish boys decided to immigrate to the West Coast when there was family already established on the East Coast?”
“Yes,” said Louis. “We met these two.” He pointed at Nora and Maggie.
“You weren’t running from the Emerald Isle to hide from something?”
&nbs
p; Louis slapped his fist on the table. “I already said no. No means no.”
“Alright!” Birdie put up her hands.
“Sometimes you just don’t know when to stop. Spoiled only child.”
Now all eyes trained on Birdie. “Okay! I said I’m sorry.” She crossed her arms to keep her hands from shaking. “But there’s something we can’t forget.” A quiet groan rose from the table. “Gerard participated. He made money. And yet, there’s no evidence of his ill-got income? Where’d it go? If he gave it away, who got it? Also, there’s a new department taskforce. A new FBI investigation. The Janko five are jockeying for deals. Not a single one of us in this kitchen is going to be spared the warrant swoop for our computers, our financial statements, and anything else the Feds deem relevant in their search for the money.”
“She’s right,” said Thom. “It’ll be worse this time around.”
“Alejo feels cheated,” added Arthur. “He’ll want in on the action because he thinks the Irish Mob is dirty and he won’t stop until he convicts someone. He may even make shit up or engage the Whelans to turn against us.”
“Alejo couldn’t manufacture evidence last time,” said Thom. “He can’t do it now. Who really needs to worry is the Soto family. He was the alpha.”
“And Frank Senior wouldn’t turn on us,” said Louis. “We’ve had conversations about that very topic. Also … the families will soon be united by law.”
“What are you saying?” said Nora, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Patrick asked for my permission to marry Madi.” Patrick being the youngest of the Whelan boys, a police officer with the LAPD who worked at Hollywood Division.
Nora and Maggie screeched with excitement. The guys rolled their eyes. Birdie couldn’t help but feel jealous. The Whelan and Keane clans had always thought it’d be she and Matt to join the families. That dream died along with Matt.
“Madi married?” snorted Birdie, the killjoy attitude seeping through.
“We can’t say a word,” said Nora. “We won’t take away her moment when she makes the announcement.”
“We all know how to keep a secret,” said Thom.
“You just have to be told it’s a secret,” added Birdie.
Thom tapped his watch. “Let’s move on. There are other items on the agenda. I’m in deep shit and a killer might escape justice because of me.”
twenty-four
Anticipating a heavy night, Ron Hughes planned ahead and parked the Audi up the hill near the youth club. A brisk walk afterward would clear his head a bit before the thirty-five minute drive home. He wisely parked the car facing downhill. An easy glide and three right turns would put him on the southbound I-5. Simple maneuvers when impaired by liquor.
The coastal marine layer never burned off today. The ocean mist enshrouded the houses on the hill, pressed down on the baseball field. The wet, heavy air felt good on his skin as he walked to the bar.
He’d rather be home between cool sheets. French doors open, the Pacific air drifting into the bedroom, billowing the sheers. Birdie’s warm body spooned with his. Ron wanted to see his friend, Noa, but the pending report put him on edge.
After the big fight with Birdie, it took two days to aggregate his emotions before he could think clearly and another half day of indecision before calling Noa. Planning wartime ops was easy in comparison. Then the long, agonizing wait. Nearly a month. And now he was about to know exactly what she’d been up to.
Mulligan’s was a borderline dive bar in a place the locals called “the alley” in San Clemente—a funky, light-industrial area of surfboard shapers and consignment stores. Ron pushed through the door at the back to meet his buddy at a semi-quiet booth away from the baseball game on the big screens.
A native Hawaiian, Noa grew up on fresh fruits and the sea. At six-five he was two inches taller than Ron and had sinew that no sane man should challenge. It was he who convinced Ron into eating the whole foods way. It was he who continually gave Ron shit about the cigarettes he smoked. And it was Ron who Noa trusted more than any person alive.
“My brother! Great to see you,” said Noa, clutching Ron in a battle hug. “It’s been far too long. Jesus, I’ve missed you.”
“Roger that,” said Ron, pressing his forehead against his friend’s. “It’s hard to get together over a beer when you live in D.C.”
“Yeah. I miss the beach. Hey, where’s Louise? This place is dog friendly.”
“She’d rather be on soft leather instead of hard floor.”
“Don’t blame her. Come on, sit. I’ve waited to order.”
As they eased into the booth, Ron swept his eyes around the bar. Not many patrons on a Monday night—the Angels vs. Athletics not important enough to draw a crowd.
“How’s life in Kalorama?”
“Oh, brother, what’s not to like? Kick-ass estates, walls, and bored, rich women.”
“Code for privacy. Still going for the marrieds?”
“Duh. The ones with the kids are the best ’cause they have stricter schedules. Play dates and off home.”
“You’re a dog.”
“Never claimed to be otherwise.”
The server arrived, hand poised over an order pad. “You need menus?”
“We don’t eat bar shit,” said Noa. “Bring a bottle of Peligroso Anejo. Two glasses.”
She hesitated.
“It’d take a lot more than that to slam us on our asses,” said Ron.
“We’re tall, tough men,” added Noa.
“Looks like you guys are outta Pendleton. Don’t pull no jarhead bullshit.”
“Don’t worry, those days are behind us,” said Ron.
“It’s okay, darling,” said Noa. “We’re just frisky because we haven’t seen each other for a while.”
After she left Ron said, “How long you in town?”
“’Bout a week. Got some legit business, a little freelance, then I’ll jet home.”
Noa meant that literally. He co-owned a private business jet and traveled in and out of executive airport terminals.
“What brings you here? Now?” It was a rhetorical question. Ron already knew.
“Bad news deserves an offline briefing.”
Ron punched the table. “Shit!”
“Sorry, my brother. That gal of yours is way too smart for her own good.”
The manager arrived with a beautiful black bottle and two glasses. “Good evening, gentlemen.” He uncorked the tequila and poured a finger in each glass.
“If his girlfriend were here,” said Noa, “she’d take one whiff and tell us what flavors we’d taste. She’d tell us how it was distilled and aged and what proof. Then she’d take a moment to appreciate the glow.”
“Ah,” said the manager, “a connoisseur.”
“An alcoholic with a refined nose,” said Ron.
“Don’t be pissy,” said Noa.
“I see,” said the manager. “In her absence I can tell you—”
“—sorry, man, not interested,” said Noa.
“Okay …well, it’s strong stuff. I’d feel better if you had some food with this.”
“Bring us a big plate of nachos,” said Ron.
“You got it. Enjoy.” The manager left the bottle.
“Did you forget the rule?” said Noa. “Drinking and eating don’t mix.”
“I’ve no intention of eating. Just pacifying the guy.” Ron raised his glass. “To love.”
Noa raised his. “May it never find me.”
They clinked and said together, “Semper Fi.”
They drained their glasses.
“Damn,” said Ron, shaking off the powerful hit. “Better watch your six. When you least expect it, one of those mamas is going to steal your heart and suddenly you’ll find yourself a stepdad.”
“A fate wor
se than death,” said Noa as he refilled their glasses.
“Quality agave juice is designed for sipping. Enjoy the flavors.”
“A polite way to say you’re not gonna match me.”
“Not at all. But before we get shitfaced we’ve got to do business.”
“Alright,” said Noa, reluctantly. “Here’s my official report … that girl of yours is doing what I’d do. She’s hacking her way through databases.”
“She can do that?”
“And then some. She has legitimate subscriptions to the same databases that law enforcement uses. It appears she’s had them for years. She probably hacked her way in to obtain pay-for-use. Call it pseudo legal. She also gained access to some government servers that even law enforcement can’t use without paper.”
The server placed two side plates and set-ups on the table.
“What’s she looking for?” said Ron.
“You told me that Matt barely survived a shooting incident that was a hit.”
“Right. He started planning his own death. Got a new identity and disappeared so the cop gang wouldn’t come looking for him.”
“Under what name?”
“He never said.”
“Precisely. See, Birdie would need a name to find him. Then she’d need to match the name to his face. Without that basic information she used the next best thing. Application dates. That’s what she used to frame her queries.”
“Explain.”
“What do you need to exist in America? A social security number and government-issued ID like a driver’s license. Also, a passport would come in handy. She mined state and federal databases for new applications of those three items.”
“To get those documents you’d need a birth certificate.”
“He was a cop. He probably had knowledge of six ID rings in his policing area alone. Of those, he probably had personal contact with two. He could obtain a birth certificate with an official seal and everything. But here’s a big but. The guy he dealt with would know. Matt’s funeral was big news. He couldn’t afford a loose end. But he could use a birth certificate he had easy access to. His sister’s.”