by Terri Nolan
Birdie remembered clear as a bell, too. Her exact words to Ron were, ‘Why can’t you understand how this makes me feel?’ She sought his compassion on the topic of Matt Whelan. She still did. And she’d have to have it soon.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
Thom gave her a sideways look. “Alright. Let’s move on then. Why have you been pacing our conversation? Avoiding the rest of your news?”
“I sensed you needed a bit more time to deal with the Anne angst.”
Thom dropped his head. “Fair enough, but the day is passing and there’s a lot I still need to do.”
“The meeting. Did the case get hot?”
“Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking. I’m off.”
“Off the case? That’s good isn’t it? That’s what you wanted.”
“I did, but Craig pulled me off because a complaint of misconduct has been filed.”
“Wasn’t he the one that said the decision to keep you on came from upstairs? That blows his story. If they could keep you on for an IA, they can keep you on for a complaint. I mean, aren’t they commonplace?”
“For street cops with constant contact with the public. But not in my position.”
“What is the complaint about? Who made it?”
“Dunno. I’ll be able to tell by the line of questioning once the assigned internal affairs hack interviews me.”
“Is it procedure to take someone off an active case before a proper investigation?”
“Depends. In a high-profile case like mine, I might pull me off, too. Craig thinks my involvement would be a distraction.”
“What do you do now?”
“Right now we jet.” Thom bussed their table, filled his soda cup with water. As they walked back toward the PAB he said, “I’m invested in this case. The way we see it, the killer will strike again on Sunday.”
“Why Sunday?”
“Because all his kills took place on Sunday. One every week for three weeks then there was a four-week break before the Lawrence murders. We believe he’ll strike again on Sunday. That gives us four plus days. I’ve been thinking about your plan of helping me. You know, launder the information? Make it like original discovery?”
“You want help after all?”
“I do. Craig is going to assign me menial duty. Desk shit. But I can still help … I mean, we can help, but not if I’m at my desk. When we get back I’m going straight to HR and put in for personal time. I have loads saved up. I need you to go back to the Bird House and copy all the files. Can you do that for me?”
“Easy.”
“Seymour or George or maybe both won’t wait for me to deliver the files. They’ll come to me. So copy and put the pages back exact. George and I assembled the book together. He’ll know if it’s different. Can you scan and color copy photographs and burn discs?”
“All that. What happens if they arrive before I’m done?”
“Stall. Say you won’t give them anything without my approval. Make them wait. Under no circumstance let them see the dry erase board. How are you with forgery?”
“Like documents or signatures?”
“The board needs to be re-worked anyway now that I’ve got additional notes. It has to appear like I’ve done the writing.”
“I can identify your writing, but for something like that, I’ll need exemplars. You have something of significant length that is hand-written?”
“My original case notes and drawings. They’re on white sheet paper in the murder book.”
“Okay. I have my assignment. Now yours. You need to be back at my house no later than five. We have a dinner date.”
thirty-eight
Birdie opened the Judas hole on her front door. George stood on the stoop.
“Hello, George,” she said.
“Hi, Birdie. Thom here?”
She opened the door. “Come on in.”
George stepped into the small entry and clocked Birdie’s denim pant suit.
“You look nice,” said George. “Very seventies with the flare legs.” He twirled her around. “Flat front, zipper in the back, very slenderizing.” He tugged at the sleeve. “The miracle of Lycra. Going out?”
“I have a dinner interview tonight. Thom’s my date.”
“Is he here?” he repeated.
“I expect him soon. Come on up.”
“By chance you have coffee?”
“You know me, there’s always fresh brew in my house.”
“I do know you,” he said with a hint of lascivious.
“You flirting?”
George bit his lower lip. “Is it off limits?”
“You know better.”
George followed Birdie up the curving mahogany stairway; past the collection of crucifixes, the niches with religious artifacts. At the second-floor landing he rubbed the head of the marble statue of St. Joseph. They continued past the office with the closed tapestry entrance and the sound of machinery.
“What’s going on in there?” said George.
“Printing some documents.”
They continued to the kitchen. Birdie pulled out a bar stool. “Sit.”
“Where’s Thom?”
“Don’t know.” Birdie opened a glass cabinet door and pulled out a small porcelain cup and saucer. “We had lunch together and separated afterward.”
“He tell you what happened?”
Birdie poured the coffee and added one cube of sugar. She swirled it gently with a spoon and set it down in front of George.
“Yes. It sucks.”
“Damn straight. Thom’s my partner. We have a rhythm. Then we’re suddenly yanked apart and I have to work with that asshole Seymour. I don’t like it.”
“Where’s Seymour now?”
“Getting food. We never had time for lunch and we’re between interviews. I’m here to pick up the murder book and the Deats file.”
“Thom will want to know what’s going on with the case.”
“I know. I’ll call him later.”
George blew on the coffee. “I need the files.”
“You’ll have to wait for Thom.”
“Don’t play with me. You’re copying the files right now.”
“How can I? I’m in the kitchen with you. Speaking of which …” She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a black container with a sticker on the lid. She gave it to George. “I’m eating out tonight. This will be better than anything Seymour picks up.”
George read the label. “Tuesday dinner. Roast turkey with fresh cranberry salsa, baby red potatoes, haricot verts with thyme, warm baby greens and spinach wilt. Remove lid, remove greens, microwave two minutes. Add greens and cook thirty seconds. Sounds delicious. You need the container back?”
“No, but don’t throw it away. It’s reusable.”
George drained the coffee in one large gulp.
Always the same, thought Birdie.
“Thank you for the coffee. The dinner. Now give me the book.”
Birdie crossed her arms. “Wait for Thom.”
George pirouetted. Headed out of the kitchen and tuned left toward the office.
“George,” said Birdie following him. “You best respect my space.”
“Birdie, I’m trying to catch a serial killer. I don’t have the time.” He thrust aside the tapestry and strode into her office uninvited.
“You just crossed a line, George Silva.”
George stopped dead in his tracks and pointed at the altar. “That new?”
Birdie stepped around him and picked up the investigative material. She thrust it at him. “Get out.”
“Sorry, Birdie … just one more thing.” He removed a few papers from the printer’s catch and flipped them over. He knit his brows in confusion.
“Not what you expected? No
w get out before I really get mad.”
“Birdie … I thought … shit, I’m sorry. Real sorry. Tell Thom I’ll see him later.”
A few moments later Thom emerged from the supply closet holding the file copies and an empty binder. “That was close. Poor George, he’ll be apologizing for a week. We shouldn’t have fun at his expense. He’s going to hate working with Seymour.”
“Too bad you couldn’t have seen the look on his face. You get the last of it?”
“Everything. Ask about the interviews?”
“Didn’t have time. He did say they were ‘between.’”
“Sounds right.” Thom emptied his arms on the altar. “Come on, we need to prepare for dinner. Bring the gun from the desk.”
_____
Birdie and Thom stood in front of the gated weapons locker in the garage.
“You’re being paranoid,” said Birdie, punching in the passcode.
“Who’s paranoid? You’ve got more shit in this thing than me, Da, Aiden, and Arthur put together. And we’re on the job. Besides, don’t you remember the last time you met a fan?”
“He was a stalker.” She opened the gate.
“Precisely. And that’s how you got the permit. And now a serial killer may have just invited you to dinner.”
“You’re taking the dead fish comment too seriously. In the context of the conversation it was an appropriate thing to say.”
Thom rolled his eyes. “And you’re not taking it seriously enough. You said he gave an exercised performance on that job site. Said he hated Dominic.”
“I said ‘enthusiasm’ and I don’t recall the word hate.”
“You know how I feel about coincidence. Let’s plan for the worst, expect the best.” He hefted the Sig from Birdie’s desk. “Have anything smaller? You might get separated from your purse.” Thom vigorously shook his head. “Scratch that. You’re not taking a purse.”
Birdie pointed. Thom pulled open the top drawer. A selection of antique fist pistols and palm-squeezers lay on deep red velvet. “I inherited those from Matt.”
“Ever shoot ’em?”
“Too afraid they’ll blow up in my hand.”
“Smart.”
“Here, let me.” Birdie moved in and opened the second, deeper drawer. She pulled out a lockbox and slammed it on the counter, dialed in the combo, and opened it up.
“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” said Thom. “You sure like your Sigs.”
“It’s not legal in California.”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” said Thom, winking.
Birdie picked up the black pistol and palmed it. “Less than nineteen ounces fully loaded. Seven rounds. Double-action trigger with a ten-pound pull. Three-eighty. Fixed barrel blowback.”
“Shorter than the nine-mil. Will stop a man up close, shit for distance. Got a holster?”
In the end, Birdie carried the pistol on her ankle, her smartphone in its holder attached to her waistband at the small of her back, and a six-inch slim knife on the left side of her rib cage. Car key tucked into her bra. That left her hands free for nothing more than a steno pad and pen which could be easily abandoned.
Thom wore his usual BUG in an ankle holster, Birdie’s Sig P239 in the rig under his left arm, a switchblade in the front pocket of his jeans, and his personal cell also at his back.
The plan was to walk in heavily armed, but not appear so.
Keep the hosts at ease.
After all, it was just dinner and an interview.
Oh, and they removed the license plates from Birdie’s car.
thirty-nine
Birdie pulled over to the curb.
“Are you sure?” said Thom, looking around suspiciously.
They were in front of a five-story brick building that appeared abandoned. A row of shuttered warehouses were on the north side of the street, the 10 freeway behind the building on the south and, east and west, a succession of condemned buildings, empty lots, rental garages, and lots of trash, weeds, and broken bottles.
“I’ve always known this as the Biscuit Building,” said Birdie, confused. “But I’ve only seen it from the freeway above.”
She looked past Thom at the dark building. It sat almost in the middle of a massive asphalt lot with faded reminders of white lines and broken tire bumpers.
“The weeds are doing well,” she said. “I must get the name of their gardener.”
Thom chuckled. “This isn’t a home. It’s the backlot of a horror film.”
“The chain-link fencing surrounding the joint a dead giveaway?”
“Maybe the house is full of zombies.”
“Or the ghosts of long-dead bakers.”
The forced humor didn’t rid Birdie of the dread. Her antennae were vibrating. Matt once told her to never be afraid to offend, especially if you feel the prick of danger. “Better to get the hell away and, if need be, apologize later. Don’t ever risk safety for politeness.” Those words came to her now.
“There’s no lighting other than ambient from the freeway. No sign that people live here. And I’m getting bad vibes. I think we should bounce.”
“I don’t have the power of authority,” said Thom.
“You’re a licensed law enforcement professional with the state of California, which means you’re a cop twenty-four-seven.”
“In regard to this case, this instance, all I can hope to accomplish is a survey.”
“He owns two properties where people were murdered in the same manner. What does that tell you?”
“That he owns two properties. Owning houses or not liking someone isn’t just cause. But I’ve been invited into his home. If I see something, I take action. These golden opportunities are rare.”
_____
Todd toggled the camera. He could only see the passenger. A man.
“It looks like they’re deciding what to do,” he said.
“Turn on lights!” said Iris.
“No. I want to see if she remains motivated.”
_____
The fingers on Birdie’s right hand twittered.
“Okay,” said Thom reluctantly. “We can go.”
Birdie eased off the brake and pulled forward to the corner.
“Is that a frontage road?” said Thom. “Let’s just see where it goes.”
Birdie turned right. The pavement smoothed out, felt maintained under the tires. She followed the single lane street to a turnabout in the shadow of the freeway. She was about to make a U-turn when a dimly lit sign caught her attention. DELIVERIES. Next to the sign was a modern security panel.
“I’ll check it out,” said Thom. He swiveled out of the car, left the door open.
_____
“Damn, no plate,” said Todd.
“Zoom in car,” said Iris. “What see?”
“Nothing. Just hands on a steering wheel drumming to music. Basic car. Nothing on the dash, nothing on the seat.”
_____
Thom pressed a button marked “assistance.”
The gate electronically unlocked and slowly rolled open. A row of driveway lights clicked on, illuminating the way forward.
“Your choice,” said Thom.
Todd Moysychyn had once yelled at her so ferociously that spittle wet his chin.
But that was nothing compared to this: a dark and formidable building where they were the away team. At a disadvantage.
Her stomach flipped. Did she really think Todd was a methodical killer? Was this visit really necessary? One truth to the journalism profession is that great stories often come at great risk—that’s how she earned the Pulitzer—why else did she go up thirty floors on a tower with a swift wind and no walls? Besides, she had a cop at her side and they were heavily armed.
“Let’s go in,” she decided.
“That’s my Bird. So … leave the car outside the gate and walk in?”
“If we have to leave this haunted manse in a hurry I doubt you could scale that fence. Besides, this car is built Ford tough. With enough speed it’ll bust down the fence.”
Thom laughed and got back in. “Okay, Miss Spokeswoman, been drinking from Anne’s Kool-Aid container?”
“I need a story.”
“I need a survey.”
“Forward then.”
Birdie followed the runway-like lights to the end. At the southeast corner were five loading docks too low for modern trucks. Too high for regular automobiles. On two, metal ramps were retrofitted to allow vehicular access to the warehouse. Birdie made a three-point turn and parked the Taurus near the perimeter fence facing the exit.
A mercury-vapor light cast a yellowish glow over a doublewide door. Moysychyn sat on the stoop smoking.
“And there’s our host,” said Birdie, removing the press credentials from the visor. She unhooked the pass from the lanyard and clipped it to her waistband.
“Help me get one of those butts.”
“Roger that.” She grabbed her steno pad and stabbed a pen into the wire.
“I hope he doesn’t mind that your date is a cop,” said Thom.
_____
Iris moved the toggle and zoomed in on the woman, scanned her up and down. Wondered how she got that strange scar on her face. Hard to tell what kind of build lay under that suit. She moved well. Confident. Had a strength about her. She moved the camera to the man’s face. Nice looking except for the gray hair. Definitely related to the woman. So far her story held.
_____
They walked toward the light.
“You made it.” Moysychyn pumped Birdie’s hand.
Thom swooped his hand out and filched the still-smoldering butt, pinched it out.
“Hello, Mr. Moysychyn,” said Birdie.
“Call me Todd, please.”
“This is my cousin, Thom.”
“Nice to meet you. Welcome.” He gestured inward, closed and locked the door with a retractable key attached to his belt.
Birdie took a deep, silent breath of worry.