by Terri Nolan
“There was a dead goldfish in the toilet,” said Thom.
“Not just dead,” inserted Birdie. “Frozen. Still cold to the touch.” We believe Iris put it there as she walked past the bathroom to get us. She had opportunity.”
“Todd likes to paint,” said Thom. “He’s a freak. He keeps fish and when they die he grinds them up and uses the … whatever you’d call it in his paintings.”
“He told me he didn’t like dead fish,” said Birdie. “The utilization of recycling dead fish is his way of respecting them.”
“That’s sick,” said Anita.
“Agreed,” said Thom.
“And this is where Iris piqued our interest,” said Birdie. “She is the only one who had the opportunity to put the frozen fish in the toilet. It was like a calling card.”
“Also, Iris was fascinated with Elizabeth. Couldn’t take her eyes off her—”
“—yet when I caught hers, she averted them. After dinner while Todd and I were talking, Thom filched two photos from their refrigerator.” Birdie removed one sheet of the newspaper from the dry erase board. “This one was taken the day they were married at city hall. Her legal name is Li Sū. This is her as a schoolgirl.”
Anita peered at the photos. “Okay. Where are we going?”
“It’s coming,” said Thom. “Without the big picture, it won’t make sense. We’re almost there. I promise.”
Birdie continued. “When we left the Moysychyn’s, we stopped on the side of the road to make some unrelated phone calls. A car that looked identical to one we saw in Todd’s garage passed us at a high rate of speed.”
“We gave chase,” said Thom. “I called in the plate and it came back Todd.”
“Who was driving?” said Anita.
“We don’t know,” said Birdie. “The windows are tinted. But we followed it downtown and saw Jelena Shkatova get into the vehicle.”
Birdie waited a beat for the name to register with Anita. When it did, her eyes widened.
“Jelena could know Todd several ways: one, as her foster parent’s landlord. Two, as Rachel’s special friend. Three, through her job as a clerk in Dominic’s office. As you know from George’s report, he worked with a city councilman on housing-related topics. We considered that Jelena could’ve been spying on Todd’s behalf. Also, remember the statement made by Kidd where he reported that Jelena was always on the make for a rich man like her Asian friend. Maybe she marked Todd.”
Again Birdie waited for Anita to catch up. Make the connection.
“Jelena is the killer?”
“Her whereabouts during the TOD window are unsubstantiated,” said Thom.
“For the Lawrence murders,” added Birdie. “We haven’t veered into the other three. Back to Moysychyn’s wife … the morning after the dinner we began researching Iris.”
Birdie handed a lighted magnifier to Anita. “Look at this childhood photo more closely.”
Anita moved the glass back and forth, concentrated. “The faces of the girls are blurred.”
“Look at the building behind the girls. See the partial of the school seal?”
“Yeah. It looks like … hum, a compass?”
Thom pulled up a website on his laptop. “This is Compass—an orphanage for troubled girls. See this thing that looks like a ship’s wheel? It’s a Dharma Wheel. It was the official symbol of the school a hundred years ago. Before political correctness, before the symbol changed to a compass. It’s the place Jelena lived before she became Dominic and Rachel’s foster daughter. She mentioned it when George interviewed her.” He paused for emphasis. “It’s also the place Li Sū, aka Iris, lived.”
“Jelena and Iris were childhood chums,” said Birdie. “Iris did not come to America as a seventeen-year-old mail-order bride. She was already here. We believe she scammed Todd.”
“This is all very fantastical,” said Anita
“Actually, it’s simple. Iris and Jelena met as girls. They’re still friends.”
“How do you know that?”
“Social networking,” said Birdie. “Todd told me Iris was a fan, so I friended her.”
“Which opened up her life to you,” said Anita.
“And her friend’s lives. Jelena is prominent in Iris’ posts. They’re club girls just like I used to be. They have phones, they take photos, videos. This was posted by one of their friends.”
Thom clicked the mouse and the video began.
The two girls, dressed in short skirts and high heels, were standing near the red velvet rope of a club and Iris conducted a mock interview with Jelena.
Iris: “Greetings, America. I’m here tonight at Club Go-Go in Hollywood with supermodel Lena. Lena, you look fabulous.”
Lena: “Thank you, Iris. I’m so excited to be here tonight to make my singing debut.”
Thom stopped the video.
Anita cocked her head. “I listened to Jelena’s interviews. She spoke with a Russian accent. It’s not detectable here.”
“That accent really bothered George from the beginning,” said Thom. “He thought a girl in the states since age eight would’ve lost it after fourteen years.”
“She sounds like a native. And the other one?”
“We only met Iris the one time,” said Birdie. “She had a definite lilt. Clipped her words. Kept it simple, soft. Her voice doesn’t sound anything like what you’re hearing on this video.”
“She said something peculiar.” Thom told Anita how Iris knew “shoot” from “chute.” “It’s too English specific. She didn’t come to America five years ago.”
“And then there’s this,” said Birdie.
Thom minimized the video and opened an audio file. “This one came in on Sunday at eleven-thirty-five. Jelena was still at the Lawrence scene.” He hit play:
“Greetings, Elizabeth, I read your article on the Blue Bandits. Perhaps you should look at all the pretty dead fish.”
“This came later.”
“Greetings, Elizabeth. Let me introduce myself. My name is Mayo. It took three minutes to kill four people with five shots. Good numbers, don’t you think?”
Thom went back to the video. “Close your eyes and tell me what you hear.” He restarted the video from the beginning.
Iris: “Greetings, America. I’m here tonight at Club Go-Go in Hollywood with supermodel Lena. Lena, you look fabulous.”
“I’m no expert,” said Thom, stopping the video. “But that is the same gender-neutral voice.”
Anita harrumphed. “A mishmash.” She walked across the office, pulled open the French doors, and stepped out onto the deck.
Thom huddled with Birdie. “She doesn’t see it.”
“Can’t blame her. It’s hard to communicate what we’ve seen—what we experienced—without sounding like crazy people. Yes, we think Iris, and possibly Jelena, are involved—it’s a good working theory because the message has but one purpose. It’s a calling card and points attention to Todd’s predilection. Would a killer really be that obvious? There are four crime scenes and eight victims. All we can offer is a direction.”
“Like a compass,” said Anita behind them. “Let me show you something.”
She removed another file from her tote and pulled out four 8x10 blowups of the bloody messages. She removed four magnets from the board and stuck up the first one. Across the bottom: Westchester 4/1. She put another next to it: Culver City 4/8. Then: Santa Monica 4/15. And lastly: Hollywood: 5/13.
Lined up, side by side, the difference between all four messages was very clear. They were all written the same way. Capital D. Lower case letters. But the first three were written by the same hand. The last one was different in the way the letters were stroked.
Anita pointed at the clipping from the article Birdie had written about Jelena and Dominic. “See how she’s looking at him?”
&n
bsp; “With adoration,” said Birdie.
“Love,” said Anita. “See, I like simple, too. Know what I thought when I saw this photo after reading Thom’s case notes? That Jelena was in love with Dominic and when she found out Rachel was pregnant … well, she registered her displeasure by getting rid of the new family and attempted to blow his dick off.”
Thom chuckled.
“You two aren’t the only ones who see things differently. Show me again. Only this time, give me more detail.”
_____
Birdie and Anita stood on her front walkway.
“Thank you,” said Birdie. “For coming over and helping Thom. He needs someone on his side right now.”
“I’m very impressed by him,” said Anita. “He has a lot of courage. I’m not sure I’d be able to do it.”
“Do what?” said Birdie.
“Throw the ball to another detective for the touchdown. The work you guys did … the way you approached it … a game changer. Don’t worry. I’ll see it done to the end.”
Birdie took a step back. “I don’t understand.”
But she did. In her heart she knew.
“Didn’t Thom tell you?” said Anita. “He’s no longer freelancing. He’s using that leave for its intended purpose.”
They shook hands and Birdie watched all their hard work and research disappear down the street.
“I’ll be damned,” whispered Birdie. He’s the smart one.
Back upstairs, Thom erased black marker from the dry erase board.
“What about tick tock?” said Birdie. “Sunday?”
“I haven’t forgotten. There’s one last thing I need you to do.”
fifty-five
Birdie turned on the 11:00 p.m. news and perched on the edge of the couch next to Thom. A graphic in big red letters read: Developing News.
“Good evening. You saw it here on our six o’clock broadcast. There is so much to this fast-developing story … in late-breaking news, law enforcement officials have confirmed that the recent murders of city attorney, Dominic Lawrence, and his family might be related to the homicides of four other people in the Southland. Authorities issued the brief statement late this evening, but would not confirm rumors of a serial killer on the loose. A source close to the investigation did say homicide detectives are working around the clock and have identified more than one person of interest in the murders. While the unnamed source offered no details of the murders, the source did clarify the department is certain the victims were expressly targeted and the general population is not in danger. We’ll be monitoring the situation and update you as information becomes available.”
“There’s frenzied activity going on in the PAB tonight,” said Thom, clicking off the TV. “People on high alert. A department under pressure. Affidavits are being written. Search warrants will be served. Evidence will be discovered and an official taskforce will be in place to sift through it all. The arrest of the killer or killers is eminent. No need to kill again and risk detection.” He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back. “Not a bad day’s work.”
“Wonder how the reporter found out?”
“Most likely an anonymous tip from a trusted source to a colleague.”
“Hum. At least the press has something new to focus on instead of our family.”
“A nice side effect.”
“Indeed.”
fifty-six
Saturday, May 19
Birdie sprinted the last few yards to the lip of the ridge. She threw up her arms and danced a jig, then sat on a rock to catch her breath. She sucked on the water tube, washed the grit from her throat.
She cupped her mouth and yelled down the trail. “Come on slowpoke.”
A red-tailed hawk drifting overhead amused her attention while she waited.
Thom slowly came into view, panting, bent over, hands on his knees.
“Oh, Jesus, save me.”
He gave Birdie a weak high-five, then slumped to the ground with a thud and billowing dirt.
“You call this fun?” He wiped his face and neck with a bandana.
“The best kind. When I’m back here in the hills, or in the desert, or in a forest, I’m forced to push back all the melodrama and concentrate on my footing, the environment. I reflect on how small and imperfect I am. It’s like church without the congregation to compete with. He hears my voice above the din. I haven’t done much meditation lately and I needed this.”
Thom nudged his cousin in a gesture of understanding and support. “I suppose I needed it, too.”
“So many people consider this landscape as nothing more than scrubby brush, but the chaparral is so vibrant. Highly flammable, of course. But after a fire? The terrain bounces back, regrows quickly. The black sage, sugar bush, manzanita, sumac, yucca, the buckwheat. It all comes back stronger than ever.”
“Like us Keanes.”
“Hm-mm.”
“I can’t believe I made it to the top intact.”
“Hey, Thom? I hate to break it to you, but we’re not done yet. We’re only halfway. We still have to hike down.”
“Yeah, downhill.”
“Hard on the knees. Trust me, we still have a journey.”
“Oh, cheer up. See that?” He pointed seaward. “The marine layer is retreating. I think May Gray is finally over and we’re gonna have some sun.”
“I hope so. I really hope so.”
fifty-seven
Sunday, May 20
As if in premonition Ron’s eyes popped open. Breath labored. Did he wake from a bad dream? If so, he didn’t remember. He reached out to touch Birdie’s hip, felt the warmth of her skin beneath the sheet. Her slight movement palliative. The dying embers from the bedroom fireplace cast a warm glow on her cheek. She lay stretched out on her side, fingers and toes curling around the mattress edge as if holding on. The pillow between her legs a psychological stop sign.
Still, each week brought a new improvement.
Gone were the flannel pajamas with the scissored cuffs (because she didn’t like anything touching the ligature scars). Nearly gone were the fights with the covers and the moaning.
Yet, she still required light. The fire a compromise. Ron threw off the sheet and got up to lay another log. He didn’t want her to awaken in the dark, disoriented.
Father Frank had told him that Birdie needed the light because it represented the peace and warmth of heaven. When she rediscovered that in herself she’d flip the switch of her own accord. Until then …
The cell on the dresser lit with an incoming call. Ron scooped it up before it began to vibrate and palmed it against his stomach. He checked the caller ID as he ran downstairs then continued to the garage where he slumped to the floor.
“Hello, Noa,” he answered.
“My brother.” No happiness behind the words.
Ron waited as his friend took a breath before delivering the bad news.
“She has his name and location.”
Ron dropped the phone and covered his face, fingers pressing into his eyes. He wished he could place a capstone on his feelings. Hold back the revival of uncertainty.
His three favorite things were right here: the Pacific Ocean, his Craftsman house, and Birdie. The ocean was his sustenance. The place where he drew upon earth’s energy to supply him with the strength, will, and discipline to become a better man. The right man. The house was his sanctuary. The place he relied on for shelter, safety, and serenity. Birdie was everything else. The thrumming heartbeat of his life. The nails that held the parts together. The promise.
And he was always fearful of losing that last.
“I know you’re still there, brother,” said Noa’s voice from the floor.
Ron picked up the phone and wiped his eyes.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“Forget to call me?”
“I worry. What are you going to do?”
“I’ve been thinking about warfighting.”
“Which aspect? The philosophy, the doctrines?”
“Everything.”
“So … in the progression of conflict you’ve moved past observation and are currently in orientation?”
“Yes. I’m making an estimate of the situation.”
“Next up, decision.”
“Then action.”
“Let me remind you of something … the function of war is to impose our will on our enemy. That requires violence or the threat of. He’s not yours.”
“Oh, yes he is. He’s the friction that has become a constant in my life.”
“Brother, I’m your second. As such, I’ve already gone over every scenario since I last saw you. They all have one outcome. Loss. Listen to me, your feelings for Birdie are not a weakness. Your emotions are inflamed by a love that has eluded you for forty-four years and you’re still trying to come to grips with a simple word for a complicated device that’s screwed up mankind.”
“Screwed up is right.”
“If the great poet laureates can’t figure out the pulse that resonates in all humankind, how can a simple man profess to know anything about the great mystery of love?”
“This from a man who gets involved with married women to avoid it.”
Noa cleared his throat. “Enough philosophy. What of diplomacy?”
“An understanding with Birdie is fruitless. That battle was already fought and lost.”
“What about with him? Could you negotiate a deal with him?”
“That depends on who gets to him first.”
“Keep in mind that in every campaign there is no division between offense and defense. They are necessary components of the other. Remember what Sun Tzu wrote in The Art of War, ‘He will win who knows when to fight and when not to fight.’”