Glass Houses (28 page)

forty-nine

Thom's underwear-clad body lay
in an awkward position inside the small tub. His head, wrapped in a bath towel, rested on the back edge as if he were taking a soak. His right index finger was hooked around the trigger of the Smith & Wesson they had shot earlier in the day.

Birdie was seriously stressed.

The primitive parts of the brain had triggered the reflex to duck when she first heard the gunshot—the chain reaction of brain-body impulses already engaged. The adrenal glands located on top of her kidneys had squirted the stress hormones adrenaline and cortisol. These fight-or-flight hormones caused her pupils to dilate and her heart to pump at an exercise rate of one-hundred-sixty beats per minute. Her blood pressure jumped to dangerous, heart-attack levels and she began to sweat. Her body, already in panic mode, gave her the strength to move faster than the norm.

Once her higher brain acknowledged the situation, she could choose which way to deal with the stress of seeing her cousin in full-on suicide mode in her bathtub.

Birdie dropped to her knees and screamed. A common stress release method.

Then she yelled. “Goddamn you, Thomas Alfred Keane. You know what happened this year. You thought it'd be okay to scramble your brain in my bathtub? Make me find your lifeless body? I hate you right now.”

Thom wept as he tore off the towel. “I'm so sorry. I couldn't do it. I couldn't do it.”

“But you considered it and shot a bullet into my wall.”

Disgusted and thoroughly pissed off, she pushed up off the floor and stumbled into the bedroom. Her hands shook so hard she felt the quake in her shoulder blades.

Thom entered the room, the gun still in his hand, and attempted
to hug her in apology. Two things happened at once: Birdie spun around and snatched the gun from his hand, she aimed at a spot high on the wall and squeezed the trigger; Arthur ran into the room and tackled her. They fell to the ground and Arthur's body weight forced the breath from her lungs when they hit the floor.

Arthur disarmed her and rolled away. Birdie gasped for air. Thom crouched, confused by Birdie's frustrated shot at the ceiling and his brother's sudden appearance.

In his calm, priestly way, Father Frank said, “Who were we called
out to control?”

_____

The foursome sat in the library: the three men with crystal snifters of Birdie's ex-favorite liqueur, B&B, she with a cup of steaming hot tea with lemon held directly under her nose to prevent her from smelling the decadent and tempting aroma of the Benedictine and brandy.

Birdie had no need to betray Thom's confidence to Arthur and Frank. He told them all after an impromptu prayer circle to thank God for giving him the common sense not to end his own life.

Arthur said, “I cannot believe you've allowed that woman to emasculate you.”

Thom shrugged in resignation, all pride gone. “How can I explain how much I've always loved her? From the first moment I saw her sunny smile and freckles.”

“We cannot always know the path that God has laid out for us,” added Frank, “but there are five reasons Anne and Thom came together and their names are Pearce, Padraig, Liam, Rose, and Nora. And it is those innocents for whom we must focus our energies.”

“It's apparent that Thom and Anne will never repair the damage her affair has caused,” said Birdie.

“That's not true,” said Frank. “Thom doesn't yet have enough emotional distance from this situation. We cannot speak for Anne.”

“Oh, yes, we can,” said Birdie. “I saw her”—she winked two fingers—“emotion planted on another man.” She felt Thom's gaze aimed at her. She avoided his eye because he had not yet asked who and she didn't want to go there.

Then again, this would be the perfect time for him to know. He had the willing support of his priest and brother nearby. She flipped her eyes in his direction to gauge his state. He still had his eyes glued to hers. She knit her brows in question. He shook his head no.

Well, okay, that decided it for Thom.

But it did not satisfy Birdie's need for confrontation.

fifty

Thursday, May 17

There are three ways
of doing things:

The right way.

The wrong way.

And Birdie Keane's way.

Four-fifteen a.m. Birdie turned off the headlights, killed the engine, and coasted until the car came to a halt against the curb. Nothing stirred in the neighborhood. She understood why the dead fish murderer picked this hour. It was an ideal time of morning. Night owls were asleep; the morning people not yet up. If there were an awakening noise, say a scream or a gunshot, who among them would be able to transition from REM to cognition? The noise would be interpreted as something from a dream.

She relished the moonless dark and the gauzy fog concealing her presence. The only light source flickered from an unreliable lamppost at the corner. She didn't need it anyway. She knew the landscape of this street. The target house. She approached in stealth, knew each step from this moment forward having already worked out the plan.

Birdie stopped at a familiar copper gate and unlocked the deadbolt. It opened silently. She slipped inside the courtyard and inhaled the scents of spring: honeysuckle, pink jasmine, and green bamboo—the smells of renewal and hopefulness. She refused to take a moment to reflect on the correct course of action because her value system of right and wrong and common sense would force her to turn around and abandon this crazy, and potentially deadly, quest.

She crouched near the porch and picked through the shiny black rocks until she found the one she sought: a ceramic rock that concealed an emergency key. Then she sat back against the wall and waited for the sound of water running through the pipes. When the water heater in the closet near the front porch fired up, she knew the home's owner was in the shower.

The moment had arrived.

She unlocked the front door and stepped inside.

She knew the floor plan. The layout of the furniture. Knew where the master bath was located. She walked down the short hall hung with photos of family and friends. She opened the bedroom door. The bed had already been made, the pillows fluffed.

The bathroom door was ajar, yet its occupant could not see her. The shower door was made of clear glass etched with a design of lotus flowers. The moment she stepped inside the bathroom she'd be seen.

Birdie whispered an ecclesiastical prayer:
Miserére mei, Deus, sec
úndum misericórdiam tuam; et secúndum multitúdinem miseratiónum tuárum dele iniquitátem meam. Amplius lava me ab
iniquitáte mea et a peccáto meo munda me.
Have mercy on me, God, in your kindness. In your compassion blot out my offense. O wash me more and more from my guilt and cleanse me more from sin.

A prayer such as this would usually be said after the offense. Birdie said it upfront to get ahead of the game. She counted to three and pushed open the door.

The man's hands were in his hair, in full lather mode. He eyes widened in disbelief and his head shook slightly as though seeing a mirage. Birdie didn't waste time with pleasantries. She pulled open the glass door and slammed her taped knuckles into George Silva's face; felt the cartilage in his nose break, saw the shampoo and blood sluice down his face.

He screamed something unintelligible.

“That's for cheating on me,” yelled Birdie.

She punched the left side of his chest. Right near his heart.

“That's for betraying your partner.”

George slumped to the shower floor, legs askew.

Birdie wound up for a kick.

“No, no, no,” he cried. “It's not wha ya think.”

Birdie stepped back.

“I saw you screwing Anne with my own eyes. Your partner's wife! I can forgive you for the trespass against me, but not for Thom's.”

She spit on her past lover, past friend. Thom's past partner.

“Did you really think that Anne would divorce him and you'd take his place at the family dinner table and become his children's stepdad? You don't mess with the Keane clan and come out okay. Bastard! You're out, George. Banished. You resign the department or transfer to another division. You don't attend Mass at St. Joseph
or Bonaventura. You don't come to the Manor. Thom never sees your face again. And don't forget, the Whelan clan is our ally.”

_____

Thom, Arthur, and Frank were still talking quietly in the library. Birdie tiptoed back to the kitchen. One of them had made a fresh pot of coffee. Birdie poured herself a cup and took a long steamy inhale to wash the stink of George from her nose. Her fingers were beginning to swell.

Arthur entered the kitchen and went straight to the freezer and pulled out a plastic bag of popcorn kernels and threw them on the counter. He picked up Birdie's hand and kissed her bruised knuckles.

“The devil is in Bird's right hand.”

She tried to pull her hand away, but Arthur's grip was strong. He covered her hand with the frozen popcorn.

“Where'd you hit him?”

“Who?” said Birdie. She had claimed sleepiness and went upstairs to her room before sneaking away to George's. She thought her getaway clean.

“You think you're clever,” said Arthur. “You take the role of family protector a little too far. Hope he doesn't charge you with b-and-e and assault.”

“Who?” she repeated.

“George, of course.”

“What?” She attempted to move back, but Arthur's grip was stronger than hers. “How did you know?”

“Thom found his nuts. Had to know who the scumbag was.”

“I put that stuff in the safe.”

“But failed to lock it.”

“Kidding me? How stupid am I? Did he look at the video or find
his name in the file?”

“The file. I doubt he'll ever watch Anne doin' George. That shit is messed up.”

“How is he?”

“We've been through the alphabet soup of emotions. He's especially mad at himself for considering … you know.”

Birdie finally managed to free her hand from Arthur's and sat at the bar. He followed her and put the popcorn back on her hand.

“Once we knew it was George we knew where you snuck off to.”

“I banished him.”

Arthur laughed at the absurdity. “Oh, really, tough girl? How do you plan on enforcing banishment?”

Birdie snorted out a giggle. “I won't need to. I reminded him of our ties to the Whelan's. I told him you don't mess with the Keane clan and come out okay.”

“That much is true. What'd you do to him?”

“Took him by surprise, naked and vulnerable in the shower.”

“Had to. He's taller and heavier than you.”

“I wanted him to know we could get to him.”

“Where'd you hit him?”

Birdie touched the bridge of Arthur's nose. “One shot. Broke his nose.”

“Very nice. Broke all those tiny blood vessels in the orbital region and got the nose in one shot. That pretty face of his will be messed up for weeks.”

“I punched him in the heart as well.”

“Well, it's protected by a breast plate. All you managed was a metaphor.”

“That was my intent.”

Arthur nodded with approval. “Don't know if I'd be so reserved.”

“It's over.”

“For you maybe. But not for Thom.”

fifty-one

Birdie dreamt she was
in a cinderblock cage. The walls were painted crude-oil black mixed with fish scales, making the walls shine. She pushed at the walls, trying to find a weakness, a way out. The walls closed in around her. She screamed for Matt to save her.
Then she was in an old stone abbey, gun in hand. A Franciscan mon
k in leather sandals moved along the far wall. The hood of his robe obscured his face. A pair of lovebirds in a simple cage fashioned from twigs hung from a rope under an archway. As the monk turned his head to gaze up at the birds the sunlight caught his face. The man had bright shamrock green eyes. Matt's eyes. The gun went off and scared the birds. The female flew into the twig bars of the cage, damaging her beak. The male kept tweeting,
birdbirdbirdbirdbirdbird
.

“Bird,” said Arthur, shaking her legs, “wake up. You're screwing up your sleep patterns.”

Birdie pulled the covers from her head and opened an eye. The room was pitch dark and her heart lurched.

Arthur opened the blackout shades. Light flooded her bedroom. A pair of cooing doves that were sitting on the window ledge flew away.

“Come on, I know it's hard. If you sleep too long you won't sleep tonight.” He pulled the covers off her.

“Alright, I'm awake.” She sat against the headboard, and pulled the covers back up, looked at the clock. 12:04 p.m. “What day is it?”

“It's still Thursday.”

“I don't understand. Last thing I remember is talking to you in the kitchen.”

“Then you came up here for a nap.”

“Who closed the shades?”

Thom stuck his head into the doorway. At least Birdie thought it was Thom. His hair was gone. Well, mostly gone. “Good, you're up. Anne's on her way.”

“What the hell happened to your hair?”

“Arthur shaved it. Like it?”

“What's going on?”

She heard Frank's soothing voice in the hallway. “Thom, would you like to serve coffee, tea, or wine?”

Thom turned and disappeared. She heard him say, “Do I need to serve that bitch anything?”

She didn't hear Frank's admonishment.

Birdie looked to Arthur for clarification.

“George called Anne to tell her that they were found out. She called Thom to explain. Frank intervened and agreed to mediate a face-to-face meeting. Anne's expected any moment.”

Birdie moved the covers aside and threw her legs over the edge of the bed. She was groggy; bearings lost. She stretched her st
iff fingers. Her stomach growled. When had she last eaten? How long had she been wearing these clothes? When was her last shower? She lifted her arm and took a whiff. Then she remembered a recent bath. What day was that? One day morphed into another and she had lost track.

“You don't stink,” said Arthur. “But your hair looks like shit. Put
some powder in it.”

“I need exercise.”

“You exercise too much. Take a few days off.”

She threw him a hostile look. “When did you become task-master?”

“Since I discovered you and Thom are a mess.” Birdie opened her mouth to protest, but Arthur stopped her. “Remember, you asked me here.”

“True enough. Why'd you shave Thom's hair?”

“Us guys were talking about how the gray doesn't do him any favors. Frank suggested dyeing it.”

“Thom couldn't go back to the job with dyed hair. Cops are the worst bullies.”

“That was Thom's main concern. We decided that if he wore a crew cut like I do that it'd give him a younger look. More hip. We sent Madi a photo and she loved it. Said when she comes back home she'll take him shopping for a new wardrobe.”

“It's a drastic change. He doesn't need more drama right now.”

The doorbell rang.

“Speaking of drama … she's heeeeeere,” said Arthur.

_____

Frank gently escorted Arthur and Birdie from the library. “Only the principals need be present,” he said.

Thom read Arthur and Birdie's concerned faces and gave them a smile of reassurance.
I'll be okay.
As the doors clicked closed, he felt a moment of insecurity about the course of action he determined to take with Anne. Frank had advised him against it. Said the hurt was too fresh, that it was too soon. But Thom had been living an emotionally incorrect life. Anne had moved on, he needed to as well.

Frank held out his hands, “Let us pray.”

Thom and Anne each grasped one of Frank's. When she reached for Thom's free hand he noted his refusal by sticking it into his pocket.

Father Frank lowered his head, “Our Lord and God, we firmly believe that you are here, that you see us, that you hear us. We adore you with profound reverence and ask your pardon for our sins. Please bless us now as we enter a time of mediation, of discussion, and we ask that this time be fruitful. Please grant us the courage and strength to forget the trespass we assume for ourselves and let us come to good resolutions. We put ourselves at your mercy and humbly ask for the grace to forgive. Please shine your everlasting light of grace upon us for we are mere sinners and need your guidance. Come, O Holy Spirit, fill our hearts with your fire and love. Send forth your spirit so that we—your humble servants Thomas, Anne, and Francis—may be worthy of you. We ask this in your name.
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

Frank's prayer filled Thom's heart with endless respect for a man he knew, but not really knew. Like most parishioners, he sought guidance from a man who stood behind the altar, the pulpit. But being a pastor was more than delivering an inspiring message. Frank had inserted himself into their meeting as if to state we will trill and mine for solutions together. As an equal partner of the discussion to be, he placed upon himself a subtle authority that would no doubt steer the couple to an understanding of mistakes, to forgiveness and, eventually, the solidarity and strengthening of a marriage. Frank's psychological play was low-key, but with an undertow of intensity at the seriousness of that which would be soon embarked upon.

Thom no longer felt like he was above the treeline in a barren land of aloneness. His will to thrive came bubbling up from the deep well inside his soul. He shook his free hand as if unshackling the hurt. Anne was not the villain, but he would not go back to a life that had run dry. He was thirsty again. And he owed it all to Frank's brilliance.

Though this wasn't what Frank likely had in mind.

Thom whispered to Anne, “I'm sorry for the rebuke.” He reached out and gave her hand a quick squeeze. For the first time in a long while she blessed him with a smile. And he knew then that the dusty memories of what their life had been would not shape his future.

Frank motioned Thom and Anne to sit together on the couch. Frank chose a seat off to the side where a friend might sit. He gestured at the tea set, but Thom and Anne declined with a polite wave. He pointed to the wine decanter and both shook their heads. That didn't prevent Frank from pouring himself a glass and placing a small bowl of nuts on the coffee table.

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Anne, “George is just sick. He loves you.”

“He should've thought about that in the beginning,” said Thom. He stood. There was no way he'd be able to sit through this. “What if we were in a life-or-death situation? We don't ride a black-and-white, but we have a responsibility to and for each other. Partners protect each other. Instead of throwing himself in front of a bullet would he think,
naw I'll let Thom take this one so I can take his place with Anne
.”

“It wasn't like that,” said Anne. “He always spoke of you with great respect.”

“Yet he disrespected me by sleeping with my wife!” He began to pace.

“Thom,” warned Frank. “There will be no yelling here today.”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you that we were surprised by the seduction that an affair promised?”

Thom snorted with derision.

“I can't say anything in our defense,” said Anne. “What we did was wrong. We knew it. That's what made it more thrilling.”

“Yeah, and you'd still be doing it if you hadn't been caught.”

Anne wrung her hands. “We were selfish. You may not believe this, but I'm truly sorry that we hurt you.”

“You're a piece of work. You're sorry for me, but not the screwing around, the house, the gifts. And what really chaps my hide is that you're trying to destroy my career. My marriage is gone, take my career, too.”

“I didn't do it,” said Anne. “The private investigator emailed your lieutenant the photo of you and that girl in the car.”

“That girl has turned into a suspect in a homicide. Do you understand what that means? Your actions not only screwed me, but they've screwed this case! There may not be justice for the victims.”

“Temper,” reminded Frank.

“Why did you have to hire someone, Anne? You're the one who set the parameters in our marriage. You knew what I was doing.”

“I did it on advice. The attorney said because of my financial situation that I had to have some asset protection. Testing your integrity seemed the easiest—”

“—wait, wait, wait. Are you telling me that the PI emailed the photo and suggested to my supervisor that I be tested in this manner? That means he had prior knowledge of the homicide.”

Anne vigorously shook her head. “No. That's not true. He'd been sending one photo a week. This one's importance was coincidence, I swear.”

“How long has this been going on?”

“Two months.”

No wonder George was worried, thought Thom.

“So George knew.”

“Absolutely not. I never spoke about it.”

Thom thought about this. George had been worried about the surveillance because he didn't know Anne was behind it and he was worried
they
, the FBI or LAPD, would snare him and Anne in the process. So he really didn't know.

“And what about the report of misconduct? Did the PI do that as well?”

Anne's eyes widened. “Thom, I swear on the life of our children that I didn't know about that until after the fact. He filed the report two weeks ago. He assured me that most reports lack corroborated evidence. He said this one had no merit because the girls were off-duty stuff, that it wouldn't damage your career. He filed the report and forwarded the photos to establish a pattern. Just in case we'd need it for divorce negotiations.”

Bird sure was right on that score, thought Thom.

“Did it ever occur to you to wave off your bloodhound? You know what the family faces with Gerard's Blue Bandit bullshit swirling around us. Are you that dense?”

Anne's eyes welled. “Apparently I am. I followed bad advice. I'm sorry.”

Thom stopped pacing long enough to take a pull from Frank's wineglass. He picked up a pad of paper and a pen off the desk and dropped both into her lap. “Write down the PI's name and number.”

“Thom—”

“Do it.”

Anne bent over the paper.

“Thom,” said Frank, “revenge is a dangerous thing.”

“It's not revenge, Frank. I wonder what game he's playing. A woman with a fat checkbook and a questionable, ex-cop PI doesn't make a good relationship.”

“How do you know if he's an ex-cop?” said Anne.

“Because of what you said. What else has he got his fingers into?”

Anne shook her head. “I don't know. We—the attorney and I—hired him to find proof of your adultery.”

“Glass Houses, Anne. What about yours?”

Anne's tears overflowed and fell down her cheeks.

“Anne,” said Frank. “Do you love Thom?”

“I don't know.”

“Be honest, Anne,” said Thom. “We haven't had sex since the twins were conceived and just yesterday you told me you didn't love me and you wanted a divorce.”

He poured himself a glass of wine and fantasized about throwing it at her.

“Is that true?” said Frank to Anne.

“I've been considering it for a long time,” she admitted. “Long before George. I've been dead. It was nice to feel alive again. To be wanted.”

“What?” Thom said with indignation. “I've always wanted you. I've never stopped loving you. Not even now. Know what? I'm going to save us a lot of time. Deed me the Brentwood house, furnishings included. I'll move out of the house for a trial separation. If you can convince the bishop to annul our marriage then I'll consider a civil divorce. Meanwhile, I don't want to be a pathetic weekend dad and uproot the kids every week or even every-other. They deserve stability. I suggest you convert the pool house into a guest cottage. You can stay there when it's my turn with the kids. I'll stay in the guest room when I'm in the main house. We will
always
be respectful of the other in front of the kids and our families. No trash mouth. We have the same parenting values, but should there be an issue on that score we'll work it out privately and always present a united front for the kid's sake.”

“Anything else?” said Anne.

Before Frank could get in a word, Thom concluded, “I want ten grand a month.”

“Done,” said Anne.

_____

The guys had finished what was left of Birdie's in-case-of-emergency stash. Arthur called up Rod's liquor and placed an order for replacement booze. And a few extra bottles for Thom. And two six packs of beer. And potato chips. Then he ordered pizza.

“What do you think they're discussing?” said Arthur in reference to Anne insisting she drive Frank back to the rectory.

“The same stuff we discussed,” said Thom. “She's getting her share of Frank's ear.”

“Poor Frank,” said Birdie. “He's got to be exhausted.”