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  Burden of Truth © 2012 Terri Nolan

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2012

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-3638-9

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover art: Open field: iStockphoto.com/Jamie Evans

  Los Angeles, CA skyline: iStockphoto.com/John Crall

  Palm and date trees: iStockphoto.com/DNY59

  Police badge: iStockphoto.com/Mel Stoutsenberger

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

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  DEDICATION

  For Scott

  FAMILY TREE

  The Keane clan:

  Gerard (Birdie’s father)

  Maggie (Birdie’s mother)

  Birdie Elizabeth (aka Bird, Tweety)

  Louis (Gerard’s twin)

  Nora (wife to Louis)

  Thomas (1st-born child. Aka Thom.)

  Aiden (Thom’s twin)

  Arthur

  Madigan Birdie (aka Madi)

  The Whelan clan:

  Frank Senior (patriarch)

  Mary (matriarch)

  Frank Junior (aka Father Frank, Junior)

  Michael

  Eric

  Colin

  Emmett

  Matt

  Patrick

  Mary Junior—deceased

  One of the conceits of the journalism profession is that every story is a nut. Crack it open and discover what’s inside. The kernel can be ripe or rotten, true or false; sometimes a little of both. Police Officer Matthew Whelan always said, “The process to find the truth is methodical, precise, and, in the end, provable.” But often the absolute truth is not always knowable.

  —ELIZABETH KEANE

  Preface of Darkness Bound

  one

  Lake Henshaw, CA

  Saturday, January 7

  Matt Whelan sat on the edge of the bed shivering from the frigid mountain air that found tiny passageways into the bedroom. He had attempted to turn on the heat. The man with him said no. The cold would preserve his body.

  Matt took a hard toke off a nearly done joint, inhaled toxic smoke deep into his lungs and held his breath. An uncomfortable suffocating feeling settled in and he blew it out. THC dulled his mind, calmed the muscle spasms. Too bad it didn’t kill the guilt of what he’d done.

  The man snatched it. “That’s enough. The scent will linger.”

  “I’ll be dead soon. Why should I care?”

  “Don’t you care what she thinks?”

  “She already knows I’m a stoner.”

  “What about the other stuff?”

  Oh, that. He did care. A lot. But really, what did it matter now? He’d already put his plan into motion. The one the man didn’t know about.

  He picked up a favorite photograph taken the day he met her. Birdie Elizabeth Keane. His entire existence had twisted sideways the day he met the then fifteen-year-old. It was the worst day of his life. And the best. In the subsequent years Matt never discovered how a teenage girl incarcerated his heart, locking it away from all others. She gave him the best of herself without expectation. He tried to reciprocate, but always came up short in his estimation. Even now, all he wanted was her happiness—more than life itself, and so he purposely betrayed her with a promise he wouldn’t keep.

  She was first introduced to him as Bird. Her cousin, Arthur, was Matt’s new partner. They were LAPD patrol cops working Rampart Division. Matt was twenty-seven then and married. By the time Bird reached legal age Matt was divorced and they could pursue a romantic relationship. But by then he was the steward of a devastating knowledge so powerful it could destroy a family and shake the department with another scandal. Because Bird was fiercely protective of her family, he caged his love to spare her the anguish of dividing her loyalties.

  Matt felt woozy. He no longer sensed the fingers of cold caressing his bare skin. He looked up wistfully at the man who would execute his penalty.

  “You have a few minutes,” the man said.

  _____

  Los Angeles, CA

  Friday, January 6

  Matt watched Birdie standing against the service door, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark. She had an unerring nose. She’d smell the marijuana seasoning the moist air of a recent rain. He didn’t usually dope and drive, but this was an unusual circumstance. Something needed to be done and his spine was a broken spring.

  He moved into the light.

  She approached with an impatient, long-legged trot. “It’s about time you showed up. What’s up with the surreptitious beckon? Where the hell have you been this past week? You missed a PT session.” She grabbed his arm. “Come on. The midnight jig is in twenty minutes.”

  He captured her in a fleecy hug. “Can’t a guy have a quiet moment with the birthday girl without the whole of Molly’s watching?”

  “It’s a private party. Family and friends. The usual suspects.”

  “I have a special present that requires privacy.”

  “Oh?”

  “But first a Q-and-A.” He backed her against the pickup truck and took a step away. The outer rim of the lamplight lit her face but not his; better to veil his anguish.

  She exhaled into her palms. “It’s cold out here. Get on with it.”

  He took her hands in his and rubbed them. “Shush. Why are you always in a hurry?”

  “Is that question one?”

  “Okay, here goes. Are you in love with George?”

  “No.”

  “Would you be willing to break up with George?”

  “For what reason?”

  “I ask. You answer.”

  “Sorry. I forgot the rules.”

  “Bullshit. It’s not in Bird’s nature to go with the flow. Now answer the question.”

  “I’d break up with him for the right reason.”

  “What is the right reason to compel you to break up with George?”

  When they played this game
, Birdie always framed her responses to gain more information before answering the original question. Matt counted on this.

  “You already know,” she said.

  “That’s not a proper answer.” He tapped her chest. “Rules.”

  Her eyes sought his hidden in the shadow. She nibbled her lower lip in consideration. “If the man I love loved me back, I’d break up with George.”

  “Who is the man you love?”

  “You.”

  Matt thought his heart might break under the pressure. Courage, Whelan. He caressed her jaw. “And I love you.” He leaned his body into hers and kissed her forehead. “Past.” He kissed her nose. “Present.” His lips swiped hers. “Future.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  He delicately ran the tip of his tongue over her lips—a seductive caress before a nibble. She opened her mouth and accepted him. A breathless sensuality broke loose. They kissed like long separated lovers. Deep. Penetrating. Turbo-charged. The kiss combusted into caressing and quickly ignited into full-on making out. Matt lifted her and she wrapped her legs around him, gyrating her pelvis against his manhood. His fierce passion broke free of the leash. He wanted to ravage her. Now. Without severing the seal of their mouths he reached for the handle on the cab door. He managed to jerk it open and attempted to maneuver Birdie into the front seat.

  “NO.” The stinging echo of the word stopped them both cold.

  Matt heard a dull crack—the sound of his heart splitting. He despised himself and was on the verge of wailing. He did what he could to conceal his self-loathing—he bent down and slowly rose with his hands on his chest. “Wow, Bird. You’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

  She snuggled his neck and whispered, “Our first time together

  is not going to be in a pickup truck like fumbling teenagers.”

  “We almost got away from ourselves.” And he nearly forgot a vital detail of the despicable plan. He reached into the pocket of his fleece jacket and pulled out a tiny envelope. He slid his hand into the back pocket of her jeans, squeezed her ass, and deposited a message.

  “It’s been a long time since we’ve kissed like that,” she said.

  “Eleven years. You were nineteen.”

  “Was that my present?”

  Could she see Matt’s upper lip vibrating with self-hate? He moved into shadow and rubbed his eyes before the welling tears had a chance to fall. He cleared his throat. “This is the prologue. I have business this weekend. Take it to break up with George. Be gentle. Then come to me Sunday night. We’ll be together. Forever after. ’Till death do us part.”

  “Forever after.”

  Later, as Birdie jigged her way back to the birthday party, Matt noted he had never seen her so ebullient. If he had his handgun in the truck he might’ve just put himself out of his misery.

  _____

  Lake Henshaw, CA

  Saturday, January 7

  Matt held up another photo. Birdie posed in the middle of a lemon grove. The trees were ripe with white blossoms. The first fruits were still tiny green buttons. Matt closed his eyes and remembered the tart fragrance that mingled with dirt kicked up by Birdie’s hiking boots. He heard the buzz of bees and insects and the occasional rustle of leaves.

  “It’s time,” said the man, taking the photo and replacing it with a glass of stinky opaque liquid. “Drink it.”

  Fetid vapors of rot stung Matt’s nose and eyes. He hacked, nauseous before taking a single swallow. He pinched his nose and gagged down the crap. He sputtered and coughed. His insides were going to explode. He clutched his stomach and groaned, falling back in immeasurable pain—a minor penance for unleashing hell’s devastation.

  The man knelt over Matt where a catheter port had already been attached to his chest—the needle mark hidden under a jagged, reddish scar. The man uncapped a syringe, slid the needle into the port and slowly thumbed the plunger.

  “Just so we’re clear,” said Matt, already feeling the sedation of the drug injected so close to his heart, “it’s not murder or suicide.”

  “Accidental drug overdose.”

  As Matt drifted into oblivion he smelt the lemons and began to weep.

  “It’s too late for that,” said the man. “Much too late.”

  two

  Hancock Park, CA

  Saturday, January 7

  Birdie Keane awoke feeling happy. She cracked open her eyes and saw the familiar glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. The plastic galaxy above her bed a favorite thing.

  The blue numbers of the digital clock glowed 9:10 a.m.—still early by weekend standards. She thought about getting up to raise the blackout shades, but decided against it. She stretched and relived the memory of last night.

  Yesterday was her birthday. Her family threw a party at Molly Malone’s. The Mulligans performed Irish standards for the older generation, folk and rock covers for the younger crowd. Matt Whelan had arrived late and asked the bartender to pass on a message: meet him outside.

  She’d been in love with him for fifteen years. He loved her too, she was certain of it, but he never said it in a way that suggested more than intense friendship. Last night the words rolled off his tongue. Their lips came together in a fusion of two people radioactive with years of suppressed desire and longing.

  She ran her hand down her belly and twiddled between her legs, summoned a quick erotic response and remembered the melting knees, the lurch in her heart, the silken strokes of his hands on her breasts. Her groin grew moister and she removed her hand. She’d save it for Sunday night. She covered her face with a pillow and laughed with joy.

  Birdie tumbled out of bed, warm feet on cool mahogany, and then across the hallway to the guest bedroom. She propped against the doorframe and watched George straighten his necktie.

  “Morning,” she said. “Working on Saturday?”

  George checked the 9-mil and shoved it into the rig under his left arm, clipped the police badge to his belt. He pulled on his suit jacket and turned dark eyes on her.

  “I’m disappointed,” he said. “I saw you and Matt making out last night.”

  “Geeze … I’m sorry. I was going—”

  “I’ve been betrayed by two people I trust.”

  “George—”

  “Stop.” He threw up his palm. “Do you love me?”

  He had never asked the question because he already knew the answer.

  “No.”

  “What have we been doing these months?”

  “Dating.”

  “You go clubbing with Matt. You cruise flea markets with Matt. You go to movie premiers with Matt. That’s dating. We eat out and have sex in the guest room. I’m not even allowed to sleep in your bed. It’s upside down.”

  George sat on the chaise, ran slender fingers through his short dark hair. “I can’t be with you anymore. I thought I could be the man to bust through the invisible barrier that you and Matt built—the one that prevents either of you from forming emotional attachments. What an ego I have.” He winced at his own words.

  A quick siren wail came from the street below. “That’s Thom. We’ve got a guy in the box.”

  Thom was one of Birdie’s cousins. George and Thom were partners. Detectives. They worked Robbery/Homicide Division.

  “Ironic, isn’t it? The man who introduced us is the one standing between us.” He pressed his tall sinewy build next to Birdie and took her face into his hands. He presented his lips and she accepted the consolation prize.

  A few minutes later another failed relationship walked out her front door.

  George Silva saw the Technicolor version of the same reel another ex-boyfriend, Denis Cleary, took two years to see: No man had ever been able to measure up to Matt Whelan. She wished George hadn’t seen the physical manifestation. Besides being an excellent lover, George was a good friend. He deserv
ed better.

  _____

  Birdie punched buttons on the kitchen phone and got Matt’s answering machine. “Hi, it’s me. George broke up with me this morning. Call me.” She dialed his cell and got voicemail. “It’s me. I just left a message on your house phone. George and I are officially broken up. Call me.” Anxious, she dialed the number to his weekend house in Lake Henshaw. No answer.

  Finally, she dialed another number and stuck the phone between ear and shoulder. There were two rings before a woman’s pleasant voice answered, “Rectory.”

  “Good morning, it’s Birdie Keane. Is Father Frank available?”

  “Please hold while I check.”

  Birdie dumped four heaping scoops of dark roast into the coffee filter then filled the carafe with water, concentrating on steadying the shaking of her hand as she gently poured it into the reserve. She opened the leaded glass window. It had been raining for the past three days and her large thirsty lawn rejoiced with bright green growth. She inhaled the fresh rain-scrubbed air perfumed with the romantic scent of camellias.

  A soothing voice came on the line. “Hello, Bird.”

  Father Frank Whelan was her friend and priest. The eldest of seven Whelan brothers and one of a handful of non-family allowed to use the nickname of incessant adolescent teasing.

  “Frank,” she said, “last night Matt came to Molly’s. We finally said ‘I love you.’”

  The silence that followed was far longer than Birdie felt comfortable with. Finally he said, “I’m pleased for you both.”

  “I’m walking on air.”

  “What about George?” said her moral barometer.

  “He broke up with me this morning.” She wondered if she should tell Frank the rest. It was silly, really, because she told Frank everything—whether in the confessional, in person, or on the phone, he heard it all eventually.

  Impatient for morning brew she poured the first coffee drips into a porcelain cup, and took a burning sip in preparation for part two of the after-party recap.

  “We’re going to be together Sunday night. I think he’s going to ask me to marry him.”

  “It’ll be a matrimonial Mass and you’ll get pregnant on the wedding night.”