Burden of Truth Read online

  Birdie laughed at the absurdity.

  “You’re one tough customer,” he said.

  “I love you for trying to save my soul. I’ll be happy with purgatory.”

  “Come to confession.”

  “For the sin I’m going to commit Sunday night?”

  Frank blew out an exasperated snort. “I see your point. Dominus vobiscum.”

  “Et cum spiritu tuo.”

  _____

  Birdie entered her home office and ripped the top sheet from a pad of paper mounted on the wall. 239 in bold black appeared. Just over eight months of sobriety. She wadded the paper into a ball and slam-dunked it through the miniature basketball hoop. She sat at the desk and powered up the computer. Checked her schedule. Nothing pending. No important e-mails awaited. She hit the remote and turned on the television, flipped channels until she had clicked through them all and turned it off. Nothing interesting. She picked up a new pack of gum and zipped it open, popped two pieces in her mouth and dropped the foil wrappers next to the dish filled with silver balls of used gum.

  The anticipation of making love with Matt or an engagement ring on her finger wasn’t enough of a distraction to keep her thoughts from what she knew she had to do. Work. She looked up at the number on the wall. 239 days since she wrote her last word.

  No articles. No features. No essays. No OP/ED pieces. No work done on the outstanding cases she followed for the crime books in progress. Boxes of court documents sat unopened. Editors stopped calling. Contacts neglected. Some days she sat for hours and meditated on the emptiness in her head.

  Ambition and success surrounded Birdie. Three true crime books published, Mississippi Serial, Real Evil, and As Crime Comes. A fourth to be launched later this year. Three more in the pipe. One in the deep freeze. Two movie adaptations: one produced with her screenplay, the other garnered an Academy Award for a lead actor. Her biggest achievement, the one that gave her a puff of pride: the Pulitzer. Awarded for excellence in journalism. The gold medallion framed on her wall represented the pinnacle of sacrifice and hard work.

  Done drunk.

  All of it.

  The computer’s screen saver scrolled across the monitor:

  What’s new with Paige Street? … What’s happening? … Any leads? … Get to work! Fuchsia lettering on a pale blue background … What’s new with Paige Street? … What’s happening? … Any leads? … Get to work!

  Birdie jiggled the mouse. She looked up at the tin mobile that hung off the corner of a bookcase. It represented the pieces and parts of the Paige Street Murder. The one in the deep freeze. Sixteen years cold. The one resolution she desired the most. The one she should have. After all, she knew some of the players. It had been her obsession since she was fourteen.

  Where is that drive? What happened to your brain when you quit drinking?

  “Beats the hell out of me,” she said aloud. “Maybe Frank is right. I should get pregnant and become a mom. Try something new. Maybe that’s how I’ll reinvent my sober life.”

  She spit out her gum and carefully wrapped and rolled it into a ball and added it to the pyramid in the dish.

  _____

  Birdie checked the Caller ID on the ringing phone. Henshaw House. Matt calling from his house in Lake Henshaw.

  “Hey, you got my message.”

  “Birdie. It’s Jacob Hoy.”

  “Jacob! Long time. Still putting that medical degree from Yale to work at the coroner’s—”

  A feeling of wrong pushed its way into her heart.

  “There’s no easy way to say this,” he said.

  Birdie’s insides turned liquid. She huffed out a high-altitude pant. Matt’s mysterious disappearance … the secretive reemergence. Her throat spat out a cry of abandonment.

  “Jacob—please … no.”

  The declaration of love …

  “I found him a few hours ago on his bed.”

  The kisses …

  “What happened?”

  The promise of forever love …

  “Drug overdose.”

  ‘Till death do us part …

  “Oh, God, please … it’s not true.”

  The grand goodbye …

  “I’m sorry, Birdie. So sorry.”

  A rumbling sensation worked its way up her chest. Birdie convulsed out a howl so powerful it could cause an avalanche. She dropped the phone, ran to the toilet, and vomited.

  three

  Hollywood Freeway South. East Interstate 10. South Interstate 15. East State Highway 76. A primitive navigation system in Birdie’s head controlled the excessive speed and assertive lane changes. She clutched the steering wheel without thinking about the route or being able to see it through the mascara mixed with sticky tears.

  Five miles of single lane, unimproved fire road, and a quarter mile of ballast driveway was the final part of the journey. The usually locked gate to the fire road was wide open. Responding to steady pressure on the accelerator, the Ford Taurus banged its rpms up the rough road, leaving behind a wake of mud clods. Up and over the hill and around slick paperclip curves, Birdie pushed the sedan’s suspension to its luxurious-highway-travel limits. The car bounced on ruts and grooves and slowed in murky puddles. What normally would take thirty minutes took twenty impatient ones.

  The approach to the ballast drive was too fast. She jerked the steering wheel left. Momentum forced the back end of the car to fishtail. A wave of crushed rock splashed the pine tree marking the entrance. She manhandled the steering wheel hard right. The car straightened and careened as gravel bounced off the undercarriage.

  When the house came into view, she knew she was too late. A San Diego Sheriff vehicle was all that remained.

  No fire truck.

  No ambulance.

  Matt’s body was already gone.

  Birdie’s mouth stretched wide with a scream that vibrated with an agonizing crescendo to the adrenalin-activated thrill ride. The fury and pain bounced around in the car with an awful echo.

  The tantrum got the attention of a deputy. A cigarette dangled from his mouth as he leaned over the hood of the squad tapping a laptop. He stopped to watch her.

  What kind of twisted sense of the morbid did Birdie possess that forced her into a law-breaking, no-win-if-she-were-caught scenario, in the hope of seeing the man she loved dead? She wondered how in the hell he could tell her he loved her, promise a life together, and then pull the rug from under her. She took Matt’s death as a personal affront. How could she not? His visit had served one purpose: to say goodbye.

  Birdie punched the dash, then took several deep inhalations of calm. Tilting the rearview mirror, she checked her face. Puffy and red. She licked a finger to rub the black from under her eyes. It spread.

  The furious gum chewing made her jaw ache. Still, she spit the stale piece into the foil wrapper and popped a fresh one. Stretching her head side-to-side, she forced herself into a disciplined frame of mind. She plucked press credentials from the passenger visor and looped the lanyard around her neck.

  The car door opened to pine-scented air, thick with heavy moisture that glossed the landscape with mist and laid down spun water webs. Under different circumstances it’d be a fanciful setting, full of wonderment.

  The smoking deputy flicked his cigarette, stepped on it, and then picked it up and stuck it into his trouser pocket. He closed the computer and tossed it into the squad.

  Birdie sized him: six-three with muscles gently pressing the sleeves of his tan uniform shirt, no bulletproof vest, gun worn on the left, taser on the right thigh, nose almost too big for his face with a horizontal crease connecting his eyes at the bridge, buzz-cut hair, military fashion, forehead high and smooth, face clean-shaven, fine lines at the corner of deep-set hazel eyes. The name-tag read R. Hughes.

  “What does the R stand for?”

 
“Ron.” He handed her a business card: San Diego County Sheriff’s Department. Deputy Detective R. Hughes.

  “Detectives wear uniforms out here?”

  “Not usually. I was called in from a PR gig.”

  She stuck the card into the back pocket of her jeans and held up credentials. “Elizabeth Keane.”

  “I was expecting a woman named Birdie.”

  “Birdie is my given name. Elizabeth is the name I use professionally.”

  “This is an official visit?”

  “Actually, no.” Her cheeks bloomed. “Old habit. I suppose Jacob told you I’d come?”

  “Yes, ma’am, he was certain of it. He asked me to extend every courtesy. You made good time. What was your top speed?”

  “I hit one-ten on the 15.”

  “That’s ballsy considering you have a suspended license for DUI.”

  “You put that laptop to good use.”

  “There’s no service out here. Jacob Hoy told me.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I asked.” Hughes flicked his thumb toward the house. “You’re practically immortalized in there.”

  “What else did Jacob tell you?”

  “He said you’re a fair-skinned, blue-eyed brunette with long Veronica Lake waves, a lusty laugh, and you were an alcoholic. He also said you have more curiosity than a cat.”

  “We know what happened to the cat, don’t we? Anything else?”

  “He said you’re a brilliant investigative reporter who received a Pulitzer for a series on domestic slavery and now your fulltime occupation is writing true crime.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t give you my bra size.”

  Deputy Hughes smiled wide. Birdie sensed a bit of nervousness that was endearing. “Well, ma’am,” he said, “I’m sure he would have if he knew it.” His voice was like Puerto Rican rum—smooth, authoritative, unthreatening—and it irritated the hell out of her that she found him attractive.

  “I’d like to take a look around.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “Many times. But not under these terms. Talk me through it?”

  Birdie walked the perimeter of the ranch house and inspected a single set of boot prints in the rain-soft dirt. Detective Hughes said the treads were his. “Windows, doors, locked. No forced entry. No unknown tire tracks. Hoy arrived just before noon. They had made plans to hang out. He knocked, got no answer, used the spare under the potted geraniums to open the back door.”

  Matt’s F-250 was parked in its usual location; backed up next to the shed. Hughes produced a key from his shirt pocket and dropped it in her palm. “I spoke with Mr. Whelan’s father. He said you could take anything you wanted.”

  “That was especially kind of him.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “He’s a hard man. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Birdie unlocked the cab door and stepped up into the driver’s seat—the one Matt had attempted to wiggle her into. Now she was sorry they didn’t do it. She had no idea that would be her last chance. She checked the glove compartment: owner’s manual, warranty information, vehicle registration, proof of insurance. In the center console: Swiss Army knife, aviator sunglasses, satellite radio guide, flashlight, and a zippered change purse.

  “Matt kept a Beretta in here. Did you find it?”

  “There are no firearms on the premises.”

  She counted the money in the purse—eighty-nine dollars and thirty cents. She took a battered Thomas Guide. “Maps and shortcuts. One of his favorite things.”

  Hughes made a discreet notation into a portfolio.

  “Keeping an inventory of what I take?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The shed door was ajar. She went in and flipped on the light. Matt called the property Henshaw House. His escape from reality. It was located behind a ridge on several acres of heavily wooded property that butted the Mesa Grande Indian Reservation and Cleveland National Forest. Modern devices were few and out of sight. The only phone, sans answering machine, was located here. Jacob called her from it. She picked up the phone to verify a dial tone. Birdie used to tease Matt about all the crap he stored in the shed. Like the two-way radio that hadn’t worked in years. Now all the stuff seemed like discovered treasure, even the old trash barrel that smelled of rotting leaves and pine needles.

  There were new photos tacked onto the front edge of a shelf, ones she hadn’t seen: Matt and Jacob fishing, Matt and Birdie on a hike in a desert wash, a group shot of family, Matt with three guys in the snow, and Matt and Birdie celebrating her eighteenth birthday. She unpinned each. Hughes cast a panicked gaze as he watched. She braced her cheeks and turned away from him, her back shaking as she stifled the cry. After many minutes she finally slid the photos into her back pocket and faced the deputy. He flashed a smile of reassurance and made another notation in the portfolio.

  “Matt loved his photos,” she said, her voice trembling. “Shall we go inside?”

  Hughes hesitated at the back door. “I have some face masks in the squad. A squirt of aftershave on the inside helps with the smell.”

  Birdie stepped back. She had focused her energies to get here and didn’t properly consider what would occur next. Sure, she’d smelled death, seen the mess up close, experienced the suffocating horror of it, but not of a loved one. She shoved her shaking hands into her jacket and reminded herself why she had come: to find an answer.

  “I’m okay,” she said bravely.

  Wide plank oak floors, antiques, cozy leather upholstery, handmade wool rugs, and creamy silk draperies gave the house a distinctive design. By no means was the décor feminine, yet its owner would never be guessed a bachelor. They walked through the kitchen and dining area. Birdie gasped. A foul smell hung in the air, clung to the rugs, polluted the silk. She squeezed her eyes shut. Just then rain started to fall. The reassuring sound of water on the roof took the edge off the oppressive greeting.

  Detective Hughes waited patiently for her to adjust.

  “What happened after Jacob entered?” she said, trying not to breathe through her nose.

  Hughes switched on lights. “He knew immediately something was wrong.”

  “Because of the smell?”

  “He followed it to the bedroom. Saw obvious signs of death and called the resident sheriff in Warner Springs.”

  “From the phone in the shed?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The sheriff dispatched a deputy from the Ranchita sub-station. Then me. The three of us independently verified death. Hoy reported his preliminary finding of drug overdose to the coroner. SOP states that he doesn’t come out for natural deaths. But considering Whelan was a peace officer he asked for a thorough inspection and report for his review.”

  “No criminalist?” said Birdie.

  “The department doesn’t have the funds to send one for a drug overdose.”

  Birdie’s instinct told her that Matt’s goodbye indicated suicide. She clearly stated the question and held her breath in anticipation of the answer.

  “There are no indicators.”

  “So you’re leaning toward—?”

  “Accidental drug overdose. He was probably in pain.”

  Indeed. Matt had been in constant pain. Six months ago he was shot during a domestic violence call. The first bullet hit Matt from behind, just right of the spine. It ripped the trapezius, blew apart the scapula and a couple of ribs. The force spun him around, and the second bullet hit him on the left side of the chest, pierced the lung, and barely missed his heart. He was in intensive care for weeks and almost didn’t make it.

  It wasn’t the first time Matt had been shot when responding to a call for service. During the Paige Street incident, sixteen years ago, a 40-caliber round—fired by a suspect who got away—hit Matt in the head, ricocheted off the skull, and scraped three i
nches off his scalp.

  Yeah, Matt was in pain. Still, Birdie couldn’t get brainwaves around an overdose. It ground against everything Matt believed.

  “Who determined the cause of death?”

  “Hoy. He is a medical examiner.”

  “He was also Matt’s friend. It’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Like thrusting your credentials in my face?”

  “Point taken.”

  Hughes waved his hand toward Matt’s bedroom. She reluctantly followed.

  four

  At the end of the hallway hung an intricately carved square panel of dark wood. Buddha sat cross-legged in the center with one hand raised in greeting. Birdie reflexively waved back as she always did.

  “There was no trauma to the body,” said Hughes, turning into the bedroom. “No sign of struggle. His position indicated that he was sitting, legs off the edge of the bed, and fell backward.” Remnants of excreta and bits of vomit remained. Smelly liquid soaked the sheets.

  Birdie turned her head and swallowed the bile that crept into her mouth.

  “What drugs did you find?”

  “Methadone and marijuana.”

  “He used them for pain management. He had prescriptions for both.”

  “Methadone has a long tail. It’s easy to overdose. Perhaps if he were high—”

  “He was extremely careful with his drug use.”

  She opened his bureau drawer, looked through his boxer briefs, socks, caressed the cotton T-shirts. Opened the closet door. “Where is his wallet? Cell phone?”

  “Not here. Three keys were loose on the bathroom sink. The truck key, the one to this house, and another that Jacob said belonged to his L.A. residence. I understand you are likely to have a duplicate. May I verify?”

  Birdie took the keys from her jacket pocket; showed Hughes which one was Matt’s and watched as he compared the two. “Yes. It’s the same.”

  Birdie couldn’t stand it any longer. She spun around and ran into the great room.

  On the console table near the front window sat an eight-by-ten photo in a silver frame. Matt and Birdie were cheek-to-cheek, smiling broadly. She had never seen that photo either, but remembered it was taken Christmas Eve at a gathering hosted by his parents before midnight Mass. Thirteen days ago. Surrounding the photo were recent cuttings from a pine bough and an arrangement of cones. At the edge of the console several sticks of incense of various lengths were stuck into a burner.