Burden of Truth Read online

  “It looks like a shrine,” said Hughes. “Perhaps you can see the reason behind my inquiries.”

  “People don’t construct shrines for the living.” She studied the odd decoration. Not his style. He preferred clean lines in which to highlight art or objects. She picked up the picture. Clutched it to her chest. Outside, the rumble of far-off thunder mimicked her heart.

  “What was your relationship to Mr. Whelan?”

  Should she tell him that she had loved him for fifteen years or that she pined for him, placed him on a pedestal, admired him, worshiped him? She decided to go with the less painful option.

  “We were best friends.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “Last night in Los Angeles. Right before midnight.”

  A puff of displeasure escaped Hughes nose. The downy hairs on the back of her neck stiffened. She regarded him. He returned the intensity of her gaze and offered her a look of compassion. One that said, it’s tough, I know. Losing someone close.

  “Was he melancholy?” said Hughes.

  “I didn’t detect sadness, but he was more intense than usual.”

  “Hoy informed me that Mr. Whelan didn’t like taking drugs, which could account for the absence of OTCs in the house. If he were unaccustomed to taking medications—”

  “He wasn’t an idiot.”

  “I’m not suggesting—”

  “Toxicology will be administered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where will the body be taken for autopsy?”

  “There won’t be one.”

  “Isn’t the blood for a tox taken from the heart at the time of autopsy?”

  Hughes wasn’t surprised she knew this. “Correct. Hoy collected it here using a heart syringe.”

  “If Jacob discovered the body, how is it he happened to have a heart syringe?”

  “You should direct your body inquiries to Hoy. That’s his purview. Mine is the scene and manner of death.” Hughes handed her Jacob’s business card. On the back was a hand-written phone number. “He asked that you call when you’re done here.”

  Despite Hughes’ assessment that Matt’s death was accidental, his behavior last night was not. It was out of character. In retrospect, contrived. Suggesting his death was planned. But why would Matt do that? Perhaps her dependable instinct failed her on this occasion. She needed further inspection of her feelings, time to mourn, time to look back with a clear-headedness not muddled with the emotional turmoil inside her.

  She determined that she wouldn’t find the answer just now, just here. But she would. Her emotional stability depended on it.

  “Mark it in your pad, Detective. I’m taking this picture.” Then she offered her hand. “Thank you for waiting. I appreciate your indulgence and patience. This isn’t easy.”

  “It never is, Miss Keane. I’m sorry for your loss.” He took her elbow and gently escorted her out.

  _____

  When Birdie figured she was in an area that had cell service, she pulled off the highway and dialed Jacob’s number.

  “I was hoping you’d call soon,” he said. “I’m ready to get drunk and have a good cry.”

  “I saw Matt last night. Just before midnight. The situation was unusual … he, um … well, long story short, he was saying goodbye. I think he committed suicide.”

  The silence was so long Birdie thought the call had dropped. “Jacob?”

  “Sorry. I’m kinda blown away at the moment. Midnight you say? That fine-tunes the TOD. He likely died between two and three a.m.”

  “There you go. Proof.”

  “Proof of what? Self-termination? He didn’t have to drive to Lake Henshaw to do that. He could’ve done it in Koreatown. And you know as well as I that despite Matt’s interest in Buddhism he was devoted to the Catholic Church. We were altar boys together. Took catechism together. I know he’d never test church doctrine in that way.”

  “He wasn’t devoted to the church as much as he was devoted to his brother. Father Frank is a popular pastor. I mean, his Tridentine Mass is so well attended by Whelans and Keanes that we have our own pews. His other Masses are standing room only. Matt’s attendance was based more on tradition than spiritual enlightenment. He sought that elsewhere.”

  Jacob blew out a frustrated sigh. “That may be so, but still, self-termination can only be called such if there’s evidence to suggest it. Can you be sure you’re not letting your feelings for him cloud your judgment?”

  “Can you?”

  “Alright then. Let’s say he exercised his God-given gift of free will. It doesn’t change the fact that I found my friend dead. Dead is dead.”

  “Geeze, Jacob!”

  “I’m sorry, Birdie, I’ve had a hell of a day and you’re not helping.”

  “I’m sorry, too. Really. My brain is numb. I’m pretty sure I’m in shock. At least tell me what happened from your perspective.”

  Jacob reported the details in a surgically precise monologue that resembled the one delivered by Detective Hughes. “Expelled vomit blocked the airway and he suffocated. He was unconscious when this occurred. Matt didn’t suffer.”

  “Do the bowels always empty?”

  “Not always.”

  “How do you determine time of death?”

  “It’s a calculation based on eyes, lividity, fixed rigor, and core temperature. I estimated he had been dead nine to thirteen hours. Considering you saw him at midnight and if he made no further stops and factoring drive time, that puts his death between 0200 and 0300. Like I said.”

  “The evidence?”

  “Delivered to the lab.”

  “Hughes told me you collected blood from the heart. How is it—?”

  “I have a crash kit in the trunk of my car. It’s a toolbox of sorts that contains the instruments of my trade.”

  “Where’s Matt’s body now?”

  “Frank Senior dispatched Junior with a private ambulance. They took him to Holy Cross. Follow my example, Birdie. I’m putting away the medical examiner. Put aside the journalist. Go home and have a long cry.”

  Exactly.

  five

  Sunday, January 8

  Birdie awoke disoriented. It took a moment to remember why. Yesterday, after returning from Henshaw House she turned off the phone ringer, put a do-not-disturb note on her front door, and dialed down the doorbell to zero for those who—despite reading the note—would insist on condoling. She buried herself in a blanket cave and lost herself, fighting the unconsciousness of sleep until exhaustion forced it upon her. As she reluctantly drifted off she became vaguely aware that scales took root on her skin and an icy sheath enclosed her heart.

  She looked at the clock. 8:30 a.m. Mass in half an hour. She’d never make it in time. Not like she wanted to go anyway. She wasn’t in the mood to sit through a morose service with a grief-stricken congregation. She’d rather lock down and suffer in private.

  Biology forced her up to pee. Once up, she required coffee. And, what the hell, after getting adequately caffeinated, and not so brain dead, she might as well check her messages and get it over with. She went into the office and immediately ripped off a page on the wall. 240 days sober. Just get through this day.

  Amazing how fast the news of death spread. The voicemails and e-mails were plentiful and kind. The whole of her universe knew what Matt meant to her. Most of the messages began with, “I know how you felt about Matt …” or “I know how important Matt was to you …” It seemed the whole of their mutual acquaintance were in tune with the way the couple felt. Everyone voiced some variation of the same theme: they knew they loved each other, wondered why they weren’t together, always thought they’d be together.

  There were two unexpected callers. The first was an ex-boyfriend, Denis Cleary. The last time she saw him they were in a judge’s chamber w
here he swore to hate her forever. The second was Matt’s ex-wife, Linda, who blamed the teenage Birdie for the destruction of her marriage. Despite the past ill will, Birdie took comfort by their willingness to reach out.

  The last message was from Frank Senior, Matt’s father, and it froze her bones.

  “Come to the house after Mass. Business. Brunch.”

  A beckon she dare not ignore.

  She practically sprinted up the stairs to her bedroom above the office. Frantic, she picked up jeans from the floor and shook them out to test their wear-worthiness. At the exact moment she decided to wear a dress to Frank’s obligatory meeting, small items flew from the pocket. A tiny paper envelope caught her immediate attention.

  Matt used to write sayings on a piece of paper, fold it into an envelope and leave the surprise for Birdie to find later. She pounced on the last note Matt would ever write. She reveled in the weight of it. Felt the slick texture of the colorful Asian wrapping. Held it to her heart. He must’ve snuck this one into her pocket Friday night when they were making out behind Molly’s.

  She carefully unfolded the creased paper. Inside was a brass key. Larger than the average house key, the head was square and etched with the words DO NOT DUPLICATE. In his precise script Matt wrote a Latin phrase on the white side of the paper: Judex ergo cum sedebit, quidquid latet apparebit, nil inultum remanebit. The words filled her with dread. They were part of a Requiem Mass and translated: The Lord of judgment on his throne shall every secret thing make known, no sin escapes that once was sown.

  The Latin simply meant that upon death there would be an accounting of earthly behavior. Coupled with the key it had a more sinister connotation. Birdie slumped to her knees in moral agony. Matt had done something wrong and he wanted Birdie to know about it.

  The note and key wasn’t the only wicked surprise. The shake-out also dumped Detective Hughes’ business card and the photos from the shed. As she picked up the photos a grave foreboding enveloped her like a heavy shawl.

  In the snow picture four men stood side-by-side. Matt wore the red parka she had given to him several Christmases ago. Jacob Hoy was also there and another man she didn’t know. The shock came when she identified the fourth. The one standing next to Matt. An attractive man with an engaging smile.

  Deputy Detective R. Hughes.

  Was it possible that Hughes’ nondisclosure and his castaway look had a hidden meaning? Birdie would consider all possibilities. But not now. She’d quell the questions until after she met with Frank Senior.

  Her hands shook. A clear sign of alcohol craving. She envisioned the numbers. 240. 240. 240. She tucked her hands under her knees and forced herself to breathe.

  _____

  The Whelan family home was a grand formal residence in Beverly Hills. Matt’s mother, Mary, came from old Irish money, and the Whelan clan owned successful textile mills. Frank Senior and Mary never took their moneyed heritage for granted. They had working class values and drilled a strong work ethic into their seven sons.

  By L.A. standards, the drive wasn’t long from her house to theirs, yet by the time she arrived she had a massive headache brought on by deception, a brain that wouldn’t shut up, and pesky sobriety.

  Several people with clipboards loitered on the broad walkway waiting for instruction. A fashionably dressed woman blasted out of the house and skipped across the porch and down the steps. She barked into a wireless headset, “Fast track the permits. Tents and deliveries are Wednesday. Event on Thursday. I’ll hit the neighbors.” She started clapping as if to gain control of an unruly classroom. “Get Sal off his fat ass and tell him to round up his A/V guys.” She pointed a manicured finger at one of the idle persons and said, “Set up a rain contingency.”

  Only in L.A. would an event planner be hired to put together a post-burial wake.

  Birdie pushed open the heavy oak door. The vast entry was empty. The murmur of saddened voices from the kitchen and family room filled the massive space with a leaded moodiness. Not wanting to participate with the family’s sorrow she tiptoed down the central hall toward the powder bath in search of an aspirin.

  She opened the door. On the sink was her cousin, Madigan, dress over her hips, legs wrapped around Matt’s youngest brother, Patrick, whose pants were around his ankles.

  Birdie gasped and slammed the door shut. Their hushed conversation of surprise could be heard through the door. Both thought the other had flipped the lock.

  Patrick was the youngest of the brothers, a patrol officer working Hollywood Division—the same division where Birdie’s father worked. A few minutes later the toilet flushed and a red-faced Patrick exited the room. He quickly moved down the hall.

  “Patrick,” Birdie said to his back. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  He stopped, not turning. “I know. And you, too.”

  Then she remembered the picture. “Patrick.”

  He reluctantly turned. His puffy undereyes matched hers. She held out the photo. “Can you please tell me who these men are?”

  He pointed. “Matt, Jacob Hoy, Parker Sands. I don’t know the other.”

  “Who is Parker to Matt?”

  “A friend from St. B. He’s a mortician at Holy Cross. Junior took Matt’s body there.”

  Another conflict of interest.

  “Please don’t tell Father,” he said. She didn’t need to ask of whom he referred.

  Madi pulled her inside the powder bath. Though Birdie had their paternal grandmother’s name, she and her cousin had an equal share of her resemblance. Born one month apart—Madi the elder—they were more sisters than cousins and were often misidentified as twins.

  “Babe,” said Madi, “I’m so sorry.” She hugged Birdie tightly and stroked her hair. “I can’t believe Matt’s dead. It’s so sudden.”

  This was exactly the kind of condoling Birdie wanted to avoid, but understanding Madi’s fondness for Matt she returned the hug and uttered sympathies in her ear, which had the dual effect of comforting herself.

  When Madi pulled away to blow her nose, Birdie took advantage of the opening. “You and Patrick?”

  “Don’t tell anyone. We’ve been together since Thanksgiving.”

  “I’m happy for you both. It’s perfect.”

  Madi’s lifestyle was romance killjoy. She was a brand. An in-demand stylist as hip and famous as her celebrity clients. With the Hollywood award season nearing high gear she was home for now. Come April, she’d be getting her passport stamped in exotic locales. The work always took precedence over relationships.

  “Why hide?” said Birdie.

  “Patrick wants to go public, but I’m new at this, a little more cautious. Besides, I don’t need the family pressure of marriage and babies.”

  “That’s the problem with dating Catholic men. They’re traditional and want the complete package. George certainly did. So did Denis. I’m determined that my next boyfriend is going to be an atheist.”

  Madi put a multi-ringed hand over Birdie’s mouth. “Don’t say that.”

  Birdie pushed her hand away. “Oh, come on. You have to admit how much easier sex would be without two-way guilt.”

  “Yeah, right, like you’ve ever felt guilty about sex.”

  Birdie responded with a mischievous grin. “His brother just died. It seems an odd time to bang it out on the bathroom sink.”

  “Stress relief.”

  “Yeah, I always like a good screw when I’m stressed.”

  “Don’t tease. What do you mean by next boyfriend? What’s up with George?”

  “He broke up with me. Couldn’t compete with Matt.”

  “No man could.”

  “You in love?”

  “I think so. I get this fluttery feeling in my belly every time he’s near.”

  “Love or lust. In either case you can’t go wrong with Patrick. He’s a good ma
n like his brother. You’re lucky.”

  Birdie felt genuine happiness, but envy wouldn’t be denied. Matt and Birdie wouldn’t be the couple who’d legally bind the two families.

  She shook two aspirin from the bottle, swallowed them with a palm of water and chased them with a piece of yellow Fruit Stripe gum.

  “I’ve got to go. Frank Senior called me to a meeting.”

  Dread washed across Madi’s face. “What for?”

  “He didn’t say.” She kissed Madi goodbye. “Wish me luck.”

  _____

  Frank Senior was a heavy-handed, black-and-white kind of man; an alpha-dog patriarch who demanded obedience. His opinion was the only one that mattered. Frank didn’t approve of Birdie’s liberal education—which gave her a progressive, open-minded view of the world that didn’t fit Frank’s chauvinist standards—and by default, Birdie herself. She operated in shades of gray in regard to the personal. Her professional side was strictly B&W, but that wasn’t the half that mattered to Frank.

  Birdie followed the cigar smoke into Frank’s study. A man’s room: wood-paneled walls, leather couches, plaid chairs, rifles in racks, handguns in a case, photos in tarnished silver frames, a haze of smoke yellowing the crown molding, ancient books moldering on dusty bookshelves. As she entered the room, two sets of eyes studied her and she felt like she’d just been sent to the headmaster’s office.

  “Come in,” said Frank Senior with his usual formality. He closed the door with a soft click, then took her hands into his. She flinched. This was the first time they’d had physical contact. He offered silent commiseration and she relaxed in the palms of his old-soul strength. His eyes were dry, but bloodshot and swollen with a recent bout of crying. With a final squeeze he let go and waved for her to sit.