Glass Houses by Terri Nolan Page A

reminded Thom of a frontier undertaker.
    â€œEver work a serial before?” said Morgan.
    â€œNo. You guys?” said Thom.
    â€œWas on the Grim Sleeper taskforce,” said Seymour.
    â€œYour work just amped up exponentially,” said Morgan. “Once it goes public the story will be chum in a shark-infested kiddie pool.”
    â€œThanks for the visual,” said George.
    â€œBetter you than us,” added Seymour. “But really, if you need help, let us know.”
    Seymour passing out assistance? On the day after Birdie’s article came out? Perhaps he felt bad about mucking up the investigation of her abduction and this was an attempt at penance.
    â€œI mean it,” said Seymour.
    Whatever the motivation, the offer was a first and Thom wasn’t going to let the opportunity expire. “How ’bout the computer rounds while George and I do the flat foot. And search the newspaper archives?”
    â€œDone,” said Seymour.
    Morgan registered his unhappiness with a nostril flare and followed his partner back to their cubicles.
    George leaned in. “Busy day ahead. We better fuel up.” Besides the obvious food reference, fuel was code for ‘share’ as in ‘need information now.’
    â€œYou got that right,” whispered Thom. “ Huevos Rancheros at El Tepeyac. We’ll take two cars. We’re gonna split up afterward. LT won’t let us give it back.”
    â€œI work Lawrence. You work Deats. We meet in the middle.”
    â€œI wish it were that simple.”

eighteen
    El Tepeyac Café was on the east side of the Los Angeles River on Evergreen Avenue in patrol area 456 of Hollenbeck Division. In deference to the cops that populated its tables, many of its burritos bore the station’s name. Hollenbeck de Asada , Hollenbeck de Machaca , or the most popular Hollenbeck—pork in chile sauce, rice, beans, and guacamole. Thom maneuvered his city car in the tiny lot and parked between a Lexus and a dingy pickup. El Tepeyac was popular with the high and low.
    Thom pulled out his business cell. He liked this phone. It supported a full range of data capabilities. Photos, emails, reports. Information. Priceless for a homicide detective. Thom started carrying two cellphones a year ago. The department didn’t reimburse work-related cell phone usage. Thom had tired of divvying up lengthy bills for the tax write-off—same as for his firearm, handcuffs, and other job-related hardware. With dedicated phones he no longer had extra work at tax time.
    Thom realized he held the wrong phone. He replaced it with the personal cell and punched his parents’ number.
    Nora answered with sleep in her voice. “Thom, why are you calling so early?”
    â€œAh, Ma. Did I wake you?”
    â€œNo, I haven’t had my coffee yet. You okay?”
    â€œFine. Sorry I missed brunch yesterday.”
    â€œSolving murder is important work. What’s up?”
    â€œI’m in the mood for coddle tonight.” An authentic Irish casserole of onions, bacon, potatoes, and pork sausage.
    Nora took a long, sad breath. “You want soda bread with that?”
    â€œBallymaloe would be better.”
    â€œOkay, son. I’ll fix dinner. See you later.”
    â€œThanks, Ma.”
    Thom had just told his mother to arrange an emergency family meeting at the Manor. Coddle = all hands on deck. Ballymaloe = wire sweep required. Paranoia or good measure? When Arthur was under suspicion for Paige Street, the FBI made no secret of their surveillance. They relished the intrusive nature of monitoring and the invasion of privacy forced upon the entire clan. The family established codes so they could meet and talk freely. No one liked the subterfuge, but they got used to it.
    _____
    Thom leaned against the car and lit an after-meal cigarette. He took a deep pull, then handed it to George.
    â€œI’ll take a full one.”
    Thom wasn’t