Glass Houses by Terri Nolan Page A

find the answer is a simple one. Like streamlining. Making things easy by staying with one gender. You know, you wouldn’t have to change out decorating themes. Clothes could be handed down. Besides, girls are easier.”
    Thom laughed. “Trust me, girls are harder.”
    â€œThat’s because you have twins,” said Birdie. “Rose and Nora were born a team. Two for one. There’s built-in comfort and camaraderie which make them natural conspirators.”
    â€œYou have a gift of putting things into perspective.”
    Birdie wished that were true in her own life. It was easier to aim an eye outward.
    â€œDid Dominic suffer?” she said.
    â€œNo. He was executed in his sleep. So were his wife and twin girls.”
    â€œWhat kind of sicko would kill sleeping children?”
    â€œThe worst kind,” said Thom.
    â€œHey, Birdie,” interjected George, “Can you tell us when Thom got to your house this morning?”
    â€œSure, but I have to be in my office. Is it relevant to your investigation?”
    â€œUnfortunately.”
    â€œIn that case I’ll print a hard copy and burn a disc.”
    â€œThanks,” said Thom. “And for the insights. But we’ve got to go now.”
    Birdie got a sense that she’d helped; this made her happy. And now time-out needed to end before her overprotective boyfriend, Ron, put out a BOLO.

twelve
    Thom lit a cigarette and inhaled.
    The sun reflected badly off the cloud deck and cast a slate glare over the Southland. May Gray. Marine layer. Onshore flow. Whatever Angelenos called it; a dip in the Western jet stream scooped up Pacific moisture and slammed it into the warm air of the mainland. It was so heavy today that Thom thought it was probably drizzling at the coast. The weather pattern was common for spring and early summer in Southern California. Yet, despite the haze, downtown lived up to its responsibility and rose like a sentinel from the colorless view.
    Thom liked this weather; the low cloud cover kept the TV helos grounded and prevented them from filming his crime scene. He passed the cigarette to George.
    It was silent up on the hill looking over the vast density of the city. No sound of humanity. No freeway. No birds or insects. Not even a breeze to rustle the eucalyptus.
    Life on pause.
    They passed the cigarette between them, soaking up the absolute quiet. They should’ve been talking about the case, comparing notes, evaluating the information Birdie had shared, but Thom was in his own head trying to avoid the cognitive bias that is a human predilection to see what it expects to see.
    He worked the collection part of every crime scene internally. Inputted all the pieces and parts, then organized and sorted. It took several scenes together before George figured out how to work within the confines of Thom’s strategic tic.
    Crime scene tech, Spenser, joined them out on the crabgrass with his own cigarette in hand. “That is so swish,” he said. “Two dudes sharing a cigarette like chicks.”
    Thom felt the silence-breaking intrusion at the base of his skull. “We also share chewing gum,” he said with an irascible scowl.
    â€œAnd bodily fluids,” added George.
    Spenser’s jaw dropped.
    â€œJealous?” prodded Thom.
    Confusion passed behind Spenser’s eyes as they flicked from Thom to George and back again trying to get a read. Spenser was openly gay and it was no secret that he had a sweet spot for George. But no one knew for certain which way George swung. Thom saw the uncertainty in Spenser’s eyes as they finally settled on George. Spenser allowed a small smile to eke out and murmured, “Maybe” before making a hasty retreat back to the house.
    Thom grinned. “I do believe he hit on you.”
    â€œOnly took him a year to work up the nerve,” said George.
    â€œWe shouldn’t tease the poor schmuck.”
    â€œDon’t spoil my