Full Release (12 page)

During that time period, most of my neighbors would be arriving home from work, getting their dinners, checking their computers, watching the news. I tried to think who was most likely to see something. I got out of the car, and instead of walking up to my house, I crossed the street and knocked on Mrs. Enders’ front door.

Moments later she was there, drink practically slipping out of her hand, a sloshed smile on her face. I wondered if I should have come in the morning. “Hello!” she practically screamed. “How are you?!”

“Hi, Mrs. Enders. I’m hoping I can ask you a couple of questions.” I gave her a smile that I hoped was ingratiating.

“Of course, of course, come on in.” She swung the screen door open, nearly knocking me over, and I eased my way into her house.

Mrs. Enders had spent most of her life as a costumer’s assistant. She’d worked a few television shows in the seventies, but mostly she worked at one of the costume houses. Jeremy liked to spend afternoons with her, listening to her gossipy stories of naughty celebrities, most of whom were now dead or close to it. At one point there had been a Mr. Enders, but we were never able to figure out when that had been. He might have been her first husband, or her third. Either way, it was quite some time ago.

Every surface in her living room was covered with framed photos of Mrs. Enders with celebrities both dead and forgotten. “Do you want a drink?” she asked me.

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? You must be nervous as a cat.” She lowered her voice. “I saw the police at your place this morning. Terrible. Just terrible. Have a drink, Goddammit!”

“I really don’t want one.”

“Oh, well fine. Sit down then. Sit!”

I pushed aside a stack of newspapers and sat. She plunked herself down across from me in a red velveteen chair and adjusted her pink Lycra top. “What can I do you for?” she said, as though it was a joke. “My father used to say that. Funniest man who ever lived. What can I do you for?” She chuckled. “What can I do you for!?”

“On Thursday, the night my friend--”

“What can I do you for!” I was close enough that I could smell the alcohol wafting off her like fog.

“The night my friend died. Did you see me come home?”

“Well, you were just there when the police arrived. So you must have come home sometime, right?”

“Yes, you didn’t see when, did you?”

“You think I’m a nosey old goat, don’t you?”

“I don’t think that at all,” I said, trying to keep my voice calmer than I actually was. “It’s important. Did you happen to look out the window between six and eight?”

She frowned and told a lie I think even she had a hard time believing. “I barely look out my windows at all. I have better things to do.”

“I didn’t mean to imply anything. But if you did notice that I wasn’t home during that time it would help me.”

“But I wouldn’t have. That’s when my shows are on. I have the dish, so I watch the east coast channels. I like to watch my shows early.”
So you can pass out by ten
, I thought meanly.

“I see.” Giving up an establishing an alibi, I asked, “I guess you didn’t see anyone hanging around? Anyone suspicious? Or anything unusual for that matter?”

“No, not a thing.”

This was not helping.

“The police were asking the same thing. I don’t know why. Your friend killed himself, didn’t he? So what does it matter...” Like a ball dropping from a great height, she suddenly got it. “Oh, shit. Shit. They don’t think your friend killed himself, do they?”

“No, they don’t.”

“They think he was murdered. A murder on Mariposa Drive!” She gave me a look that suggested she expected there to be more murders momentarily.

“Yes, that’s what they think.”

“Well, it did seem odd. Suicide, I mean...if I were to kill myself, I’d do it at home. I wouldn’t do it at a friend’s house. I mean, that’s awful impolite, don’t you think?”

“Yes, it’s impolite,” I mumbled. I couldn’t let her go on for too long. I had to find a way to move on, otherwise she’d talk to me all night, and I wouldn’t find out anything at all.

“Of course, being murdered at a friend’s house isn’t much more polite, is it?” She let out a guffaw. “I bet no one ever asked Emily Post about that!”

I smiled, but wasn’t able to join in her laughter. I was wasting my time.

When she calmed down, Mrs. Enders gave me a look the seemed like pity. “I was so afraid it was Jeremy. I’m so glad it wasn’t. He’s always been such a dear. How did you let a catch like him get away?”

“I don’t know. I just managed somehow.”

I stood up, getting ready to make an excuse and leave. Then she said, “I wonder if
he
noticed anything unusual?”

“Jeremy? Why would--Jeremy was here that night?”

“Yes. He and that friend of his, the one that had the show on cable about the hair salon, you know who I’m talking about. Has a stupid name.”

“Skye.”

“That’s it. Ha! When I was young people were named Cy. Now they’re named Skye. How things change.”

Obviously, the problem was in my question. I shouldn’t have asked her if she saw anything unusual that afternoon. I should just have let her talk. “What did Jeremy and Skye do?”

“Sat in Jeremy’s car. It’s a lovely car, though I don’t know why people can’t buy American. It’s just logical buying American would make things better. Don’t you think it would make things better? Anyway, they were sitting in Jeremy’s car, and I went down to chat with them. His friend isn’t very nice. You don’t think he’s nice, do you?”

“Not particularly, no,” I said honestly. “Did they say why they were here?”

“Jeremy wanted to show Skye the house.”

“They went inside?”

“No, no, no. Not that I saw. But would that matter? It’s Jeremy’s house, too.”

I couldn’t help but say, “Why don’t you tell him that? He hasn’t given me any money for the mortgage in almost a year.”

“Oh well, I wouldn’t know about that.” She stood and asked me, “Do you want another drink?”

“No, I didn’t, I don’t--”

“You don’t have a drink,” she said, looking at my empty hands. “Did I not offer you a drink?”

“You did. I didn’t want one.”

“Don’t be silly. Have a drink!” She walked over to a little brass and glass bar cart. “What can I do you for?” She nearly knocked herself over laughing at her own joke.

“Mrs. Enders, if you saw Jeremy earlier, why were you afraid it might have been Jeremy who hung himself in the garage?”

She looked at me blankly, then said, “Oh, I see what you mean. He wouldn’t have had time to come back and…would he? I suppose I was just thinking about how he seemed. He seemed unhappy. Unhappy people hurt themselves.”

I said an awkward goodbye and left. The minute I got back into my own living room, I found the landline and called Jeremy’s cell. What time had they been there? I wondered as it rang. Would it make any difference to the police? For instance, Jeremy and Skye could testify that my car wasn’t there at, say, seven o’clock. That would prove I got there after seven, but would that leave enough time for me to accidentally strangle Eddie and fake his suicide. Probably not. Of course, if Jeremy and Skye were there at six fifteen it didn’t do me a bit of good.

“Jeremy, it’s me,” I said when he picked up.

“It’s not a good time, Matt. Can I call you tomorrow?” The connection was crap; it sounded like he was in a bar or restaurant. The phone picked up the background noise stronger than Jeremy’s voice.

“I talked to Mrs. Enders. She said you and Jeremy came by the night my friend died. What time were you here?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We didn’t come by.” He was lying.

“She said you were sitting in the car outside. What time?”

“She’s confused. Maybe she’s thinking about a different day.”

“Okay. What other day is she thinking about when you and Skye were sitting in your car in front of the house?”

“She says we were just sitting in front of the house? That’s stupid. Why would we do that?”

“Look, I don’t care why you were there. I just need you to call the police and tell them what time you were there and that I wasn’t home yet.”

“Matt, I told you. We weren’t there.”

“Someone killed Eddie. The police think it was me. You have to tell them I wasn’t here.”

He didn’t answer. I heard him talking to someone in the background.

“Matt, I’ll call you tomorrow. We’re being let into the VIP room. I have to go.” He hung up on me. Wherever they were, it had to be a pretty slow night if they were letting Skye and Jeremy into the VIP room.

Not surprisingly, I had a tough time sleeping that night. I’d done my best to make the couch comfortable, making it up with sheets and a blanket like a real bed. I tried a number of positions: on my side, face-down, curled up like a kitten. None of them worked. I was wide-awake. The whole Eddie thing kept spinning around in my head, which I suppose is where my real discomfort came from.

Around two, I got up and took another Norco. That zonked me out for about three hours. I was awake when the Sunday paper was thrown from a passing car onto my front yard. I heard it land in the damp grass with a thwack. Dragging myself off the sofa, I went out to get it. Only half the lawn was damp. The sprinklers for the other half had failed to go off. I’d have to come out with a hose later. Of course, eventually I’d have to get it fixed. Which would cost a lot of money, but if I didn’t, I’d end up having to re-seed the lawn. Unfortunately, I had bigger problems just then, so I pushed those thoughts aside. I grabbed the thick Sunday paper and ran back into the house.

I pulled the paper apart and flipped through it quickly. There weren’t any stories about Eddie’s death. But there was an obituary. Next to his high school graduation portrait, the piece read:

Javier Eduardo Hernandez born May 25, 1985 in Van Nuys, California passed away on November 10, 2009. He is survived by his fiancée Sylvia Navarez, his mother, three brothers and many aunts, uncles and cousins. He’ll be remembered for his kindness, his bright smile and his generous nature. He planned to go back to college soon. God has taken him instead.

It ended with the time and location of services. I ripped the obituary out of the newspaper and set it by my phone and keys. The funeral was Monday; maybe I should go.

Of course, I couldn’t help but be a little surprised by the existence of a fiancée. I suppose that meant Eddie was bisexual. It had only ever been guys for me, even before puberty I’d had some idea I was gay, so I didn’t quite get bisexuality. I didn’t have anything against bisexuals. Logically, I knew there were all sorts of people in the middle between straight and gay. It just hadn’t occurred to me that Eddie was one of them.

In both of my experiences with him, he’d seemed pretty gay to me. But then, I was having sex with him at the time, so I suppose he would. There wasn’t a bit of difference between having sex with a gay guy or a bi-guy, right? I wondered if his fiancée knew what he did for a living? Or
was
he doing it for a living? Maybe he was doing it as a way to justify having sex with guys. He might not have been bisexual at all; he might just have been repressed.

Before I went to bed, I’d plugged in my new smart phone to charge. I pulled it off the charger and turned it on. The features were pretty intuitive, and I was on the Internet in just a few minutes Googling: erotic asphyxiation. The first entry I found read:

Erotic-asphyxiation is the practice of interrupting blood supply to the brain via oxygen deprivation at the height of orgasm. Often accomplished with a scarf or belt, the lack of blood flow is believed to intensify the orgasmic experience. Erotic-asphyxiation is a paraphilia -- an attraction to life-threatening sexual activities. The element of danger may in itself heighten orgasm
.

Well, they didn’t make it sound especially sexy. But that probably wasn’t the point. The thing I found odd about the entry was that it didn’t discuss the individuals who applied the asphyxia. I sort of had a handle on what people who liked this done to them might be like -- given my experience with Jeremy, who looked like he enjoyed it. But what about the people who liked to be, well, on top? Why did they like it? And how did you find them?

I had a queasy thought. If I couldn’t find an alibi, then I’d have to find the killer. But who was I kidding? I couldn’t find a killer. I wasn’t some action star; I was an accountant. I’d end up dead. My choices, however, were limited. If I did nothing, I’d end up in prison. If I found the killer, I could end up dead. Neither was an appealing choice.

I wanted to lock all my doors, stay inside all day, and look up things on the Internet. I sincerely wished I could just Google Eddie’s killer and email the information to the police. That wasn’t very realistic. I had to act. I had to somehow figure this out, and sitting on my sofa playing with my smart phone wasn’t going to cut it.

In the bottom drawer of my dresser was a pair of gloves I’d bought for a ski weekend Jeremy and I went on to Tahoe a few years back. I went in and grabbed them. Then, on my way out of the house, I grabbed Eddie’s keys from the bowl by the door. When I’d come home Thursday night, I remembered thinking that Eddie was gone because I didn’t see his car. But it had to be nearby, didn’t it?

It was a beautiful morning, cool and quiet, birds chirping. Anyone would think you were in a distant suburb, which was the whole charm of living in the Hollywood Hills -- even when you lived at the bottom of one of the canyons between two hills. Some pretty major streets were nearby, but I had to strain to hear them.

I flipped a mental coin and headed west. At the end of the block, Mariposa turned upward and began to climb out of the canyon. There were no sidewalks, just a macadam road that regularly broke apart at the edges. I turned a corner, nothing. Hiking up another block, I wondered why Eddie had hidden his car. Did he not want me to see it when I came home? Or was he hiding it from the person who killed him?

When I reached Harvey Lane, I saw the Lincoln sagging under a eucalyptus, but something was wrong. The rear passenger door on the driver’s side was partly open, as was the trunk. Someone had broken into Eddie’s car.