Full Release (13 page)

I walked around the car, peeking into the windows; the inside was messy. I slipped the gloves on, then tried the driver’s door. It opened. The car smelled like a cheap hotel room: stale cigarette smoke and caustic cleansers. I checked the ashtray, but it was empty of butts. The smell was likely the ghost of some previous owner. The front seat was a split bench with tufted, tan leather. On the dash was a glued-on portable GPS, which would have made Eddie’s outcalls easier to find. Next to that was a family of rubber ducks. A mama duck and three baby ducks “swimming” behind her; the last of the baby ducks coming loose and held to the dashboard by a piece of double-sided tape. Rubber ducks must be Eddie’s “thing”.

My first thought was that the car had been burgled. It happened often enough in L.A., and the car had been sitting there for a couple of days. Some drug addicts probably noticed it and broke in. I glanced into the backseat: empty water bottles, bags from drive-through restaurants, a Dodgers baseball cap, the ragged Thomas Guide that had been replaced by the GPS. Wait. The GPS was still there. Thieving drug addicts would not have left it stuck to the dashboard. They would have stolen it. So why break into Eddie’s car?

I slid over on the seat and opened the glove compartment. Inside was an ancient owner’s manual, receipts for repairs, two unpaid parking tickets. The corner of his car registration stuck out from the bottom of the heap. I eased it out from under and glanced at his address. He lived on DeLongpre in the Hollywood flats. On top of all this was a neatly folded piece of laser-printed paper. I took it out and unfolded it. Illogically, it was a suicide note. A suicide note for a man who’d been murdered.

It said, “I’m so ashamed of myself. I can’t go on any longer. I know I’ve brought sadness and shame to my family and those who love me. And for that I am truly sorry. -- Javier.”

Was this why the car had been broken into? Had someone deliberately planted the note? And why hadn’t the police searched the car? Had they just not gotten around to it yet? The note had come out of a laser printer. Possibly mine. It was an obvious fake. More than a fake, it looked like someone trying to fake a suicide and doing a bad job of it. Someone was deliberately trying to frame me, I thought again.

I folded the note up and tried to decide what to do with it. If I turned the note in to the police, it will just look like a further attempt on my part to cover everything up. If I destroyed it and the police figured that out, I’d look even guiltier. I could destroy it, but what if it had the killer’s fingerprints on it? I doubted it did, but I couldn’t be sure. I put the note back into the glove compartment. For now.

I got out of the car and walked around to the trunk. I eased the lid up and found nothing there but a couple boxes of old clothes. Either Eddie had left them there after the last time he moved, or he was planning to donate them to Goodwill. Some of the clothes had been pulled out of the boxes. Someone was looking for something, something they thought Eddie had. But what?

As I closed the trunk, I wondered what the suicide note could tell me about the person who wrote it. He used the words “ashamed” and “shame.” He assumed Eddie was ashamed of being a masseur. But in his time with me, Eddie hadn’t seemed ashamed at all. He’d almost been brazen about it. He said he liked men and that was the reason he gave erotic massages. So the shame is likely on the part of the killer. The killer was ashamed of his association with Eddie.

Another thing about the note, it used the phrase “my family and those who love me.” This person doesn’t know Eddie well. If he did, he’d use specific names. He would have added those details to make the note more convincing.

For a few moments I was pleased with myself. I knew three things about the killer. He was ashamed of himself, probably sexually. He didn’t know Eddie well. And Eddie had something he wanted back. I decided I was so good at profiling that I should maybe have my own TV show after I was cleared of murder. But then something occurred to me.

My parents were “good” church people, and ever since I came out in college, we’d had a strained relationship. A prosecutor could whip this up for a jury and convince them that I carried deep shame. On top of that, I’d already admitted to the police that I didn’t know Eddie well. And if I was the killer, I’d be trying to find Eddie’s phone to destroy it. Everything I’d just learned about the killer could be turned back on me.

Taking the gloves off, I began walking back to my house. My mind was racing. The police thought I killed Eddie, and they thought that because someone was trying to make them think that. What chance did I stand? I didn’t have the money for a lawyer or a private detective. I didn’t have an alibi. They could prove that someone killed Eddie, and I couldn’t prove it wasn’t me.

What was up with Jeremy? I couldn’t help but think about the sex we’d had on Friday and what he’d had me do to him. Had he known something? How could he, though? And now finding out the he and Skye were in the neighborhood around the time that Eddie was killed. Did that mean something? And if it did, what? What did it mean?

Jeremy did not kill Eddie. I knew that for certain. Didn’t I? If he and Skye had gone into the house, what would have happened? The three of them fell into some kind of kinky three-way that ended with Eddie being choked to death? No, that didn’t happen. Jeremy would never have come to the house the next day and had sex with me. Not if he or Skye had killed Eddie there the day before. It was dumb, and even though Jeremy had done some pretty dumb things in the past, it was too dumb.

Even for Jeremy.

Chapter Thirteen

When I got back to my house, I impulsively jumped into my car. I needed to check something out. Ten minutes later, I was on DeLongpre cruising for a parking space. I found one on Seward and walked back to DeLongpre. I hadn’t written down Eddie’s address, but I remembered the first two numbers were 66. Lucky for me, there was a park on one side of the street. The other side of the street was small homes from the thirties and forties. They’d once been affordable, but these days, even with the real estate collapse, they were out of reach for someone like Eddie.

In the center of the block there were two apartment buildings. I didn’t see Eddie’s name on the mailbox at the first place, so I went on to the second. It took only a second or so to find his name. Hernandez. He was in apartment G. The building was from the fifties, a stucco box painted pastel green with dirty gray accents. There was no security system, so I walked around the pool, which occupied the center of the square building, following the letters until I got to G.

The door stood open a few inches. At first, I thought whoever had been in Eddie’s car had been here, too. But then I realized I could hear a TV playing inside. And I could smell that someone was frying something in a lot of oil. I tapped on the door and said, “Hello?”

A few seconds later, a short, chubby little woman in her early forties came to the door. She had dyed black hair and caramel skin; she’d probably been a real beauty when she was young.

“Yes? What do you want?” she asked, in a thick Spanish accent.

I stood there stupidly. This was obviously Eddie’s mother, and I had no idea what to say to her. “I knew your son,” I said, because there wasn’t much else to say.

Her faced turned sour. “Did you owe him money?”

“No, why would you--I came to say how sorry I am.”

She gave a little shrug. “If you owe him money, I will take it.”

“But I didn’t owe him money. I just said that.” I realized I didn’t know whether or not she still thought Eddie was a suicide. “Is this Eddie’s apartment? Did you live here with him?”

“Why do you care? Is not your business.”

“I’m just, I’m trying to figure out what happened to Eddie.”

“Some maricon killed him.” Then she narrowed her eyes as though she thought I might be that maricon. That’s when I realized she knew what Eddie did for a living. Had Tripp told her? Or had she known before?

“Why do you think that? Why do you think a gay person killed him?”

“Who are you?” she asked.

I didn’t want to explain who I was, so I repeated, “I was friend of Javier’s.”

“A funeral is expensive. A friend would pay.”

My God, what kind of friend did she think I was? Did she think I was Eddie’s boyfriend? Or was she just the kind of woman who asked everyone to pay for her son’s funeral until someone did? She wasn’t going to be any help. That was clear. Well, unless I offered to pay, that is. I looked her up and down and said, “I’m sorry I bothered you.” Then I walked away.

When I got back to my house, I sat in the car for a good five minutes. Just sat there. I could barely think, but I forced myself to decide what to do next. I knew I needed to talk to more of my neighbors, but it seemed futile. One of the odd things about Los Angeles is that people seldom live near where they work. Several of my neighbors worked on the far side of the valley, a couple worked on the Westside, and one even worked down in Orange County. That meant it took them ages to get home. They might not have gotten home until, say, seven-thirty. And would probably have been too frazzled from traffic to notice whether I was home.

Two doors down from me lived Simon Willow. He worked nearby. He was always home by six thirty, walking his dog. I got out of the car and walked down to his house. It was mid-century and similar to mine, except bigger and excessively decorated. The front yard was over-landscaped, with an asymmetrical stone path leading from the street to the front door and exotic grass that grew in mounds everywhere. The house itself had been painted a designer blue that was probably called something like
Midnight in Aruba
.

I walked up his driveway, bracing myself to knock on his door. Simon Willow and I were not what you’d call friends. He was the kind of queer who based his entire life on the advertisements in
GQ
,
The Advocate,
and
Details.
Even though he was past forty, he was still into clothes, circuit parties, and designer drugs. He spent enough time at the gym that he could unashamedly strip off whatever expensive outfit he wore and drop it on the floor at a moment’s notice. And, from the way he talked, often did.

I couldn’t deny that he was good looking. At just over six feet, his body was trim and elegantly muscled. His eyes were dark, his hair was professionally highlighted, he had an eagle tattooed onto one shoulder. He was famous in the neighborhood for his yearly Pride Party. On Pride weekend, he borrowed a thirty foot long RV and parked it out in the alley. He filled his backyard with as many delectable young things as possible, passed out gallons of liquor, presumably a similar amount of sex enhancing drugs (though in the three times I went to the party, I never actually saw any) and then waited until it was very late to lure as many stragglers as he could into the RV for a sort of impromptu sex club.

When he opened the door, he wore a pair of cargo shorts and nothing else. The yellow dog, whose name was something like Esmeralda, barked behind him. “Well, hello. Aren’t we the social butterfly?”

“I’m sorry?”

“I happened to notice you coming out of Mrs. Enders house last night. Drinking away our troubles?”

“I’m checking with the neighbors to see what they saw the other night, when my friend died,” I explained.

“Really. And what did the old drunk see? Not much I imagine. At least not much she could remember, right?” Simon and Mrs. Enders had a long-standing feud. Jeremy told me what it was about one time, but I’d forgotten.

“I’m afraid she wasn’t much help.”

He laughed as though I’d told a joke, then stood back from the door. “Come on in, sweetheart.” He led the yellow dog out to sliding glass doors and eased her onto the patio. After he came back into his living room, he perched on a dramatic but uncomfortable looking leather chair. I hovered behind the sofa.

“So, did you happen to notice when I came home?” I asked, still fishing for some kind of alibi.

“No. I actually went out around seven. Happy Hour at Wrath.”

“Good. At seven, did you see my car in the driveway, or any indication that I was at home?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t remember,” he said. “Is that important?”

“Can you tell me anything you did see, between about five thirty and the time you left… even if seems completely normal.”

“How’s that horrible ex of yours?” Simon asked sociably.

“He’s fine.”

“I can’t stand guys like that. All charm and no substance.” He paused dramatically. “Not that I have either, but at least I know it. I don’t try to pass myself off as more than I am.”

“Did you see anything, Simon?”

“I might have seen something,” he said, in a teasing voice.

“But you’re not going to tell me?”

“I might tell you, if you were a little friendlier. Why don’t you come sit down?”

I came around the sofa and sat down. He moved over and sat next to me. “Now, that’s better. Isn’t it? Cozier.” Actually, the sofa was nearly as uncomfortable as the leather chair looked.

Simon slipped a hand high onto my thigh. “When you and Jeremiah broke up, I thought for sure you’d come by to visit me. At least once.”

“It’s Jeremy, not Jeremiah.”

“Was he good in bed? To me, he always seemed the type to get what he wanted through sex. Is he one of those voracious bottoms who gets everything by throwing their legs in the air?”

“Mrs. Enders saw Jeremy and his friend Skye sitting in a car.”

“Really? Do tell…”

“So you didn’t see them?”

“No. I saw something else.”

“What else?” Simon left a long, dramatic pause. I finally said, “You’re not going to tell me, are you?”

“Of course I’m going to tell you. But let’s just be a little social first.” Just in case his meaning wasn’t completely clear, he tapped my crotch with one finger.

“You’re blackmailing me?”

“That’s not a very nice word,” he said, as though I were a four-year-old who’d just repeated the word “fuck.”

“The police think I killed this guy, and they want to put me in prison.” I hoped the gravity of the situation might sway him to be more cooperative.

The look on his face told me he’d seen too many prison-themed pornos to take the threat to my safety seriously. I was going to have to fuck him to get the information I wanted. It was an unpleasant thought. Too bad my cock didn’t agree; it was well on its way to being hard.

Simon leaned over to kiss me. I pulled my head back. “No kissing,” I told him. He laughed a little. Then he reached down and unbuttoned my jeans. Slipping his hand in, he pulled my now hard cock through the opening of my boxers and out into the air.

“Now that’s what I call friendly.”

He bent over into my lap and kissed the end of my penis. As though to taunt me for not letting him kiss my lips, he kissed my cock over and over again. Finally, his tongue slipped out and he began to run it round my cock head. His skills were impressive. Meanly, I assumed he had a lot of practice. When he was done teasing me with his tongue, he took my cock all the way into his mouth. He dove down onto my shaft until I was deep in his throat. Then he withdrew, letting me fall out of his mouth.

With two fingers, he carefully worked my balls out of my shorts. He slipped one testicle into his mouth, rolled it around and then went for the other. My hips began to lift off the sofa. I wanted him back on my dick.

Taking the cue, he wrapped a hand around my cock and went to work sucking me. He swallowed my cock with a spin of his head, flattening his tongue out across the head so that it was always fully covered. Down he’d go, then up with a little spin. I shivered each time he got to the top.

Abruptly, he stopped to take a couple of deep breaths before he went down on my dick again, this time taking it all the way down his throat. It felt amazing, but I couldn’t help but think that Simon was like a snake who’d unhinged his jaw. Not a pleasant thought given the situation.

Keeping my prick in his mouth, Simon slipped his cargo shorts down around his ankles. His cock was thick with a fat mushroom top, and very hard. He pulled off me just long enough to spit in his hand. Then he went back to sucking me while he jerked himself off.

I needed to get this over with so I could get my information. Not that it was a terrible experience, I’d just rather be getting a blowjob from, well, a lot of other people, but most specifically a certain Detective Tripp. I closed my eyes and began to imagine what it might be like if Tripp was actually here, on his knees, my cock in his mouth. I imagined what he’d looked like without his elegant business suit, his body muscular, a bit lanky, his skin deliciously dark. With Tripp, I’d want to reciprocate. I’d push him off my cock and pull him into a standing position, then I’d take him into--

That did it. I came in Simon’s mouth. He moaned deeply as he swallowed. Then he licked me clean. He kept my dick in his mouth as it softened slightly, and continued to jack himself off. In a few moments, he was coming in great spurts all over his thigh.

After a teasing bite to the end of my dick, he sat back and smiled at me. “Well, who’d have thought you’d be so much fun.”

Buttoning my jeans, I ignored the half-assed compliment and told him, “Tell me what you saw.”

“I always walk Calliope the minute I get home.” Calliope, that was the dog’s name, not Esmerelda. “Poor dear, she has the tiniest bladder. She barely gets to the curb before she has to squat and wee-wee. Anyway, I looked up and saw the most interesting thing.” He paused dramatically. “A woman sitting in a Mercedes SUV, sitting right in front of your house. I’d guess she was dark, Hispanic probably. She was crying.”

It might have been Eddie’s mother, or maybe even his fiancée. “Could you tell how old she was?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know there’d be a test later.”

“What time was that?” I asked.

“Almost seven.”

“Did you tell this to the police?”

“The police? No. They never came by.”

After getting that tiny bit of information from Simon Willow, I went home and took a long, hot shower. I did my best not to think about my recent sexual behavior and the fact that I’d never be able to look at Simon Willow without thinking about his skillful, though coerced, blowjob. I suppose I shouldn’t put Simon Willow in the same category as Eddie or Stripes or even Jeremy. If Eddie hadn’t been killed in my house I never would have let Simon Willow suck me off, so it wasn’t really part of my whole let’s-not-be-vanilla thing. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

When I finished scrubbing myself one too many times, it was around noon. Wrapping a towel around myself, I looked around for my phone to call Detective Tripp. I wasn’t sure if the number he gave me was his cell or the office phone. If it was the office, I figured I’d be leaving a message, but that was okay. I needed to talk to him. Hopefully, he’d call me back.

Tripp picked up the phone after just two rings.

“Detective Tripp, this is Matt Latowski. I have some information for you.”

“Information? What kind of information?”

“I spoke to one of my neighbors, Simon Willow, and he saw a woman parked in front of my house in a Mercedes about seven the night Eddie was killed. The woman was crying.” I paused. “He also went out a few minutes later and didn’t see my car. If I was inside murdering Eddie, where was my car?”

“In the alley. Who is Simon Willow?” he asked.

“My neighbor, two doors down.”

“I’ll look at the report in the morning. Good--”

“There is no report.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because he said the police haven’t talked to him.”

“But I sent out two off--” He stopped abruptly and was silent, then he said, “You shouldn’t be talking to your neighbors. That could be construed as witness tampering.”