Full Release (17 page)

“There’s only one thing that bums me out about guys like you...” He left the comment hanging in the air.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“You never kiss.”

It was a dare. A gauntlet tossed down. I could have made an excuse. Claimed that kissing would lead to my getting every cold that made the rounds (though it was hard to see how the rest of what I did wouldn’t do the same thing). But I didn’t make an excuse. I leaned forward and kissed him. Kissed him deeply, my tongue exploring his. I did my best to be passionate, to give him a Hollywood-movie style goodbye kiss.

“I’ll be calling you again.”

I was floating on a cloud the whole way home. A lot of it was relief, I suppose. I hadn’t been sure I’d actually be able to go through with it. Some of it was the fact that David Barker had given me a fifty-dollar tip over and above my fee. Someone as important as David Barker was impressed by me; it felt good. I began to understand what Eddie got out of doing this.

I turned onto Mariposa Drive and there, sitting in front of my house, was Jeremy’s three year-old BMW. Pulling into my driveway, I turned and saw Jeremy and Skye sitting in the car. Just sitting. It creeped me out.

This is what they were doing the day Eddie died. I jumped out of my car, slamming the door behind me. I stomped across the lawn toward them, but Jeremy fired up the BMW and pulled away from the curb before I could get to them. I watched them drive off.

What was that about?

Chapter Seventeen

The next morning when I woke up I felt okay. I even felt okay when I remembered the things that were happening in my life. I told myself my mood had improved because I was doing something. I’d taken action, taken charge of my life. And maybe that was true. Or maybe I was just a little crazy.

Grabbing the paper from in front of my house, I flipped through it quickly to see if there was another story about Eddie’s murder. There was. Alan Moskowitz had written a small story about the murder, but it was just a follow-up and didn’t contain any new information. Annoyingly, they printed my mug shot right next to what was probably Eddie’s high school graduation photo. If it wasn’t me I was looking at, I’d say it was a slam dunk that the disheveled, crazed-looking guy killed the poor high school kid.

I checked my phone. I had two email requests for massages, one for that afternoon and another for Friday evening. I wondered if it was this busy for everyone, or if I was getting appointments because I was the new kid on the block. While I showered, I debated whether guys who went to masseurs behaved the same way they did when they dated. Were some faithful to the same masseur for years, while others needed the constant thrill of a new guy? Or did they split the difference, going back to the same masseur time and time again, while they occasionally ventured out and tried new ones?

My first client had gone so well I was feeling great about the whole venture. I’d even begun to calculate how much money I’d be making. I would be drawing a paycheck from the studio for quite a while, at least another six weeks given that I had so much vacation time built up. If I didn’t have this whole thing straightened out, Sonja might let me call in sick for another two weeks. After that, I’d probably have to go on leave. Unpaid.

I began calculating how much extra I could pick up and then added it to my salary. If I averaged, say, seven massages a week, I’d actually be making just a little less than my salary. That would go a long way to dig me out of my financial hole. If I picked up an extra thousand a week for ten or twelve weeks, I might be able to put together a modest kitchen--

Whoa. Wait a minute. A kitchen, modest or otherwise, wouldn’t make much difference if I got convicted of murder. I shouldn’t lose track of the whole point of the massage thing. The point was to find Eddie’s killer. I wondered how long it would take. A week? Two weeks? What if killing Eddie freaked him out? What if he wasn’t out there getting massages? He might never show up. Then I could end up with enough for a kitchen, except I’d be spending it on a lawyer.

I had to stay focused. I had to do more than I was doing. But what? I sat on my patio, sipping a cup of coffee, thinking about who might have killed Eddie. Was Hanson right? Was it someone at the funeral? I wondered how I might get a list of who was at the funeral. I doubted the cemetery would give me a list, even if they had one. Nor did I think Eddie’s mother would let me peek at the guestbook. So, that was a wash.

I could start calling masseurs on massageformen.com and ask if they’d ever had a guy try to choke them. That might not be a bad idea. It would be time consuming, and I might not get too many answers, since they’d likely think I was just a perv into scarfing myself and not call me back. But if I found one guy who’d…then I another idea. A better one.

Hyped up on two cups of coffee, I got to work. I called and left a voicemail for Tiffany asking if Cameron had cracked the file yet. Then I clicked over to the Internet and found a site that sold phone numbers and addresses. I paid nearly twelve bucks for info on five Sylvia Navarezes in Los Angeles County. I picked out the one I thought most likely to be Eddie’s fiancée, GPSed her address on my phone, and headed out.

The address was on the very edge of Echo Park. As I drove east along Sunset, the neighborhoods got poorer and poorer. Finally, I took a sharp turn north and zigzagged over a few streets until I was heading up a small hill. Halfway up the hill, I turned and found the address I was looking for, 2216 Popping Jay.

The street was narrow and made a sudden, treacherous curve right after 2216 and continued upward. I parked a few hundred feet above the house, where the street was cut into a sandy hillside. I was glad it wasn’t raining. The wall of sand and rock I’d parked next to was likely to come down in a bad storm.

Walking down toward 2216, I noted that the curve lacked a guardrail. I was able to look straight down the hill to the back of someone’s yard fifty feet below. It seemed likely that someone went off the road and ended up in their backyard at least once every decade or so, probably more often.

The Navarez house was a small Craftsman badly in need of repair. The only updates I could see from the street were the bars on each window and the steel security door covering the front door. The house was set above the street about fifteen feet, and the yard behind it continued up hill.

Opening the vine-covered front gate, I climbed up the driveway to the sagging front porch. I pressed a doorbell and nothing happened, silence. I tried again, and when nothing continued to happen, I knocked on the metal door. The wooden front door beyond was open, and I could hear my knock clanging through the small house. I could also see that the tiny living room was stuffed with large, leather furniture and a giant plasma TV. I heard footsteps, and then Sylvia Navarez was at the door.

Nailed it the first time. This was the Sylvia Navarez I was looking for. I breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe the universe was on my side, after all. “Sylvia Navarez, right?”

“Yes. Who are you?” Apparently, she didn’t watch the local news.

“I’m Matt Latowski. Your fiancé was killed at my house.”

“I can’t talk to you.” She began to shut the inner door.

“Please, you have to talk to me. There are things I need to know.”

Leaving the door open just a crack, she peeked out at me. “What do you need to know?”

“One of my neighbors saw a woman sitting in a black SUV crying. Was that you?”

I thought I saw a tiny flinch when I asked my question, but she said, “No. It wasn’t me.”

“The police are pretty sure I killed Eddie, I mean Javier, but I didn’t, so I have to figure out who did.”

“No, I can’t help you. I’m sorry.” She slammed the door shut like I was some freak selling religion door-to-door. I was stunned. Staring at the metal door, I stood there deciding what to do. I could knock and ring the doorbell until she called the police. Not a good idea. Or I could leave with my tail between my legs. Also, not a good idea.

I looked around the porch, then walked down to the driveway. In the driveway sat a recent model Ford Mustang. When I looked closely I noted that it was a Shelby edition. I knew they only made a few thousand of these each year. Even used, a Shelby like this was in the forty to fifty thousand dollar range. It looked to be loaded with every possible option, and unlike the house, it was spotlessly maintained. I remembered the extra Ford key on Eddie’s key chain. This was Eddie’s other car. Nice.

Something was obviously wrong, the expensive leather furniture, the enormous TV and now the Shelby. Yeah, Eddie and Sylvia might have gone crazy with credit cards, but I doubted it. I also doubted she was the kind of girl who came with a trust fund. There was no way they could have paid for all this on just what Eddie made giving massages. Something else was going on, something more lucrative than a rub and a tug.

My phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and glanced at it. David Barker was calling me. I decided to let it go to voicemail. It was flattering that he’d call so soon, but booking repeat clients was not a priority. I ignored the call and was about to go back to wondering about Eddie’s situation when I looked up and saw a Hispanic guy of about twenty coming up the driveway. He had a basketball in one hand. He wore over-long gym shorts, a pair of high tops, and a layer of sweat. He was a nice-looking kid. He reminded me a little of Eddie -- although he was a good three or four inches taller. I was concerned he’d give me trouble when he figured out who I was, but when he saw me, he broke out into a large and engaging smile.

“Are you here for me? You’re almost an hour early.”

I decided to play along. “I am? Shit, sorry.”

“It’s Dave, right?”

“Yeah, Dave.”

“You’re gonna need to give me a few minutes. Been playing ball with my boys. Gotta take a shower. Studio’s in the back.” He lowered his voice like this was a secret. “It used to be a garage. You can hang out there if you want.”

“Um, sure, I’ll do that.”

“I’ll be like twenty minutes.”

He ran up into the house. I headed up the driveway. At the top, beyond the Shelby, was a ramshackle garage. I entered via a side door. With very minimal adjustments, the garage had been turned into a massage studio.

It was one large room with a couple of small windows. The walls had been covered in sheetrock and then painted a light beige. An industrial carpet covered the cement floor. A bare mattress sat on the floor in the center of the room; a straight back chair lazed against one wall, while a cheap stereo set up clustered in a corner. Candles were scattered here and there.

A lot came into focus really fast. The studio was Eddie’s. It’s where he’d done his in-calls, with his fiancée living less than twenty feet away. Sylvia knew what he did for a living. She knew everything. Not to mention, he’d been dead less than a week and she had a replacement. It hit me that this is where I’d have come if I hadn’t asked Eddie for an outcall. I might not be involved in his death at all if I’d asked for an incall. Eddie had called me for a date so he could hide out at my place. That’s why he wouldn’t leave. He was hiding from…whoever killed him. If I’d chosen to have my massage in this little studio, Eddie would have hidden somewhere else. He might still be alive. Or, more likely, I’d have no idea he was dead.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

I turned to find Sylvia standing in the doorway. I was able to get a better look at her than I had through the security door. Most of the time, she was probably very pretty. Her dark hair had been professionally highlighted with auburn. Though well done, her makeup that day was heavy yet still didn’t manage to conceal the circles under her eyes. She wore a black blouse and a pair of cut-off jeans. I guess that passed for mourning.

“Isn’t this romantic?” I said, waving a hand around the room.

“This is none of your business.”

“It’s Eddie’s studio, isn’t it? He’s been dead a couple of days? And you’ve got it booked?”

“Javier’s table is missing. Do you have it?”

“Did you ask the police?” I knew she hadn’t. She probably acted surprised when they told her what Eddie did for a living. She certainly wouldn’t want them to know she wanted the table back for his replacement. “What’s his name? Eddie’s replacement?”

“That’s also none of your business.”

“Obviously you knew what Eddie was doing for a living.”

She scowled at me. “When can you bring by the table?”

“I didn’t say I had Eddie’s table.”

“You have it.”

“Did Eddie talk about his clients? Like the one who put bruises on his neck a couple days before he was killed?”

“If I tell you, will I get the table back?”

“
If
I have it. Sure.” There wasn’t a chance in hell she was getting that table back from me. “Tell me what happened to him.”

“It wasn’t a big deal. This guy from Pasadena got rough with him. He’d never seen him before. That’s all.”

“Did you tell that to the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s not their business.”

“The guy from Pasadena, do you have his number?”

“No. Eddie made own his appointments.”

“Do you know what day that happened? The police can check Eddie’s phone records and find the guy. He’s probably the guy who killed him.”

“When can I have the table?” Her voice was crisp, business-like.

“You don’t care if they catch Eddie’s killer?” “I care about the table.”

I stood there a moment, not sure what to do. Then, curiosity got the better of me. “You never minded what Eddie did with guys?”

Raising her chin defiantly, she asked, “When you were with Javier he didn’t come, did he?” The first time, no; the second, yes. I decided not to answer. She went on. “He saved that for me. He saved the best part for his lady.”

As I walked out of the studio, she said, “What about the table?”

“No fucking way.”

She ran after me. “Hey! You said you’d give it to me if I told you who hurt Eddie.”

“But you didn’t tell me. You lied.”

She didn’t even bother to deny it. “I want that table. It’s mine.”

Walking down her driveway, I realized she wasn’t just lying about the guy from Pasadena. She was lying about a lot more. I turned back on her.

“You know who killed Eddie, don’t you?”

Her faced hardened. She forgot about the table. “Get off my property.”

“You’re afraid of him, aren’t you?”

She turned to go back up to the house. “I’m calling the police if you’re not gone in ten seconds.”

After giving her a big smile, I went through the gate and was back on the street. I walked up to my car thinking if Eddie hadn’t been killed I never would have known about Sylvia. I could have hired him a hundred times, and I wouldn’t have known. I wondered exactly how involved she was with Eddie’s business. Did she know some of his clients? Did she ever join in?

The thing she’d said about Eddie saving his orgasm for her kept coming back to me. He’d done that when he saw me as a client. But when he saw me on a date, he did come. Did that mean he liked me? No, more likely it meant that he was desperate for a place to hide and didn’t want me to be suspicious of his motives.

When I got back to my Civic, I did a quick Internet search and found that Eddie’s table had cost somewhere between four and five hundred dollars. That seemed enough reason for a woman like Sylvia to demand its return. Still, I wondered if there was more to it. I’d used the table, though.

If there was more to it, wouldn’t I have noticed?

Chapter Eighteen