“Maybe you shouldn’t--”
“I’ve been thinking you and I should have a three-way with Skye.”
And there it was. He’d manage to screw up the whole thing before he got out the door. “I think you should leave,” I said.
Chapter Eight
I slammed the door behind Jeremy, thrilled he was gone, and saw something I hadn’t noticed before. On the table next to the front door sat a stack of take-out menus. They’d been there since last night; I’d seen them but hadn’t seen them.
The table by the door was teak, about three feet wide and a foot deep. It had two small drawers that opened with wrought iron pulls and a shelf at the bottom where I kept a blown glass vase I’d bought in Pasadena. The table was roughhewn and had cost thirty-five dollars at a garage sale. I threw my change in a Chinese bowl on top and kept take-out menus in the drawers.
The fact that the menus now sat on top of the table meant that Eddie had looked around for them, found them in the drawers, and left them out so we could decide what to order when I got home. I felt the hair on the back of my neck rise. Something was obviously wrong.
My landline rang. I found the cordless phone and clicked the talk button. It was Tiffany. “Is it true?” she asked.
At first, I thought she was asking about Eddie, but then I had no idea what she was talking about. “Is what true?”
“Charles says you’re applying for jobs…for yourself. I thought you were helping me.” She sounded like a petulant child. I wanted to slap her.
“I did put myself in for a job at Monumental. It’s a VP position, I don’t think they’d consider you, and if I leave then there’s room for you to stay.” I didn’t like being made to feel guilty for thinking about myself and it was making me pissy. “How the hell did Charles find out?”
“Merilee is a wiz with fax machine.”
“Shit.” I should have gone to Kinko’s. “Look, Tiffany, I have to go, all right?”
“Is the interview today? Is that why you’re at home?”
“No, I’m at home because a friend of mine hung himself in my garage,” I said rather meanly.
“Oh crud,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m really losing it over this job thing. Look, don’t worry about me, okay? Do you need anything? Can I do something?”
“No, I’ll be okay.”
After I hung up, I hunted up the coffee Jeremy had brought me. It was in the kitchen, on the butcher’s block next to the microwave where I’d put it down when we started making out. It was also ice cold. I considered nuking it, but reheated coffee always tasted like reheated coffee. I decided to grab a quick shower, pick up a cup of coffee, and head over to the police station. I also promised myself to never have sex with my ex again. It had been a shitty, emotional twenty-four hours, and fucking Jeremy, while undeniable fun in a nasty way, hadn’t helped.
When I was clean again, I grabbed my sunglasses, keys, and wallet, and left the house.
There’s a Coffee Shack on Sunset, but finding a parking place was insane, so I went to the one on Santa Monica that had a drive-through even though it took me out of my way by about a half a mile. Once I’d gotten a very large cup of dark roast, I slipped it into my cup holder and drove over to Wilcox Avenue.
Taking up most of the block, Hollywood Station is housed in a low-slung, brick building with a concrete cap and an enormous parking lot next to it. Out front there’s a standing plastic sign that says POLICE that lights up at night surrounded by rows of freshly planted, spiky, drought-resistant succulents.
The parking lot didn’t look like it was meant for visitors, and even if it was, I didn’t want to wander around a police station looking for a parking validation. It took a couple spins around the block, but I eventually found a spot two blocks away on DeLongpre. The morning was cool and beautiful, the sky a brilliant blue.
At the Wilcox entrance there’s a mini-walk of fame inlaid in the sidewalk. It’s exactly like the one on Hollywood Boulevard, but instead of movie stars the names are cops who died in the line of duty. There’s a plaque on the wall near the front door explaining that.
I asked for Detective Tripp at the reception desk. An officer made a call, and Tripp came out a few minutes later. He wore the same well-tailored suit he had the night before. It was now creased and rumpled. Patchy stubble covered his cheeks, and his eyes were a bit bloodshot. It wasn’t hard to figure out he’d been up all night.
He led me down a corridor to a large room in the back corner of the building. It was a little like the squad rooms on TV, except instead of desks pushed up against each other, it was crammed with too many cubicles. I guess it’s easier to shoot scenes without the annoyance of half-walls. Each chest-high box was big enough for a desk, a guest chair and a filing cabinet. The furniture didn’t match and at best could be called rag-tag. Most of the cubicles were empty.
When we got to his cubicle, Tripp said, “Usually we do this in an interview room, but they’re booked right now. We’ve been interviewing witnesses from last night’s shooting.”
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“A couple teenage girls got caught in the crossfire. Yeah, it was bad.” Tripp looked like he was ready to punch someone when he said that; it made me kind of like him.
I sat in an uncomfortable, wooden chair next to his desk. While he poked around looking for a pad and something to write with, I looked over his desk. A framed photo of the detective and his partner at some kind of ceremony sat in the center, toward the back of the desk. She held an award while they both smiled. The rest of the desk was a mess, but as I studied it, I began to detect some order. In one corner sat a couple of binders, one an LAPD procedural manual, the other from the union. Also on that side of the desk was an upright, metal file holder, which held the forms they commonly used. On the side of the desk nearest me sat an ancient computer, a multi-line phone from a company that had gone out of business a decade ago, a stack of miscellaneous business cards held together by a rubber band, colored post-it notes with phone numbers stuck to the desk in neat rows across, and a couple worn spiral notebooks like the one Tripp had pulled out the night before.
There were two very telling personal items. One was a cup that said “Easy Does It”, which presumably meant Tripp was in some kind of twelve step program; the other a memo in the center of his desk from the LAPD LGBT Advisory Board. I wasn’t close enough to read it, but I could see it wasn’t a general memo sent around to everyone in the department. It was addressed to Detective Aaron Tripp.
I had a big “Oh” moment. My gaydar hadn’t gone off the night before, and now I felt a little dim-witted. It did make sense out of the moment when Tripp pulled his partner aside before she melted into the background. Tripp’s own gaydar had obviously been working just fine; he’d sized me up in a couple of seconds. It bothered me a little that they were strategizing about how to talk to me about a suicide. But I suppose they didn’t know for sure it was a suicide at first. And to be fair, I did tell a white lie or two. As cops, they probably assumed everyone was lying to them.
“We’re going to go over everything, slowly and clearly,” Detective Tripp said. “I may ask some questions along the way.”
How had I not noticed him the night before? His eyes were the color of honey, an arresting complement to his skin. I couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like without the suit. I realized I was gawking and turned away. He mistook my reaction and said, “I know this is difficult. But we have to do it.”
We spent about twenty minutes going over my relationship with Eddie, such as it was, and my discovering his body. During that time, Detective Hanson peeked into the cubicle and asked a couple of questions, barely glancing at me. We seemed to be finishing up when he reached into his desk and pulled out Eddie’s cell phone.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Call your friend.”
I pulled out my phone, found Eddie’s name
and tapped it. Putting the phone to my ear, I listened to it ring. The cell phone in Tripp’s hand remained silent. Eddie had another phone. Immediately, I realized that Eddie must have had a business phone, one used exclusively for massage, and a personal phone. Tripp held the personal one.
I felt my cheeks flush under his glare. Then his eyes flicked up, over my shoulder. His partner was back, standing behind me. She stepped in front of me and, with a dirty look, asked me, “Did we get all of Javier’s belongings while we were at your house?”
The massage table was still in Jeremy’s old office, and there might be an extra phone lying around. I felt pretty stupid. I should never have lied about how I met Eddie. Now I could see that it could turn into a real problem. I was stuck.
“I think you got everything,” I said, with a lame smile.
Hanson stared at me long enough that I thought for sure she’d call me out on my lie. I stared back, hoping to brazen it out. Bulkier than I remembered, she was thick in the hips and heavy in the shoulders. She wore a man-ish suit, a heavy crucifix around her neck, and her hair pulled back into a severe bun. The full effect was imposing, which I imagined was good for busting perps. But lousy for getting dates.
She turned to Tripp and said, “Can I see you?” Tripp followed her out of the cubicle. They must have gone pretty far away, because I couldn’t even hear the murmur of their conversation.
I decided to do a little snooping while they were gone. Pulling out my phone, I Googled Aaron Tripp. There were many more Aaron Tripps than I expected. They were looking for jobs on social networking sites, seeking classmates on reunion sites, researching long dead relatives on genealogy sites; they played basketball, they wrestled, they made music; they lived in Ohio, Kansas, Florida and Texas. There were hundreds of them.
I narrowed my search by adding LAPD to Tripp’s name. This reduced the results, but still I had to look at every person named Aaron who’d ever been mentioned in connection with the LAPD. I put quotes around “Aaron Tripp”, cutting the entries down to four. All of which were about Detective Aaron Tripp of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Two results were articles in the archives of The Los Angeles Gay Times and had to do with Detective Tripp’s visibility as an openly gay member of the LAPD and his work with the police officer’s union to make sure gay policemen were treated fairly. Both articles mentioned his participation in the Los Angeles Gay Pride Parade.
Another result led me to his FaceSpace page. The page was, fortunately in my opinion, open for public viewing. His profile picture looked to be taken at a party. He was laughing and looked much friendlier than I’d seen him. He listed himself as single. His birthday was April 27th. He read a lot of books.
I looked over his buddy list and noted that his partner Lucinda Hanson had a page. I clicked over to see what she had to say for herself. She was also single, not a surprise. Her favorite book was the Bible, and she belonged to a number of Catholic groups. Religious and a cop; Lucinda Hanson was the son my parents always wanted.
I heard a noise and looked up to find Detective Tripp coming back into the cubicle. I placed my phone face down so he couldn’t see what I was doing. My head filled with information, I took a closer look at Tripp than I had before. He was tall, three or four inches over six feet; his skin was the color of a coffee ice cream; his hair dark and close-cropped. If I’d met him under different circumstances--
“Tell me again how you met Javier,” Tripp asked.
“You already asked me that.”
“I have a bad habit of asking things more than once. Please just answer the questions and I’ll straighten it all out later.” His answer felt a little too polished. It wasn’t hard to figure out. He asked questions more than once to see if he got different answers.
“I met him online.”
“Which service?”
“On theeverythinglist.com.” It was free. Most of the actual gay dating sites charged. I wondered if he could trace that. Then I wondered if he’d bother.
“How long ago was this?” he asked.
“Our first date was the day before Halloween. So, around then.”
Suddenly, I remembered Eddie pissing in my bed. I was opening my mouth to tell Tripp about it when another detective came over. He pulled Tripp aside. From the look on Tripp’s face, they were talking about the shooting the night before. I picked up my phone and clicked it off.
Tripp came back and said, “I’ll get these notes typed up into a full statement. I’ll bring it by, and you’ll read it and sign it. Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow. That okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I stood awkwardly while Tripp put the notes into a file. Quietly, I asked, “What’s the story with the picture?”
“My partner’s a hero. Saved a couple lives, mine included.”
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to ask him to tell me more, but he didn’t seem inclined to. In fact, he was pulling a file out of a stack. He looked anxious to open it. “I guess I should go,” I said. Tripp nodded absently, moving on to the next case.
As I drove home, I breathed a mental sigh of relief. For a moment, I thought I was going to get myself into all sorts of trouble for lying about how I’d met Eddie, but I seemed to have dogged a bullet. And, hopefully, Eddie’s family would never have to know what he did for a living. I also had to admit I didn’t relish the idea of telling an attractive police officer I’d paid for sex.
A few minutes later, I walked into my house and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had the feeling something was very wrong. Someone had been in my house while I was gone. I found myself scanning the living room. There was something different, but I couldn’t tell what. I tried to calm myself. People had been in my house the night before. Why wasn’t that what I was feeling? Well, maybe it was. Maybe that’s all I was feeling.
Still, I looked everything over carefully, checking for anything out of place. My laptop sat on the coffee table in front of my sofa where I’d left it. Pillows and a blanket were still spread out on the sofa. Did they look different? I couldn’t be sure. One of the cushions on the sofa seemed loose, like it had been pulled off and put back on. Was it like that when I left?
I had some books in a bookshelf. I couldn’t remember the order I’d had them in, but suddenly the order they were in didn’t seem right. Okay, stop, I told myself. The laptop was here right in front of me on the coffee table. If someone had been in my house trying to rob me, it would be long gone. I tried to relax my shoulders, which were up around my ears. I went into the bedroom to put on something more comfortable. Shorts maybe. It was still warm even though--
The drawers on my dresser were open slightly. I was sure I’d shut them all the way that morning when I pulled out my underwear. The bed seemed to be pulled away from the wall in a way it hadn’t been before. I went over to the closet and opened it. My clothes hung mutely, as though refusing to tell me what I wanted to know.
Had someone been in here? Someone who hadn’t taken anything? Ridiculous. I told myself I was being ridiculous. The front door had been locked when I came through it. The back door and the sliding door from the living room to the patio were also locked. No one had broken in. No one had been in my home.
I went out to the garage and stared for a few minutes at the boxes that contained my kitchen things. It seemed like more of the boxes were open than before, their contents messy and disorganized. Had I packed them that way? I didn’t think so.
If someone had been in there, I told myself, it was Jeremy. After he moved out, I’d changed the locks to spite him. But there was the key underneath a potted plant on the back patio. I didn’t think he’d remember a detail like that, but maybe I was wrong.
Stop it. No one had been in my house. I’d just spent too much time in the last twenty-four hours with suspicious cops. Their paranoia had worn off on me, that’s all that was going on.
Still, it felt like I wo
uldn’t be able to relax in my own home for a long, long time.
Chapter Nine
I’m a crisis drinker. When there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on in my life, I hardly drink at all. But when shit hits the fan, I tend to hit the bottle. I drank quite a bit when Jeremy left. A few months later, I was back to my normal, reasonably sober routine. Eddie’s suicide, though. That was a crisis. By four-thirty that afternoon, I’d poured myself a glass of wine and was sitting in my backyard.
The backyard is probably my favorite thing about my house. A wall surrounds it, and Jeremy and I had filled it with all sorts of plants. Night-blooming jasmine, a couple of small Japanese maples, a ridiculously large jade plant in one corner, and pots of whatever happened to be blooming at the garden store. The whole effect was colorful and appealingly overgrown.
The sun had begun to set, and I was having a moment of actual calm when my cell rang. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Peter. Finally.
“Okay, what something bad happened? Or did you just leave a cryptic message to get me to call you back?” There was sleep in his voice, and I could tell he was annoyed at me.
“Eddie hung himself in my garage.”
Peter was silent for a moment. “All right, that is bad. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Can you come over after work? I could use the company.”
“That’s a little inconvenient--”
“I know it’s a long drive, but Peter, a guy killed--”
“I’m kind of in New York.”
“You’re kind of in New York?”
“I am in New York. At the Waldorf, if you can believe that.”
I was confused. “Last time we talked you were having anonymous sex with a guy you met in a parking garage.”
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