On the way to the studio, I tried to decide exactly what to do with Eddie’s list of clients when I got it off the thumb drive. My first idea had been to just hand it over to the police, but was that wise? Is that what I should do? I could make a copy of the list and then hand the drive over to the police. That at least gave me a back-up plan.
How long should I wait for the police to go through the list? A week? Two? They might just look at it, see that I was on it, and add it to the pile of incriminating evidence they’d collected against me. No, I decided. I should contact everyone on the list myself, and I should start right away.
I assumed there’d be phone numbers, maybe even email addresses. But what was I going to do? Contact each client and ask if he was into erotic asphyxiation? That might be a good opening line in some situations, but not this one. I’d have to be subtler than that. If there were email addresses, maybe I could send them all some kind of email. Maybe telling them I know what happened to Eddie, that I know what they’re into. Then I could sit back and see who answered. What if they all answered, though? What if none of them answered?
I pulled into my parking space at the studio. It was a little after nine. I hurried through the garage and into the elevator that took me up to the lobby. As I crossed the enormous lobby with its eight-story atrium, my phone rang. Pulling it out of my pocket, I glanced at the phone and I saw that the caller was an old 213 number. One I didn’t recognize. I could answer or ignore. I answered.
“This is Alan Moskowitz with the Los Angeles Herald.” At first, I thought he wanted to sell me a new subscription, but then he asked, “Would you like to make a comment about Carlos Maldonado’s comments?”
I didn’t know what he was talking about. “You must have the wrong number.”
“This is Matt Latowski right?”
“Yes. What is it you’re calling about?”
“A young man named Javier Hernandez was found dead at your house?”
I stopped in front of the elevators that would take me up to my floor. Other late employees rushed by me to get to their desks before anyone noticed their tardiness. I lowered my voice, even though no one was listening. “I don’t think I can talk about that.”
“Do you know you’ve been identified as a person of interest in his murder? Carlos Maldonado is criticizing the LAPD for not arresting you,” Moskowitz said. He was professional and confident. He made me very uncomfortable.
“Who is Carlos Maldonado?” I asked.
“Do you want to comment?”
I realized what a bad idea it was to talk to a reporter and hung up the phone without answering his question. I was shaking as I got into the elevator. Trying to calm myself, I took a few deep, yoga-style breaths. Focus, I told myself. Yes, it was a disaster that people knew the police were centering their investigation on me, but it would be an even bigger disaster if I didn’t find a way to prove my innocence.
I got off the elevator at the seventh floor, wound my way around the floor until I got to our office suite, then slipped into my office. Immediately, I powered up my computer. While I waited, I nervously sifted through some pending work on my desk and tossed it all in my to-do box. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. My voicemail light on my desk phone was flashing. I checked my voicemail. Bobby Sharpe had left a message asking if we could meet on Wednesday. I quickly called him back and set up the appointment.
By that time, the PC was up and running. I took Eddie’s keys out of my pocket and was slipping the Pez dispenser/flash drive into the USB port when Sonja stuck her head in my office. “Matt, come into my office.”
With a sinking feeling, I followed her. When we got to her office, she shut the door behind me. Her entertainment center was open, and the TV was on. It was tuned to the independent channel that ran local news for most of the morning. “My husband called me. They ran the story in the last hour cycle. They’ve been promo-ing it, so they’re going to run it again.”
“Oh,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“You’re not surprised?”
“A reporter called me a few minutes ago. I haven’t had time to deal with it.” Or even mentally process it.
She raised an eyebrow, gave me a disapproving look, as if this was all something I’d done just to annoy her. “You’ve been identified as a suspect in a murder. You’d better find time to deal with it.”
“I mean I am dealing with it. I’m trying to figure out how to prove I didn’t do anything.”
“Have you hired a lawyer?”
I shook my head. “Cash flow problems.”
“Hire a lawyer,” she instructed me, but failed to offer any help with the retainer. “Here it is.” She turned the sound up on the television.
On the screen, the camera focused on a stocky, Hispanic-looking man with his arm around a young, dark-haired woman in her twenties. In his early forties, the man was muscular, his hair black and close cropped. Behind them stood a red-haired priest. In front of them stood half a dozen reporters with microphones and cameras.
The Hispanic-looking man was speaking. A crawl beneath identified him as Carlos Maldonado, Latino Community Action Committee, “As a former Los Angeles police officer, I can assure you I’m empathic with the difficulties of police work. However, it has been nearly a week since the murder of Javier Hernandez, a suspect has been identified, and it is important to the Latino community that justice be served in this terrible crime. We urge anyone with information that might be helpful to the police to step forward and aid in this investigation.”
The report cut away from them, and suddenly I filled the screen. It was a terrible picture of me; I was red-faced and disheveled. It was the mug shot taken the night Jeremy and I had our fistfight. It made me look like a criminal, a rather stupid criminal.
“Police have identified Matthew Latowski as a person of interest in this case. His home has been searched and police are awaiting...”
The reporter droned on, but I tuned out. I’d just been publicly identified as a suspect in a murder case. Why did they do that? Did they hope I’d crack under pressure? And why was this Carlos guy deliberately attacking me? The report cut back to him. I studied his square, solid body, which gave the impression he was ex-military as did his close-cropped, black hair turning gray at the temples. His eyes were dark and intense.
“Javier Hernandez was a fine young man,” he said. “A young man I remember well through my work with the Adventure Scouts. He’ll be fondly remembered by his friends and family.”When he was finished, Maldonado eased the young woman forward toward the microphone. The crawl beneath said Sylvia Navarez, Fiancée. “I just want to say that Javier was a hero to my son. I don’t know what we’ll do without him.”
The report ended with the anchorman telling us a fund had been set up for Eddie’s fiancée and her son. Sonja turned off the television. The room was eerily quiet. Then she cleared her throat and said, “We want to do everything we can to support you. You have some vacation time coming, don’t you?”
“Almost six weeks.”
“I think it might be a good idea for you to take that. If it turns out you need more time, I’ll see what I can do.” What was clear was that her idea of supporting me was to keep me as far away from the studio as she could. “Charles can take over for you in the meantime.”
Forgetting myself, I said, “That should be a disaster.”
She gave me a look. “Don’t be so sure. I got a call from Fred Metz in airlines. He’s quite happy to work with Charles.”
I refrained from saying they were both idiots. She’d find that out soon enough. We stood uncomfortably silent for a moment. Finally, I thanked her and said goodbye. There’d been a subtle power shift; Charles was in and I was out. And as long as I was a suspect in a murder case, I was going to remain out.
I walked back to my office. Eddie’s keys sat on my desk right where I’d left them. I o
nly had a few minutes. Clearly, Sonja wanted me out of there. I didn’t think she’d go so far as to call security, but I figured if I was still here in twenty minutes, she’d come in and suggest I leave. Slipping the drive into the USB slot, I wondered if I should bring my personal items home with me. I didn’t have much. A coffee cup, an extra tie in case I spilled, a UCLA umbrella for those rare rainy days. I didn’t keep photos like some people or buttons with funny sayings or cartoons printed out from the Internet. Leaving would be easy.
The icon for the flash drive popped up on my desktop. It was called Eddie’s drive. Was that how he thought of himself? As Eddie? I clicked on the icon, and it opened. There was one folder on the drive, and it was labeled with a dollar sign. I clicked on it. A box came up asking for a password. Shit. I sat back in my chair and thought about how to go about guessing Eddie’s password. I hadn’t spent much time with him. I knew almost nothing about him.
Not for the first time, I wished my life was more like a movie. Usually, I wish I had some loyal but dorky friend who was secretly in love with me, which I’d notice only after he’d made a few simple but effective changes to his appearance and was suddenly adorably hot. On that particular day, though, I wished I had a genius friend who could whip up a computer program that would decode Eddie’s password in five tense minutes.
Unfortunately, my life was not a movie and I wouldn’t be able to easily access Eddie’s client list. I thought about my own passwords. For my financial accounts, the ones that really mattered, I used the phone number my parents had when I was a child. It was one of those things I couldn’t forget and no one else would ever guess. For other accounts, I used Jeremy1978. I knew I needed to stop doing that. I should probably get a pet so I could use its name as a password.
I wondered if Eddie might have chosen his passwords in a similar way. And was it any help to me if he did? The phone number idea wasn’t going to help. If Eddie did something similar, I had no way to find the number. His fiancée’s name was Sylvia. I tried variations on her name -- Sylvia1982, Sylvia1983, 1984Sylvia, and on and on.
I ran out of variations on Sylvia’s name and the folder hadn’t opened. I started putting in dirty words. Handjob. Jackoff. Wank. Anything I could think of. I was in the middle of trying to spell masturbator when Sonja walked by my office and glanced in. She didn’t say anything, but the message was clear. I took the thumb drive out of the computer, shut the PC down, and walked out.
On my way by Tiffany’s cubicle, she stopped me and whispered, “What’s going on Matt? It’s getting really weird around here.”
“Don’t worry. It doesn’t have anything to do with re-engineering,” I said. I was about to turn and walk out when I stopped. “Your son, Cameron, he’s good with computers.”
“Too good.”
“Could he open a password-protected file?”
“I think so.” She looked at me suspiciously. “This isn’t something illegal is it?”
“No,” I lied. “It’s just, you know, I locked this file and now I can’t remember the password.”
She held out her hand. I took the Pez dispenser out of my pocket and handed it to her.
“Cute,” she said, when she saw the rubber duck top. “I’m going to tell Cameron it’s illegal. That way he won’t be able to resist.”
Chapter Fifteen
Down in the garage, I got into my car and drove out of the building. I had no idea when I’d be driving back in. An idea began to form in the back of my mind. I wasn’t sure if I had the guts to do it, but I wasn’t sure I had a choice. I decided to think about it later -- there wasn’t much I could do today anyway. My phone rang. I’d left the ear bud at home, so I illegally took the call while I drove. It was Jeremy. Before I could say anything, he said, “I’m not speaking to you.”
“Me? What did I do?”
“The police were here,” he said petulantly.
“That’s not my fault.”
“They were asking all these weird questions about our sex life.”
“Well, I hope you told them I’m too vanilla for you,” I said with a sting in my voice. Jeremy was quiet. “Oh, my God, what did you tell them?”
He lowered his voice. “There are bruises on my neck.”
“Did you tell them you made me do that to you?”
“Skye was in the room. What would he think?”
“You let the police think it was my idea so that your boyfriend wouldn’t think you’re some kind of sex deviant. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“You make me sound awful.”
“Jeremy, why did you want me to do that to you? Is it something you do a lot?”
“I’ve never done it before. I’ve heard about it...and that guy hanging himself in your garage or, you know, whatever happened to him...it made me think it might be fun to try.”
“Did you tell the police about sitting in front of my house the night Eddie was killed?”
“They didn’t seem to care about that,” he said. I was pleased that he’d at least stopped lying about being there.
“So, were you sitting out in front of my house that night? What time?”
“I guess it was six-thirty. Six forty-five.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Why? Why were you there?”
“Skye wanted to see it. So, I showed it to him.”
“Did you bring him inside?”
“Of course not. Not without asking you.” I gave him a credit for that, but then realized he might not know where the extra key was hidden after all. “They asked other questions, too,” he said. “Like what bars you go to, and if I knew any of the guys you went with.”
I sighed heavily. “They’re trying to prove I’m into this scarfing thing. They think I killed Eddie by mistake. They’re looking for other guys I might have done it with.”
“You didn’t, I mean...you couldn’t, right?”
“Couldn’t what?”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“How can you even think that?” I sounded outraged, but I had to admit I wanted to ask Jeremy the same thing.
“I don’t think that,” he insisted. “But I have to ask. I mean, you have been acting, well, different.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
I was nearly home, but then, abruptly, I turned onto Cahuenga and headed into the valley. It was ten-thirty. I’d read in the paper that Eddie’s graveside service was set for eleven at Hollywood Hills Memorial Park. The cemetery was located on the side of a large hill and boasted a lovely view of smoggy Burbank for the dearly departed and their loved ones. I’d be able to get there on time.
Going to the funeral was probably not a good idea. I knew that. But I was out of good ideas. I could have gone home and sat in my house waiting for something to happen, but that made even less sense than going to Eddie’s funeral. I pulled off the main drag and wound my way up a pleasant driveway and parked my car.
As soon as I got out of the car, I was able to pick out Eddie’s grave because about fifty people were huddled around it. I walked up the hill. The incline was steep, and I did my best not to walk on anyone’s grave. When I got close, I hung back about twenty-five feet from the crowd. I didn’t really want his family to see me. They’d probably jumped to the same conclusion the rest of Los Angeles had, that I’d killed Javier. Fortunately, the Hernandez family was seated in the front row with their backs to me.
The red-haired priest I’d seen on TV was conducting the service. Next to him were Carlos Maldonado dressed in a black suit and Eddie’s fiancée Sylvia Navarez in a black mini-dress with black stockings. I assumed they were planning to speak, as well, which is why they weren’t seated with the other mourners.
I thought I saw the back of Eddie’s mother’s head in the front row. Seated next to her were several tall young men who were probably Eddie’s brothers. I had no idea who the rest o
f the people were. Extended family. Friends from high school, maybe. Were any of Eddie’s clients there? There were a couple single, middle-aged men standing or sitting solo here and there. I wondered if I should try to talk to them and what I should say if I did? “It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? The world has lost a great masseur?”
I wondered if Eddie’s password was in front of me somewhere. For instance, there was a ten year-old boy standing near the front row. The son Sylvia had mentioned? Would Eddie have been close enough to the boy to use his name as a password? I wondered if I should get closer and hope to hear someone call him by name.
Just then, I noticed Tripp and Hanson standing at the back of the crowd. She looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. After tapping Tripp on the shoulder, the two detectives walked back to me. Hanson spoke first. “You know why we come to a victim’s funeral?”
I shook my head.
“Because the murderer sometimes shows up.” She gave me a hard glare. Any thought of giving them the flash drive was completely driven from my head.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. I heard you were harassing my ex-partner.”
“Yeah, that’s what we do,” Hanson said. “Harass people.”
“He was sitting in front of my house at six forty-five,” I said, fudging just a little. “So you think I rushed in afterward, had sex with Eddie, strangled him, dragged him out to the garage, strung him up, then pretended to come home, find him and then call 9-1-1. All in a little more than an hour.”
“It works for me.”
It was possible, I suppose, just not likely.
“You know what else works for me?” asked Hanson. “Not even twenty-four hours later you’re squeezing the life out of another guy while you’re fucking him. Your ex-partner’s lucky to be alive.”
“He asked me to do that,” I said lamely.
“Yeah. I bet they all do.”
With that, she walked away. Tripp stayed. He took a step closer, and every muscle in my body tensed with awareness. It wasn’t a particularly warm day, but suddenly I began to sweat. My heart beat fast, and I had a little trouble breathing. It felt like lust, but then again it might have been fear.
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