Full Release

by Marshall Thornton

  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

  I’d left the house thinking I had plenty of time to visit Sylvia and then go home, get ready for my afternoon appointment and head out. Now, though, I only had two and a half hours before I had to be on the Westside. I would have to hurry. We’re only talking about a trip of fifteen miles or so, but in L.A. just leaving the house to go grocery shopping can mean a forty-five minute trip each way.

  Traffic was moderate on my way home from Echo Park, so I only burned about half an hour. Screeching to a halt in my driveway, I jumped out of the car and ran into the house. The table was in Jeremy’s office. I unzipped the nylon carrying case and lifted the table out. I inspected the case. I re-checked the zippered pocket where Eddie kept his supplies. It was still empty.

  Someone had emptied it. Of course they had. I should have seen that before. It had happened when my house had been broken into or when the police had searched. Did Sylvia think the flash drive was in there? Is that why she wanted the table? Or was she looking for something else? I set the table up.

  Obviously there was nothing unusual about the vinyl surface. I would have noticed that when I was massaging David Barker. I flipped the table over. There was nothing taped to the underside. No hidden compartments. No secret message.

  I started to fold the table up, when I noticed two dirty square spots near the end where the headrest slips in. I got down on the floor so I could take a good look. They looked to be squares of adhesive that had collected some dust. Something had been taped to the bottom of the table. The distance between the two adhesive squares was about a half an inch. Just the size of a USB flash drive.

  Eddie had kept the flash drive taped to the bottom of the table, which Sylvia knew. Then at some point he’d decided it wasn’t a great place to keep it, so he’d come up with the Pez dispenser idea. Something Sylvia didn’t know. If she’d known, she’d have asked for Eddie’s keys. She didn’t even mention them.

  So, had Eddie stopped trusting her? Now I was sure it had been Sylvia sitting in the black SUV crying. She’d sat outside while someone killed Eddie. He must have slipped up and let her know where he was. Then she brought by the killer. Could that be what happened?

  I glanced at my phone to check the time. I had a little more than an hour and a half. I jumped into the shower and very quickly rinsed off the nervous sweat from the last few hours. I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed Eddie’s table, and hurried out of the house. I was so intent on getting the table into my trunk that it wasn’t until I shut the trunk and was about to get into the car that I noticed a black Cadillac Escalade sitting at the curb in front of my house. In the driver’s seat was the priest I’d seen at Eddie’s funeral. He stared at me.

  I walked over to the SUV and his window buzzed down. He didn’t introduce himself, he didn’t say hello, he just said, “You need to get out of town.”

  When he said it, I almost laughed. It was the kind of thing a sheriff said to an outlaw in order to setup the final showdown at high noon. I didn’t laugh, though; I just gaped at him.

  “Leave,” he said. “Just leave.”

  I reached through the window and grabbed him by the arm. “Sylvia Navarez was sitting in a black SUV in front of my house while someone killed Eddie. Was it this one? Were you inside my house strangling him?”

  His face blanched. He started the SUV.

  “Tell me!” I yelled.

  He began to pull away. I didn’t want to let go of him. I ran with him for a few feet, then couldn’t keep up. “TELL ME!” I let go and ended up standing the middle of Mariposa Drive watching the priest drive off.

  Hurrying across town, I tried to figure out what the priest’s visit meant. Did it mean he was the killer? Or had someone confessed to Eddie’s murder and he knew who it was? Obviously, if he’d been a client of Eddie’s, he opened himself up for blackmail. But I doubted a priest would have enough money to make blackmail worthwhile. Yes, he was driving around in an Escalade, but it might belong to the parish he works for. It might not belong to him at all.

  Of course, I had no intention of leaving town. The police thought I was guilty now. If I skipped town, they’d be sure of it and the chances of finding the real killer became zero. Is that why the priest had tried to get me to leave? So that no one would ever suspect him?

  I parked in front of my client’s house. Even though I was nearly five minutes late, I picked up my phone and called Detective Tripp. I expected to leave a message, but moments later he picked up the phone. “Tripp.”

  “It’s Matt Latowski.”

  He left a slight pause, then asked. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just had a priest tell me to get out of town.”

  “Father O’Hannahan?”

  “I guess, yeah.”

  He was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Sounds like you’re not very popular.”

  “And I went to see Sylvia Navarez.”

  “I told you before this kind of thing looks bad for you. It looks like you’re running around trying to mess with witnesses.”

  “She knows who attacked Eddie.”

  “She knows who killed him?”

  “She was the woman sitting outside my house in the black SUV,” I said, with a certainty I couldn’t back up.

  “We don’t know for sure there was a woman outside your house.”

  “You sent officers to Simon Willow’s house.”

  “He was less than cooperative.”

  I could have made a suggestion on how to gain Simon’s cooperation, but decided it was smarter not to. Instead, I said, “Look, just go talk to Sylvia Navarez. She knows who did it. I’m sure of it.” Then I added, in a bad imitation of a TV show, “Lean on her.”

  He laughed. “Technically, we’re not supposed to lean on witnesses.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Hold on,” he said. The phone shuffled. It was obvious he was talking to someone in the background. When he came back on the line, he cleared his throat and said, “Look, I’m gonna be nice to you. You need get a lawyer. You n
eed to make an appointment with the D.A. Your thing with Eddie got out of control and he died. That’s manslaughter. A good lawyer will have you in and out of prison in a year, maybe two.”

  “I didn’t do it.”

  “Every day you don’t confess, that’s like adding a year onto your sentence. Do you understand that?”

  I hung up without even saying goodbye. It took another five minutes before I was calm enough to go in to my client.

  Two hours later, I pulled in to my driveway. My client had been an older gentleman of about sixty. My first thought was that the experience would be unpleasant, but he was a really sweet man who told me stories about being gay in sixties Hollywood. He mentioned having sex with a couple of movie stars I remembered from a few of Jeremy’s favorite films.

  I’d barely been home five minutes when the doorbell rang. I opened it to find a svelte, blond man of nearly fifty standing there. He was well dressed and had taken great care with his business casual outfit. His hair fell artfully over his forehead and was cut in a kind of modified wedge. I suspected he’d worn it this way since Dorothy Hamill made it popular the year I was born.

  “Hi! I’m Rip Jones!” He held out a business card. I glanced at it to see that, next to his heavily retouched photo, it explained he was a real estate agent. “I have an amazing opportunity for you!”

  “I’m really not interested,” I told him.

  “You’re not?” He seemed surprised. Obviously, I was reading from a different script. “No, you don’t understand. I’m here to make an offer on your house.”

  This stumped me. The market was terrible. From everything I read in the paper, it was completely dead and not expected to recover any time soon. So, a real estate agent at my door didn’t make any sense. Sure, I remember a real estate agent acquaintance telling me once about the good old days when business was booming and agents went door to door trying to find someone willing to sell, but that seemed unlikely today.

  “Why don’t you let me come in and explain?”

  My other option was to let him explain on my stoop, and given all that had happened recently, I thought it better to let him inside. The neighbors would see him and assume he was some police officer come to arrest me, or a journalist asking me why I killed Eddie.

  I let him inside and offered him a glass of water. He accepted with a polite thank you. I filled him a glass of water from the filtered pitcher I kept in the refrigerator. I could tell he was surprised by the state of my kitchen.

  “I was remodeling. It didn’t work out,” I half explained.

  “I hate when that happens,” he said. I couldn’t tell if it was a joke or not, he’d said it so seriously. Did he know a lot of people with ripped out kitchens and partly-rehabbed houses?

  “Let’s sit down and go through the offer.” He made himself comfortable at my dining table. Reluctantly, I sat down next to him. A folder came out of his briefcase, and he opened it. Before he could start to speak, I picked out the most important line. The offer on my house was not only more than a hundred and twenty-five thousand less than I’d paid for it, it was more than fifty thousand less than my mortgage.

  I pointed at the number and said, “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “You don’t think you’re going to do better in this market, do you?”

  “Wait a minute. You came to me. I’m not interested in selling. I’m planning to hold onto the house until the market improves.”

  His smile was stiff, rigid even. “I’m confused.”

  “You’re confused? Does that happen a lot?” I asked, losing patience.

  “This is a short sale. I’ve already spoken to the bank. With a little coaxing, I think we can get them to go for it. We’re almost at the finish line.”

  “We? Who is we? I just met you, and I certainly didn’t ask you to do any of this.” My blood pressure was starting to rise.

  “Skye seemed to think you’d be receptive to the idea.”

  Finally, the light bulb went off. That was why they’d been lurking around the house. They wanted to get their hands on it.

  “Skye wants to buy my house?”

  “Well, Skye and Jeremy, but given the situation, Jeremy’s name won’t be on that side of the paperwork.”

  “Skye and Jeremy thought I’d be receptive to the idea of giving up my home, taking a ding on my credit so they could swoop in and get it on the cheap after Jeremy swiped forty-seven thousand nine hundred sixty four dollars and thirty-seven cents from me?”

  Rip just smiled at me.

  “Would you tell them that if they’ve got money for a down payment then they’ve got money to pay me back?”

  “Are you saying you don’t want to sell?”

  “No, I don’t want to sell. I want a kitchen.”

  “But...” He paused, seeming about to say something very impolite.

  “But what?”

  He lowered his voice, as though the neighbors could hear. “Aren’t you going to prison soon?”

  I threw Rip out and was not especially polite about it. I couldn’t believe Jeremy would do something like that. Trying to take advantage of my situation. If you thought about it, it was a total con. If I did go to prison, Jeremy would be left owning the house. He and Skye could move in and make the payments. Except, Jeremy was working the situation. Basically, he’d end up owning the house --Skye would put his name back on the deed after the purchase -- owning a house he already owned and owing at least fifty thousand less on it in the process. What a scammer!

  My two clients that night were both overweight. I didn’t mind, except that it was hell on my hands. A layer of fat made muscles harder to get at -- I felt obligated to at least make an attempt at massage -- so now the muscles in both of my hands could use a massage of their own.

  I wasn’t able to even try Jeremy until nearly ten. I’d gotten myself a glass of wine and sat out on my patio. It took three tries before he picked up. When I finished screaming, he said, “None of this is my fault. I didn’t make the real estate market collapse. I didn’t kill someone in your garage. I’m not trying to put you in prison.”

  “No, you’re just trying to make a buck off my misfortune.”

  “You don’t want me to be happy, do you?”

  “Right this minute, no. I don’t.”

  “I want you to be happy.”

  “With my new prison boyfriend?”

  Jeremy was silent for a moment. “Do people actually form meaningful relationships in prison?”

  “NO, THEY DON’T!” I screamed into the phone, and hung up.

  Then I finished the bottle of wine.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next morning, I was up early. Flush with cash, I decided to take myself out to breakfast. I grabbed my Los Angeles Herald and brought it with me to the restaurant. After I ordered my egg white scramble, turkey bacon and dry toast, I scanned the newspaper for articles about my case. Nothing had happened, so I wasn’t expecting any real news. I was wrong.

  There was a story with the headline, DEVIANT SEX SUSPECTED IN MURDER. The byline belonged to Alan Moscowitz. The article described scarfing, and from the wording he used, it seemed Alan had read the exact same Internet sources I had. The article also stated that “an extensive collection of pornography was removed from the home of Matthew Latowski, including depictions of extreme fetish behavior.”

  I was confused. I thought the police didn’t comment or provide information to the press on active investigations. They certainly didn’t on TV. But this reporter seemed to know everything. They’d obviously given him my mug shot. And they’d told him about the porn. Though, I wouldn’t describe it as an extensive collection. It was just one box, one box that wasn’t even full. In my mind, that was hardly extensive.

  My breakfast came, and I did my best to choke it down past my anger. I scanned through the rest of the p
aper looking for something to distract me. In the lifestyle section, I found a story on Carlos Maldonado, also written by Alan Moskowitz. They’d been profiling the leaders of various L.A. communities. Today was the Latino community.

  The photo heading the article showed him with his wife and their two small children. The flowery article covered his background, growing up in poverty, joining the police force, rising quickly through the ranks. It mentioned his work with Adventure Scouts. I remembered him saying that Eddie had been an Adventure Scout. That was how they’d met.

  The article talked about his position with the Latino Community Development Agency and the ways in which he’s acted as a liaison between the Hispanic community and the police department. The article made it clear Maldonado had political ambitions and was planning a run for city council that was likely to be successful. It quoted him as saying, “Our society is too focused on the individual. Sometimes, most times, we have to do what is best for all, for the community. Having been a police officer, I have a strong sense of community.” I yawned. Obviously the guy was a politician; it was there in every word.

  The article also mentioned, and then quickly dismissed, rumors that Maldonado played fast and loose with the Latino Community Development Agency. When asked about the allegations, he said, “In politics you always make enemies, and enemies do what they can to tear you down.”

  My job interview with Bobby Sharpe was that morning at eleven. After breakfast, I hurried home to get ready. It was nearly nine-thirty by the time I got home. I had to shave, shower and dress and get out the door before ten o’clock. I wanted to get to Monumental Studios with plenty of time to park and make my way through security.

  As I hurried to get ready, I anticipated the rest of my day. I had a client in the late afternoon, then four more appointments booked for the rest of the week. I hopped into the shower and toyed with the possibility that I might actually find the killer this weekend. And if I didn’t, I’d pick up nearly a thousand dollars. Money I desperately needed.