Of course, I put a lot of effort into getting a hold of Jeremy. I called repeatedly, but he never called back. To be honest, the messages I left probably didn’t make returning my call all that appealing. Finally, I went over to the apartment he shared with Skye. After pounding on their door for a good fifteen minutes, their neighbor came out and told me they’d gone to Palm Springs for a few days. That threw me for a loop. It probably shouldn’t have, but it did.
I finally checked my message from David Barker on Thursday. It wasn’t what you’d call pleasant. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked being questioned by the police about his sex life. And, as he made a point of saying, one of the things he was paying for was discretion and I’d failed miserably at that. Of course, this was peppered with a lot of curse words and a few threats.
Remarkably, Barker didn’t post a negative review on massageformen.com, so I kept getting clients. They weren’t too bad, either. A couple were even kind of fun. To a certain extent they relieved some of the pressure on me, since I could concentrate on giving them a massage -- not a good one mind you, but one that wasn’t too embarrassing.
Before I started on my Friday afternoon client, he asked, “You are gay, aren’t you?”
I worried it might be a trick question. A lot of masseurs on massageformen.com claimed to be straight. This served a couple purposes. First, a lot of gay guys fantasized about having sex with straight guys, so having one feel you all over and then jerk you off fit that fantasy. Second, it covered them if they weren’t able to get an erection. Still, I decided truth was the best. “Yes, I’m gay.”
“Thank God,” the guy said. “I used to go to this guy, he was good, but then I figured out that he was actually, really straight and not just saying so. It took all the fun out of it. I mean, since I have to pay you I get that you’re not necessarily attracted to me. But when you’re not into my entire gender, it’s just weird.”
I was uncomfortable that he’d mentioned paying for sex. It was pretty much what was happening, but none of my clients ever talked about it. So, I did what I always did when a client made me uncomfortable. I told him to get onto the table and lie face down. That was the thing I really liked about massage, I was in control. The rest of my life might be falling apart, but for that hour I was the one in charge. I decided what happened and what didn’t happen.
Of course, every time I left a client’s house I felt a little bad, knowing that sometime very soon the police would close in and ask a whole lot of embarrassing questions. Did I try to hurt them? Did I put my hands anywhere near their neck? That was a difficult one. I began trying to avoid my clients’ necks so that they wouldn’t get confused and think that maybe I was actually getting off on the possibility of choking them. Except most of them would ask me to rub their necks since it was such a focal point for tension. So, I’d try to rub their necks hard enough, but not too hard.
Each time I left my house, each time I got out of my car and went into a client’s home, I looked for my tail. I never saw it. But I knew they were there. I got a couple angry calls from clients, so obviously I was still being followed. Not every client called, though. I assumed that meant they were too upset by being questioned to even bitch me out about it. Things didn’t begin to click for me until I went to the grocery store that weekend.
It was a beautiful morning; the sky a brilliant, cloudless blue, trees deep green. Even the trees that would eventually drop their leaves in winter were still green. In L.A., fall typically arrives in late December. I came out of the market with three bags of groceries, popped my trunk and put them in. As I walked the cart back to the front of the store, I looked around the parking lot for my tail. Nothing.
On impulse, I decided it was time to find them. I veered off and walked down the row next to the one I’d parked in. I was looking for a full-sized, non-descript vehicle in blue or brown. Probably a Ford. I figured there’d be one, possibly two police officers in the car. There were always two on TV, but in real life they might economize.
Every car I looked at was empty. None of them were full-sized and very few of them were non-descript. I picked another row. Nothing there, either. Nothing in the entire parking lot, as a matter of fact. No matter what make of car, none of them were occupied.
I looked across the street. All the cars were empty. There was no way I was being followed. But Tripp had said I was under surveillance, and the calls from my clients said so too. It didn’t make sense.
I went back to my car and sat for a few minutes. Flipping open the glove compartment, I pulled out a Chinese menu that had been stuck onto my windshield about a year ago. I found a pen. On the menu, I made a list of the clients who had called me to complain about being interviewed by the police and another list of the clients who hadn’t. Three clients had called to complain. David Barker and two others. Five clients hadn’t called. What if the clients who hadn’t called weren’t being interviewed by the police?
Something occurred to me, but it was so stupid I laughed. The names actually seemed to be divided by income level. David Barker and the other two complaining clients had incredible homes. Of the other five, four lived in apartments or condominiums while one lived in a modest house on a very cramped street. I didn’t think the police, who were so far invisible, were targeting my more affluent clients. That was ridiculous. But was there something here I should be seeing but wasn’t?
I tossed the menu onto the passenger seat and drove home. On the way, I continued to work the problem and kept checking the rear-view mirror to see if I was being followed. I wasn’t. Parking in my driveway, I got out and opened the garage door manually. It would be awhile before I felt I could spend the money to replace the opener’s track. I pulled my car into the garage.
Walking around to the trunk, I found myself staring at the driveway. An idea hit me. I left my groceries where they were and instead ran over and flipped on the overhead light. I manually closed the garage door. Then, I lay down on the cement floor. An economy car like mine is low to the ground. There was no way I could get underneath it. Nor could I really see beneath it, even while lying on the garage floor. I had to settle for running my hand around underneath the vehicle.
It was dirty under there, dirty and sort of unfinished. I tried to be careful as I moved my hand around. I didn’t want to end up with a bunch of cuts. When I didn’t find what I was looking for on the driver’s side, I moved around the back of the car to the passenger side. I bent over and began feeling around the rear wheel well.
Then I felt it. A small box stuck to the inside of the fender. It was cleaner than the surrounding fender. In fact, it was nearly pristine. I gave a yank and pulled it off. The box was about the size of a pack of cigarettes. On its front surface was the brand name Tracco Surveillance Products. It was some kind of GPS device.
That’s how they were doing it. They were invisible because they weren’t following me at all. They were tracking my every move on a computer somewhere. And the reason only three of my clients had called to complain was that they’d only interviewed those three. They were the clients who had driveways. With my other clients, I’d had to park on the street. The police couldn’t figure out where I’d gone. They’d either been confronted with a large apartment or condominium complex or, in one case, a narrow street with more than a dozen houses without driveways.
I should have guessed they’d done something like this. Financially, the city was circling the drain. There’s no way they could afford to have me followed by a couple of cops twenty-four/seven. A GPS saved them a ton of money. I opened my car and tossed the GPS device onto the front seat. Now, I controlled whether they followed me or not.
I was angry, of course. Strangely, I felt dirty. Doing massages with a full release hadn’t made me feel dirty. But the idea that the police were watching me, judging every move I made, waiting for me to give them the information they needed to put me in prison like any common criminal, that made m
e feel dirty. Like I’d picked up a parasite.
I was still fuming when the phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I barked a hello into the phone. I was surprised to discover Sylvia Navarez on the other end. She sounded nervous, her voice quivering.
“I want you to come over. If you come over, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“Why? Why are you going to tell me?”
She left a long silence. “I feel too guilty. Letting you pay for something you didn’t do.”
That was good enough for me. I hung up the phone and rushed to put away my groceries. When I was done, I hurried back out to the garage. I opened up the passenger door on my car and picked up the GPS off the front seat. I set it into one of the boxes of unused kitchen things. I didn’t think it was a good idea for the police to know where I was going.
Relief flowed through me. I felt like I’d just had a couple glasses of wine. I was sure Sylvia knew who had killed Eddie, and that meant this whole thing would be settled today, in just a few hours. I was nearly giddy as I sped to her house. I parked up the hill exactly where I had the last time I’d come. As I walked down toward Sylvia’s house, I wondered if her new protégé would be hanging around like he had last time. He was kind of cute. Maybe when all this was over I’d treat myself to one of his massages.
Of course, when all this was over what I wanted to treat myself to most of all was Detective Tripp. I had no idea if that would be possible. Sure, our make out session let me know he was attracted to me. But he hadn’t called me, and he didn’t completely believe I was innocent. I had no idea how he might feel about me when all this was over.
I probably should have called and had him meet me at Sylvia’s, but she might not be ready to talk to the police. She might only be ready to talk to me. Turning into her driveway, I could see the security door standing open. The Shelby Mustang sitting quietly in the driveway.
When I got to the porch, I stood next to the door and called out, “Sylvia.”
The house seemed unnaturally quiet. Standing very still, I wondered what I should do. Something was wrong. Sylvia seemed like the kind of woman who was protective of her things. Leaving the security door open struck me as out of character.
I stepped into the house. The small living room was a mess. The sofa had been pulled away from the wall and its cushions pulled off. The zipper on each one was opened, as though someone had run a hand inside looking for something. I squeezed my way past the large screen TV, which acted as a mirror, reflecting me as I walked across the room.
“Sylvia?” I called out again.
After the living room, there was a tiny dining room barely big enough for a small table and four chairs. On the built-in buffet, Sylvia’s son was allowed to keep a hamster in a cage. As I got closer, the tiny animal decided it was time for exercise. The wheel squeaked as it began to run in an endless circle.
The drawers of the buffet were open, their contents spilled onto the floor -- napkins, tablecloths, candles. On the dining table sat an old video camera and the bag it was normally packed in. Miscellaneous wires and empty mini-DV cases spread across the table. Was this the camera they used to make the video?
Two doors led off the dining room. One directly in front of me led to the kitchen. Another to the side led to the bedrooms and bathroom. I checked the kitchen first. Pushing the swinging door open, I peeked in. The contents of the cupboards littered the floor. It looked as though there had just been an earthquake. Letting the door swing closed, I walked across the dining room to the door that lead to the bedrooms.
My breath came really fast. I realized if I didn’t slow it down I’d hyperventilate. Standing very still, I slowed my breath. “Sylvia,” I called out for the third time. The house remained horribly silent. Through the door was a miniscule hallway. Directly in front of me was the door to the bathroom.
I turned and headed toward the bedroom on the right. It occurred to me that if she’d come home to find the house like this Sylvia might have immediately run out. The car was in the driveway, but she might have run to a neighbor’s house. Or maybe, like Eddie, she had an entirely different car she used. Either way, she might be safe right then, and calling the police. But no, she’d call me. Did this mess have something to do with why she’d decided to finally tell me who’d killed Eddie?
Stepping into the bedroom, I immediately saw that Sylvia was not at a neighbor’s house. She hadn’t driven off somewhere. She lay very still on the bed, her eyes open and staring.
Slowly, I walked over and took her by the wrist, checking for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. I broke out in a nervous sweat. She was dead. Her neck was red, particularly around her chin. There were two rows of fresh scratches, one below her chin and the other above her collarbone. At first they didn’t make sense, but then I realized she’d probably scratched herself while attempting to remove her killer’s hands. Looking more closely at her eyes, I noted that they looked flat, as if they’d never reflect light again. There were bright red hemorrhages around the edges.
I backed out of the bedroom, being careful not to touch anything. That left the other bedroom, her son’s room. It was awful to looking at Sylvia’s dead body, almost as bad as looking at Eddie’s, though I hadn’t really known her. I didn’t know what I’d do if I had to see a child dead. I walked down the short hallway to the other room.
The sheets and curtains depicted cartoon super heroes. It was difficult to tell if the room had been searched the way the others had, or if this was the normal condition of a ten-year-old’s room. The bed was empty. The floor covered in toys. Her son wasn’t here. I let out a deep, relieved sigh. Then it was time to get out of there. I tried to think back, had I touched anything in the house? I’d touched the door leading to the kitchen. I hurried back there and took the bottom of my T-shirt and rubbed it over the edge of the door where I’d touched it.
Walking back through the living room, I tried to remember if I’d touched the security door. My fingerprints on the outside wouldn’t be a big deal. Tripp knew I’d been here before. I had an explanation for those. I was almost out of the house when I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.
On the coffee table, a cordless telephone receiver faced up. The dial was dimly lit. It looked like it was on. Using the bottom of my T-shirt again, I picked up the phone and listened. It sounded as though the line was open. “Hello?” I said.
“Hello! This is the emergency operator. The police are on their way. Can you tell me the situation?”
I dropped the phone and ran out of the house. When I got to the driveway, I heard a car screech to a stop in front of the house. I spun around and ran up the driveway. I slipped by the studio into the backyard. The hill continued upward in the back until the very end of the property where it was a dozen or so feet above the house’s roofline. Doors slammed behind me. Footsteps thumped into the house. Maybe I had been seen.
The yard was filled with junk: rusted patio furniture, a broken bicycle, building materials that should have been used to fix up the place long ago. A rotting wooden fence surrounded the property. I scanned the yard looking for a hiding place. Would I be safe back here? No, they’d search the yard eventually. I heard voices inside the house, more car doors slamming on the street. I couldn’t tell how many cars were down there now, but it was definitely more than one. I had to get out of there.
Hurrying to the back of the yard, I scrambled over the fence. The old fence broke under my weight, and I landed on my ass in the neighbor’s backyard. It took a moment to realize where I was. There was a great deal of squawking. Something smelled musty and old, like a rancid attic. To my right was a small shed-like structure too small for any human. To my left were a dozen flustered chickens. I’d landed in a chicken coop. I jumped up and ran across the patch of hard-packed dirt where the chickens were fed and jumped over the smaller fence used to keep the chickens in their area. As I got near the back of the Span
ish-style house, a dog inside began barking. Then, unexpectedly, the chickens let out more flustered squawking -- just as they had when I fell over the fence.
I didn’t look back. I didn’t have time. But I knew someone was after me. I ran along side the house and found myself in the street. I had to make a decision fast. I could stay on the street until I figured out how to wind my way back to my car, or I could cut through people’s yards moving in the direction of my car.
Since it was clear that whoever was following me could get me in their sightlines if I stayed on the street, I decided to cut through yards. I ran three houses down and zipped into the yard of a contemporary ranch that didn’t have any fences to hop over and hopefully no chicken coops.
Dashing across the well-manicured lawn, I heard footsteps in the street behind me. My sense of direction was good. I was right above my car. What I’d forgotten was the steep, thirty-foot wall of sand and rock below me. I stopped at the end of the backyard and quickly tried to assess the safest way to get down to my car. Twenty feet to my left was a gully created by the last rainstorm. I decided that might be the best way down. I made for it.
Just as I began making my way down the gully, I was grabbed from behind. I spun around and there was Tripp. Without saying anything, he searched my eyes. Then he grabbed my hands and looked them over.
Immediately, I knew he was looking for scratches. He’d seen Sylvia’s body and knew that the scratches she’d made on her neck meant she’d also likely scratched her attacker. When he saw that there were no scratches on my hands, he looked up at me and said, “Get out of here. Fast.”
I squeezed his hand, then turned and scrambled down the gully to my car.
Chapter Twenty-One
The minute I pulled into my garage, I found the GPS on top of the box of kitchenware where I’d left it, bent over, and managed to get it stuck at the top of the wheel well where I’d found it. I knew Hanson and Tripp would be coming to talk to me. I didn’t want Hanson to know I knew about the GPS. Tripp would figure it out, obviously. But that didn’t matter. Somehow, miraculously, and for reasons I only partially understood, he believed me.
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