Full Release (19 page)

I didn’t know what was going on until I saw Detective Hanson getting out of the beige Crown Vic. Clearly, Tripp wasn’t expecting her. I scrambled to pick up my towel and wrap it around my waist,

When she got to my front door, Tripp asked, “What are you doing here?”

“You don’t get to ask that. I get to ask that. This is my lead. What are you doing here without telling me?”

I saw real anger between them. This wasn’t some good cop/bad cop show for my benefit. This case had driven a wedge between them.

When Tripp didn’t answer, Hanson turned to me and said, “We found Eddie’s suicide note in the glove compartment of his car.”

Apparently, they’d gotten around to searching his car.

“We also found the file on your computer,” she continued. “You wrote that note, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“We found it on your computer.”

“Whoever came in here and killed Eddie wrote it.”

She smiled at me sweetly. “I love shaggy-haired strangers. You know why?”

“I don’t know what--”

“I love shaggy-haired strangers because juries never believe them.”

I didn’t know what she was talking about, but I was beginning to get the gist. Claiming a stranger came in and did it was not a very strong defense. Unfortunately, that was what had happened. I didn’t have the option of a better defense.

Hanson looked from me to Tripp, taking in the situation. I tightened the towel around me. She opened the screen door and forced her way in. Tripp and I stepped backward.

“I didn’t invite you into my home,” I said to Hanson. “And I’d like you to leave. I’m done answering questions.”

“We have enough to arrest you right now. You know that, don’t you?” From the glance Tripp gave her, I doubted that was true.

“No, I don’t know that. And I think if you did, you’d go ahead and do it.”

Her face turned red. This wasn’t the way she was used to suspects acting. “You killed him, didn’t you? And if you get the chance, you’re going to kill again.”

I crossed my arms and stared at her. Hanson stepped over and slapped me in the face. I jerked my head away, but it was too late. I stood there, clutching my towel, half my face stinging, humiliation turning my whole face red.

It occurred to me that she did this a lot and got away with it. A whole lot of guys out there wouldn’t want to complain that a woman got the better of them. I wasn’t exactly sure if I was one of them or not. I was sure I just wanted this whole thing to go away, and filing a police brutality complaint wouldn’t make that happen.

Tripp pulled her back. “Stop it, Lucinda. He’s asked us to leave.”

“Are you going to answer me, or what?”

“I didn’t kill anyone,” I insisted.

From her jacket, she took out a folded packet of paper. It was several Xeroxed sheets. She handed them to me. Quickly, I scanned them. It was a copy of a witness statement from Jeremy taken about an hour before. In it, he detailed my long-standing interest in hurting people, particularly my interest in strangulation. He claimed that when we were together I would frequently cover his face while having sex. That I would deliberately cut off his oxygen.

Of all the shitty things Jeremy had done since our break-up, this was the worst. The final betrayal. I couldn’t see why he’d do something like this. I couldn’t imagine it was that important to save a few thousand dollars on a house. Or was it?

“This is nothing but lies,” I said quietly, not expecting either of them to believe me. “Please go.”

Tripp led Hanson out of my house by the arm. As he was closing the screen door, he gave me an unreadable look. What would he think when he read Jeremy’s statement? Would he still think I might be innocent? And when had what he thought become as important as whether I went to jail or not?

Things were getting out of hand, and I decided it was time to start looking for an attorney. After throwing on some clothes, I Googled “defense attorney Los Angeles” and came up with Kathy Odom. The website was attractive and showed her to be a good-looking, middle-aged, black woman with a matronly air of authority. When I called her office, she took the call quickly. I began to explain who I was, but she stopped me.

“I know who you are. I’ve been following the case.” There was an unpleasant excitement in her voice.

“I think it’s time I got a lawyer.”

“You should have gotten a lawyer last week,” she corrected me. “Tell me what they have on you.”

“Well, you know...honestly, I’m not sure I can afford you. How much do you charge?”

“I charge four hundred dollars an hour. We’ll start with a twenty-five thousand dollar retainer. If we go to court, I’ll need another twenty-five thousand.” This was worse than I thought it would be.

I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “That’s insane.”

“Mr. Latowski, this isn’t the time to be cheap. You could go to prison for a very long time.”

“I’m not being cheap. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Everyone says that at first, but people who want to stay out of prison manage to find it.”

“I’m not lying to you. I really don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”

“Do you have parents? Relatives? Friends? Someone you know must have that kind of money.” Her voice was sweet, but all I could think was that she was a vulture picking at my carcass before I was dead.

“I’m innocent,” I said stupidly.

“Everyone is.” Of course, she meant exactly the opposite.

“I’ve only got a thousand dollars.”

“Well,” she said, her voice turning disdainful. “I hope you enjoy Pelican Bay.”

After she hung up, I hoped over to the Internet and found out that Pelican Bay was a maximum-security prison reserved for the most violent offenders. Even if I did go to prison, I doubted I’d be sent there. But she’d made her point.

I was shit out of luck.

Chapter Twenty

For the next few days, I expected to be arrested at any moment. My frame of reference was television shows. Even though I was only a studio accountant, I felt like I should watch everything at least once in case I had to hold an intelligent conversation at the office. By the standard of cop shows, the police had more than enough evidence to arrest me. I expected them to burst through my door, guns drawn, at any minute.

Instead, things were quiet. Even the
Los Angeles Herald
was quiet. There weren’t any stories about Javier’s murder, or me, the prime suspect. I was a little surprised. I expected bits of Jeremy’s statement to make their way into the paper. But then, maybe Alan Moskowitz was doing just what I was doing -- waiting for my arrest. Jeremy’s statement would have more impact if I was behind bars.

I did my best to go about my business. I saw the clients I’d scheduled. Unfortunately, none of them turned out to be the killer. I bought groceries. I went to the gym and did a really lame workout. I filled my car with gas. I wracked my brain for other things I could to do to prove my innocence; I didn’t come up with much.

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.