Secrets and Ink (8 page)

“Ginger exaggerates. I might have raised my voice, but I wasn’t shouting.”

“What about the photo?”

“Riley liked emailing me photos of us to remind me of the old days, or whatnot.” Technically, I didn’t lie. I couldn’t possibly tell this cop about the photo of me blowing a stranger. There was no way. Too humiliating. “Look, Riley and I had our problems, but who doesn’t? I told him we were through, and that was the end of it. I had no reason to kill him.”

“I didn’t say you were a suspect.”

“Right. I’ve seen Law and Order. Isn’t this when you ask where I was at such and such time?”

A muscle in the corner of Lipkin’s eye twitched at the mention of the TV show. “Okay. Where were you last night between eight and eleven?”

That was some mighty precise timing. I wondered how they’d come to it. I doubted he’d tell me. “I was at the movies with my sister, and then we went to dinner.” I wasn’t sure why I didn’t tell him about Nick being there too. Probably because of some old secretive instincts and too much of my mind taken up with the realization I’d never see Riley again, and the guilt over our last exchange.

Detective Lipkin took Charly’s address and phone number and then kept pestering me with questions about Riley for another hour before he finally let me go.

The first thing I did back at home was open my laptop and search the local news sites. I didn’t learn much, only that the body had been found by an unnamed roommate shortly after eleven the previous night. The second thing I did was locate the open bottle of wine and a clean glass and sit myself down on the balcony. Unfortunately, alcohol cheered me up only when I was already feeling good, and this time I started at glum. As I watched the sun go down, my mood went with it. By dusk, I found myself downright miserable. The evening seemed so similar to the other one when Nick sat there with me, but now I was alone, and Riley was dead. I still had trouble processing it. Back in the day, when I’d gotten in a bad mood, Riley kept pestering me with the worst jokes till I cracked up. What did the green grape tell the purple grape? Breathe, man, breathe!

Somebody knocked on the door, but I decided to ignore it. They’d go away. The knocking got louder. Damn it. I dragged myself to the door.

At first, Nick’s face radiated reproach, but whatever he saw in mine made it go away. “How are you doing?” he asked.

“Not good.” I wound my hands around his waist and buried my face in the soft cotton of his shirt. I made a big mess of it too, with all the water leaking from my eyes. Nick took it well, silently rubbing my back. I could’ve stayed there forever with his arms around me, but I pulled back in fear I’d leak snot on him too.

“I’m such mess,” I said, wiping at my eyes and sniffling.

“Sit.” He guided me to the couch. “Kleenex?”

“Bedroom.”

He disappeared to the other room and came back with a box of tissues. While I blew my nose and straightened myself up, he sat next to me, kinda sideways, one elbow up on the back of the couch. He leaned his head on his hand and studied my face. “I’m sorry, Jem. I know you loved Riley.”

“I did once. Not anymore. But it never stopped hurting. I can’t believe he’s just gone. And murdered. It’s so…barbaric.”

“Why did you go to him? I told you not to let him manipulate you.”

“No offense, but Riley is…was my business. I had to see him one last time, make him understand we were finished for good.” I tried to shake the disbelief out of my head. “I didn’t expect it to be so final. You don’t think I killed him?”

“No, of course not, but it’s a strange coincidence. Why didn’t you tell Detective Lipkin I was with you at the time?”

“I dunno, I didn’t want to mix you up in it.”

“And you didn’t think it would make us both look suspicious when it came out?”

“Oh, I didn’t think of it. I’m sorry.” I realized what a dumb ass I’d been. “Did he call Charly?” She would’ve told him about Nick having been with us for sure.

“I saw the name on the board and talked to Lipkin. I told him about Saturday night, so your alibi is airtight.”

“Does he really think I had something to do with the…murder?”

“I won’t discuss an open investigation with you. And I’m not even on the case. But Lipkin is a good cop, and he’ll follow up every lead. If it were me, I’d look into the roommates, boyfriends, ex-boyfriends and anyone who might have had a quarrel with him.”

“Hm. That might take a while. Riley had a knack for pissing people off.”

“Did he really?”

“Well, it was more like he couldn’t let things go. If someone got on his wrong side, he could be deviously vindictive. Like one time in high school there was this guy, Tyler…something—a jock type. Something happened between them, Riley wouldn’t tell me what, but he decided to fuck with Tyler. We went hiking in the hills, equipped with rubber gloves and plastic bags. And then one day, after school we broke into Tyler’s locker—Riley was an expert in lock picking—and rubbed poison oak all over his stuff, his books and his football jersey. Tyler got the rash so bad he had to stay home for a week.”

“That is vindictive,” Nick commented.

“Riley thought of it as a just revenge for whatever had gone down between him and Tyler. They never found out we did it, but Tyler must’ve suspected something. However, I don’t think he’d be seeking revenge after all this time. Have you guys questioned the redheaded roommate yet? I bet he’s up to no good.”

Parallel grooves of disapproval appeared over the bridge of Nick’s nose. “I don’t think Riley was a good influence on you,” he said.

“Now you sound like my sister.”

“She’s a smart woman. Promise me you won’t do anything stupid like trying to talk to the witnesses.”

“Are you crazy? Why would I want to do that?” Where did he get these strange ideas about me?

“You’re impulsive.”

“Don’t worry. I have no intention of getting involved.” A loud growl from the direction of my stomach added punctuation to my words. I hadn’t eaten since lunch. Something had to be done about that, so I pushed myself up. “Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

“I should go,” he said but didn’t move.

I gave him the figurative nudge he needed. “Oh, come on. I’ll make chicken fajitas; they’re quick. You must be hungry too.”

He grimaced and scratched his head. “Well, I am. Yeah, okay, what the heck.”

Over dinner, I told Nick about the time I kidnapped Charly’s dolls and switched Ken’s and Barbie’s heads. In exchange, he shared a story about a speeder who refused to pull over.

“So he finally stopped, and we were right behind him. I was about to pull a gun on him when he jumped out of the car with a duck under his arm,” Nick said, wiping his fingers.

“A duck?”

“A real live duck. He ran straight into a building, and that’s when I saw it was a vet’s clinic.”

The mental image of the whole scene with sirens, flashing lights and a duck cracked me up. Then I remembered that someone I’d been close to was dead and laughing seemed wrong. Disrespectful and selfish.

Nick read my sudden silence. “Let’s see what’s on TV,” he said.

That was how I found myself on the couch watching Back to the Future with Nick. He loved “the classics,” as he’d put it. He kicked his shoes off and we both put our feet up on the coffee table. He not only let me cuddle up to him but even put his arm around my waist. With my head resting on his shoulder and the scent of him, the sound of his breathing and the warmth of his body enfolding me, I felt more content than I had in a long time. Also, slightly horny. Contentment won, and I dozed off in the middle of a squaring-off between Marty and Biff.

My pillow trying to escape woke me. “Hey, sleepyhead, I need to go,” he whispered.

I cracked my eyes open and grumbled, “You could stay.”

“Not a good idea.”

I thought it was an excellent idea, but my recent experiences had taught me that arguing with cops was pointless. So I pushed myself up and saw him out.

“See you later,” he said and melted into the night.

I dreamt of Nick that night and woke up with a stiffy. Not till after I’d taken care of it did I realize I’d forgotten to set the alarm and had to put my ass into gear to get to work on time. I skipped breakfast, speed-showered and yanked on whatever clothes were handiest—a pair of jeans from the bedroom floor and a random shirt from the top of the basket of clean laundry. I really should’ve put those away already.

At the store, we had one of those crazy days where everything goes wrong, people call in sick, customers throw hissy fits, and you’re run ragged. My lunch consisted of power bars and a salad, and I didn’t get another breather till close to the end of my shift. It was only me and Olly in the break room when I pulled my phone out to check my mail. As I did so, a piece of paper fell on the table between us. I had no clue what it was first but broke out in sweat realizing I’d worn the same jeans when I last saw Riley, and torn pieces of the smutty picture were still in the back pocket.

Olly snatched up the loose piece before I could stop him. “Hey, what are you doing ripping up pictures of Clay Carson?” he asked.

I saw with relief it was the most innocent part—the stranger’s head. Then Olly’s words sank in. “What?”

I must’ve looked as dazed as I felt, because Olly started talking slow. “What do you mean what? I’d recognize Carson anywhere.”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

“Sure as RuPaul’s wig is blond. It’s an old one, though—from around the time he was on The Trouble with Larry. Do you remember that show?”

All I could recall was canned laughter and an overly cute child actor. “Vaguely. How old were you then, ten?”

“Eleven. I had such a crush on Carson. I cried like a baby when the show got cancelled. After only one season! Travesty. Where did you get this photo?”

“I found it in an old book I bought at a yard sale.” The lie poured from my lips like honey. I felt pretty certain Olly was wrong this time, and I was most definitely not going to tell him about the rest of the photo. I’d sure remember blowing Clay Carson. Well, I probably would. Possibly. Unless…

Olly turned the picture over. “You found it torn like this? How strange. I wish I knew the story to it.”

Not a chance, I thought, but said only, “The world is full of unsolved mysteries.” A sudden inspiration struck me. “You delivered to Carson’s house before, right?”

“Yes, but—”

“Give me the address.”

Okay, so I didn’t think it through. I didn’t even have a plan beyond getting into Clay Carson’s house, and then…not sure what. I’d improvise. Before setting off, I grabbed a couple of FTP paper bags and filled them with random stuff, which I paid for. I picked things that were cheap and bulky.

The house sat up in the hills, a few miles from the store, but in a whole different neighborhood. In LA, the higher in the hills you lived, the better you’d done for yourself. Carson’s house sat only halfway up—he wasn’t a big movie star yet. The not so humble abode still must’ve cost more than I’d make in my whole life.

“Delivery from Fred’s Trade Post,” I spoke into the intercom, and the gate buzzed open.

I parked in front of the two-story Spanish-style building of gleaming white walls and tile roof. It was pretty as a picture. Well-kept palm trees of the short and chubby variety surrounded it, and I had no doubt there was a swimming pool in the back. A Hispanic woman in her forties, holding a feather duster, opened the door. Some stereotypes were simply true. In this town, maids and gardeners were Hispanic, just as manicurists were Vietnamese. It was just the way it was.

I lifted my bags. “Hi! I brought the groceries.”

“Take them to the kitchen.” She waved the duster toward the depths of the house.

I obediently headed that way but veered off my path the moment I got out of her sight. The inside of the house consisted of lots of dark wood, heavy furniture and ornate cast-iron chandeliers. Too oppressive for my taste, but I wasn’t there to grade the interior decorator. I wasn’t sure what I hoped to accomplish, but I thought if I managed to meet Clay Carson face-to-face, it might jog my memory. I might be able to remember if I’d met him before or not. Or ask him if he remembered me. And if not, he got free groceries. No biggie.

Instead of Carson, I ran into a strange little man in a gray suit with a maroon bow tie. Strands of straw-colored hair clung to his skull, fighting a losing battle against male-pattern baldness. I couldn’t see his eyes behind the tinted glasses, but his lips had a downward curve.

However, his voice was soft and without hostility when he spoke. “Can I help you?”

“Uhm, yes, I think I missed the kitchen,” I replied, playing the dumb delivery boy. I gave the bags a heave for emphasis. “This is a big place.”

His slack features arranged themselves into an expression of joviality. “It’s all relative. Come on, I’ll show you to the ship’s galley. We wouldn’t want you to get completely lost, would we?”

I followed him back through the house, into the kitchen that wasn’t quite as big as the Titanic’s, but pretty damn big. About the size of my kitchen and bedroom put together, and much better furnished. My phone vibrated in my back pocket, but I ignored it. I had it on mute out of habit. I couldn’t exactly answer calls while working.

“You’re not the usual boy,” Bow-tie said, turning around. It had been a while since anyone had called me a boy, but that belittling term fit with his conservative attire, and I was in no position to object.

“He called in sick,” I fibbed.

“Oh, how unfortunate. I hope he gets better soon.”

I plunked the bags on the granite countertop, next to the gleaming stainless steel refrigerator. “Well, that’s that, then. Thanks for the help.”

“Hang on for a minute.” He took out his wallet and pulled a green bill out of it.

“That’s not necessary.”

“But I insist.” He took my hand and thrust the twenty into my palm but didn’t let go. “Have you seen Lethal Assignment yet?” he asked, somewhat abruptly.

“Yeah! It was fantastic!” I piled on the enthusiasm, realizing this could be my chance to get a glimpse at Carson. “I’m a huge fan of Mr. Carson and would die to get his autograph.”