She turned to Tripp and said, “Can I see you?” Tripp followed her out of the cubicle. They must have gone pretty far away, because I couldn’t even hear the murmur of their conversation.
I decided to do a little snooping while they were gone. Pulling out my phone, I Googled Aaron Tripp. There were many more Aaron Tripps than I expected. They were looking for jobs on social networking sites, seeking classmates on reunion sites, researching long dead relatives on genealogy sites; they played basketball, they wrestled, they made music; they lived in Ohio, Kansas, Florida and Texas. There were hundreds of them.
I narrowed my search by adding LAPD to Tripp’s name. This reduced the results, but still I had to look at every person named Aaron who’d ever been mentioned in connection with the LAPD. I put quotes around “Aaron Tripp”, cutting the entries down to four. All of which were about Detective Aaron Tripp of the Los Angeles Police Department.
Two results were articles in the archives of The Los Angeles Gay Times and had to do with Detective Tripp’s visibility as an openly gay member of the LAPD and his work with the police officer’s union to make sure gay policemen were treated fairly. Both articles mentioned his participation in the Los Angeles Gay Pride Parade.
Another result led me to his FaceSpace page. The page was, fortunately in my opinion, open for public viewing. His profile picture looked to be taken at a party. He was laughing and looked much friendlier than I’d seen him. He listed himself as single. His birthday was April 27
th
. He read a lot of books.
I looked over his buddy list and noted that his partner Lucinda Hanson had a page. I clicked over to see what she had to say for herself. She was also single, not a surprise. Her favorite book was the Bible, and she belonged to a number of Catholic groups. Religious and a cop; Lucinda Hanson was the son my parents always wanted.
I heard a noise and looked up to find Detective Tripp coming back into the cubicle. I placed my phone face down so he couldn’t see what I was doing. My head filled with information, I took a closer look at Tripp than I had before. He was tall, three or four inches over six feet; his skin was the color of a coffee ice cream; his hair dark and close-cropped. If I’d met him under different circumstances--
“Tell me again how you met Javier,” Tripp asked.
“You already asked me that.”
“I have a bad habit of asking things more than once. Please just answer the questions and I’ll straighten it all out later.” His answer felt a little too polished. It wasn’t hard to figure out. He asked questions more than once to see if he got different answers.
“I met him online.”
“Which service?”
“On theeverythinglist.com.” It was free. Most of the actual gay dating sites charged. I wondered if he could trace that. Then I wondered if he’d bother.
“How long ago was this?” he asked.
“Our first date was the day before Halloween. So, around then.”
Suddenly, I remembered Eddie pissing in my bed. I was opening my mouth to tell Tripp about it when another detective came over. He pulled Tripp aside. From the look on Tripp’s face, they were talking about the shooting the night before. I picked up my phone and clicked it off.
Tripp came back and said, “I’ll get these notes typed up into a full statement. I’ll bring it by, and you’ll read it and sign it. Maybe later today, maybe tomorrow. That okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” I stood awkwardly while Tripp put the notes into a file. Quietly, I asked, “What’s the story with the picture?”
“My partner’s a hero. Saved a couple lives, mine included.”
“Oh,” I said. I wanted to ask him to tell me more, but he didn’t seem inclined to. In fact, he was pulling a file out of a stack. He looked anxious to open it. “I guess I should go,” I said. Tripp nodded absently, moving on to the next case.
As I drove home, I breathed a mental sigh of relief. For a moment, I thought I was going to get myself into all sorts of trouble for lying about how I’d met Eddie, but I seemed to have dogged a bullet. And, hopefully, Eddie’s family would never have to know what he did for a living. I also had to admit I didn’t relish the idea of telling an attractive police officer I’d paid for sex.
A few minutes later, I walked into my house and the hair on the back of my neck stood up. I had the feeling something was very wrong. Someone had been in my house while I was gone. I found myself scanning the living room. There was something different, but I couldn’t tell what. I tried to calm myself. People had been in my house the night before. Why wasn’t that what I was feeling? Well, maybe it was. Maybe that’s all I was feeling.
Still, I looked everything over carefully, checking for anything out of place. My laptop sat on the coffee table in front of my sofa where I’d left it. Pillows and a blanket were still spread out on the sofa. Did they look different? I couldn’t be sure. One of the cushions on the sofa seemed loose, like it had been pulled off and put back on. Was it like that when I left?
I had some books in a bookshelf. I couldn’t remember the order I’d had them in, but suddenly the order they were in didn’t seem right. Okay, stop, I told myself. The laptop was here right in front of me on the coffee table. If someone had been in my house trying to rob me, it would be long gone. I tried to relax my shoulders, which were up around my ears. I went into the bedroom to put on something more comfortable. Shorts maybe. It was still warm even though--
The drawers on my dresser were open slightly. I was sure I’d shut them all the way that morning when I pulled out my underwear. The bed seemed to be pulled away from the wall in a way it hadn’t been before. I went over to the closet and opened it. My clothes hung mutely, as though refusing to tell me what I wanted to know.
Had someone been in here? Someone who hadn’t taken anything? Ridiculous. I told myself I was being ridiculous. The front door had been locked when I came through it. The back door and the sliding door from the living room to the patio were also locked. No one had broken in. No one had been in my home.
I went out to the garage and stared for a few minutes at the boxes that contained my kitchen things. It seemed like more of the boxes were open than before, their contents messy and disorganized. Had I packed them that way? I didn’t think so.
If someone had been in there, I told myself, it was Jeremy. After he moved out, I’d changed the locks to spite him. But there was the key underneath a potted plant on the back patio. I didn’t think he’d remember a detail like that, but maybe I was wrong.
Stop it. No one had been in my house. I’d just spent too much time in the last twenty-four hours with suspicious cops. Their paranoia had worn off on me, that’s all that was going on.
Still, it felt like I wouldn’t be able to relax in my own home for a long, long time.
Chapter Nine
I’m a crisis drinker. When there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on in my life, I hardly drink at all. But when shit hits the fan, I tend to hit the bottle. I drank quite a bit when Jeremy left. A few months later, I was back to my normal, reasonably sober routine. Eddie’s suicide, though. That was a crisis. By four-thirty that afternoon, I’d poured myself a glass of wine and was sitting in my backyard.
The backyard is probably my favorite thing about my house. A wall surrounds it, and Jeremy and I had filled it with all sorts of plants. Night-blooming jasmine, a couple of small Japanese maples, a ridiculously large jade plant in one corner, and pots of whatever happened to be blooming at the garden store. The whole effect was colorful and appealingly overgrown.
The sun had begun to set, and I was having a moment of actual calm when my cell rang. I pulled it out of my pocket. It was Peter. Finally.
“Okay, what something bad happened? Or did you just leave a cryptic message to get me to call you back?” There was sleep in his voice, and I could tell he was annoyed at me.
“Eddie hung himself in my garage.”
Peter was silent for a moment. “All right, that is bad. Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. Can you come over after work? I could use the company.”
“That’s a little inconvenient--”
“I know it’s a long drive, but Peter, a guy killed--”
“I’m kind of in New York.”
“You’re kind of in New York?”
“I am in New York. At the Waldorf, if you can believe that.”
I was confused. “Last time we talked you were having anonymous sex with a guy you met in a parking garage.”
“I did. Then he said, ‘let’s go to New York on my private jet.’ I mean, who says no to that? His name is Alfonso something-or-other. He’s some kind of financier. It’s been nothing but limousines and five star restaurants. Oh, and by the way, I joined the mile high club.”
“Congratulations,” I said. I wanted him to say he’d be on the next plane back, but that was silly. In a way, nothing had happened to me. Something had happened near me, and I was affected. But very soon my life would go back to exactly the way it had been. I was fine.
“I slept with Jeremy,” I said abruptly.
Peter made a sour sound, then said, “Darling, I’d really rather you didn’t make the same mistake again and again. I prefer it when my friends make new mistakes. Making the same mistake over and over is just boring.”
“Don’t worry. It won’t happen again. When are you coming back?”
“Next week, maybe. I’ve got oodles of vacation time, so they’ll just have to deal with it at work.” Of course, the main reason he had oodles of vacation time was that he “forgot” to submit his vacation forms.
The last thing Peter said was, “I’m sorry Eddie did that in your garage. It seems like a really angry thing to do to someone you barely know. I mean, didn’t he have a garage of his own?”
“I don’t know if he had his own garage. I didn’t really know--” The door bell rang. “Peter, I have to go; someone’s at the door. Call me back.”
I hung up and ran through my living room to the front door. When I opened the door, I found Detective Tripp standing there holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Obviously, he hadn’t been home yet and hadn’t gotten any sleep since that morning. I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “I hope you’re on your way home. You look exhausted.”
He laughed. “I am. If you could just read this over and sign it, that would be great.”
“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”
He came into the house and handed me the statement. I was incredibly aware of the fact that we were alone. I glanced at the statement, but instead of reading it, I asked, “How long have you been a cop?”
“I’ve been a police officer for ten years.” I guess he didn’t like being called a cop. “A detective for three.”
“You like it?”
“It has its moments.”
“So, where do you hang out?” The words seemed to die the minute they were out of my mouth. Instantly, I remembered the “Easy-Does-It” cup. He didn’t hang out, at least, not in bars. My stomach sank as I realized that I probably smelled of alcohol and from where we were standing he could see he half-empty glass of wine sitting on the table on the patio. God, he probably thought I was as bad a drunk as Mrs. Enders.
In a pointed gesture, he reached into his suit jacket and pulled a pen out of the inside pocket. I took the pen and tried to concentrate on reading the statement. It looked pretty much like the things I said. I laid the statement onto the dining table and signed it.
Tripp took the pen and the statement from me. “Thank you. Have you run across Javier’s other phone?”
“No, I haven’t.” I hadn’t even thought to look.
“You still have my card?”
I nodded.
“If you find the phone, give me call.”
“Sure.” He turned to leave, and I had the terrible feeling I’d never see him again. “So, have you ever gone out with a witness?”
He looked back at me and gave me an appraising look that made me very uncomfortable. “Once,” he said.
“I guess that didn’t work out.”
“He’s a level one offender spending the next five years in Folsom. It’s not a mistake I’m making again.”
“That’s too bad.”
He took a step and got very close to me. “We pulled a dead guy out of your garage last night. A dead guy you dated. You don’t flirt with me less than twenty-four hours later.”
“I didn’t, I mean, I’m sorry, I just…” A flush crept over my face. “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate.”
“Very.” And then he walked out the door.
After he left, I wondered if I was taking this not-vanilla thing way too seriously. Hitting on a policeman. I’d gone too far. Way too far. And I knew it, even as I was doing it. Somehow, ever since I made the phone call to Eddie, my whole world had turned upside down. I was a mess. I had to get myself under control.
Should I try to do something to fix this situation? Detective Tripp probably thought I was a complete ass who did nothing but follow his dick around, and while lately that seemed to be at least a little true, I didn’t want him to think so. But then, what did it matter what he thought of me? The investigation was over. I wasn’t likely to ever see him again, and while I’d like to see him again, I was relieved I’d never have to face my humiliation.
Then it occurred to me that there were things I should have told him. The truth about how I met Eddie, for one thing, and that Eddie had peed on my bed for another. I could have even mentioned the feeling that someone had been in my house. None of that mattered, though. Nothing changed the fact that Eddie had killed himself in my garage. The whole thing was over, and it was time to move on -- after a couple more glasses of wine.
I refilled my glass and was about to sit down again on my patio when I realized I really needed to do something about my bed before I had too much to drink. I went into the bedroom and stared at my ruined mattress. Urine had soaked through, and I doubted there was a way to save it. Even if there was, I couldn’t imagine ever sleeping on it again. I just wanted it to disappear. Actually, I wanted everything about the last twenty-four hours to disappear. In a spurt of activity, I sprayed air freshener over the stain and then dragged the mattress out of my house. It was no easy task.
Queen-sized, the mattress was big enough that it flopped a little when I stood it up. I pushed it end over end out of my bedroom. By the time I got to the living room, I was dripping in sweat. I slumped it against the wall and took a rest, then walked across the room to open the sliding glass door to the backyard. As lovely as it was, my backyard was also a challenging obstacle course if you were moving a mattress by yourself.
I did have an idea, though. Tucked in the back corner, behind a thicket of lavender, stood a small shed where I had a potting bench and kept my tools. Inside was a wobbly wheelbarrow. I figured it was the best way to get the mattress across the yard to the alley.
When I’d caught my breath and collected the wheelbarrow from the shed, I positioned it on the patio just outside the sliding door. I got the mattress across the living room, managing to endanger the flat screen for only a moment, squeezed it through the sliding door and flopped it onto the wheelbarrow.
The mattress was much larger than the small, red wheelbarrow, and I couldn’t lift the wheelbarrow very high without risk of the mattress sliding completely off. I had to remain in a crouched position and crabwalk across my backyard. Believe it or not, it was easier then schlepping the mattress through the house had been. When I got to the back of the yard, I opened the gate to the alley and pushed the mattress out.
Pretty much everything I’d ever put in the alley had disappeared within an hour. Yes, a pee-stained mattress wasn’t all that attractive. But this was an expensive mattress, purchased on sale, of course, but still expensive. It was only a few years old and had a nice thick pillow-top that was otherwise unstained. I hoped it would be gone by the next morning.
By the time I was ready to sit back down with my wine, I’d lost the taste for it and decided to clean instead. I’m not normally a big cleaner, unless I’m really angry about something -- the house was really clean after Jeremy left. The thing was, so many people had been in my house and so many strange things had happened that I just had to do what I could to erase them. I threw some CDs into the player: a couple Kylie, a vintage Madonna, and an incredibly tacky disco compilation I liked. Then I pulled out a plastic bucket, filled it with pine-scented cleaner and got out the mop.
Starting in the living room, I moved all the furniture around and rolled up the carpet. I swept and mopped the floors, dusted the baseboards, wiped down the TV and the coffee table, the whole time singing like a disco-diva. About an hour and a half later, it was completely dark outside and my living room was so clean it sparkled.
After refilling the bucket, I carried it into my bedroom. This was the room I really wanted to clean. The living room had just been the warm-up act. After what Eddie did to my mattress, I wanted to clean the entire room from top to bottom. I was about to begin mopping when my landline rang. I could barely hear it over the stereo.
Hurrying back into the living room, I paused the CD and grabbed the phone. It was Mrs. Enders. “How are you, sweetie? Are you all right?” Her voice was like gravel after forty years of smoking.
“Yes, Mrs. Enders, I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? Can I do anything for you?” I had a feeling she really just wanted to come over and get a good look inside my garage. “I’d make a casserole, but who cooks anymore, right? Hey, how about a cocktail? I got some nice bourbon at Costco.”
“That’s sweet, but I think I’m in for the night,” I said, the kind of “nice bourbon” she bought in bulk would burn a hole in your stomach. “Thank you for calling, Mrs. Enders.”
“Oh now, don’t run off…” I could hear the ice clink in her glass. She lowered her voice, as though she didn’t want the other neighbors to hear. “Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t think--”
“Too soon? I understand. I had a friend who killed herself. She took pills. That’s how I’d do it if I wanted to off myself. Anyway, I didn’t understand why she did that. Didn’t understand for years, then I got real depressed. I think it was after I broke up with my second husband. Have you ever been real depressed?” I was about to answer, but then she did for me. “Well, of course you have. You lost Jeremy. That must have knocked the wind out of your sails. The thing is, what I realized when I got depressed myself was that they’re not trying to kill themselves. They’re trying to stop the pain. And the only way they can think to make it stop is to kill themselves.”
“Mrs. Enders, I can’t talk now. I really need to go.”
“But it’s good to talk about these things.”
“I really didn’t know Eddie well. We’d only been on two dates. I think I’ll be just fine.”
“Now don’t be that way, all bottled up.” I heard her say as I hung up the phone.
I flopped down on the sofa, suddenly exhausted and wishing I was as bottled up as Mrs. Enders thought I was. Too much had happened in the last twenty-four hours; I could barely take it all in. I thought about going back into the bedroom and continuing my cleaning project, but I didn’t. It was too easy to think while I cleaned, and what I really needed was
not
to think. I needed to turn my head off completely. I needed distraction. I clicked on the TV and channel surfed until I found an all-day marathon of Heidi Knickerson’s Supermodels, Season Five in progress.
As I watched twelve young women who couldn’t get a modeling job without a camera crew and host to egg them on, the phone rang three or four more times and my cell phone once. I ignored them both. When Heidi was down to four contestants, I took a Norco. My doctor had given me a prescription when I hurt my back working out over-zealously just after Jeremy and I broke up. There were two more hour-long shows to go, and I fell dead asleep. I never found out who won.
Around four in the morning, I woke up, still on the sofa, with a crick in my neck that seemed like it might require the kind of painkiller that had given it to me. My mouth was dry as chalk, so I got a glass of water. Then I peed. When I came out of the bathroom, I found the phone and, still half asleep, picked up my voicemails. Two were from neighbors, one was from Jeremy saying he felt weird about what happened, hoped I was okay and please don’t mention anything about it to Skye. When did I ever talk to Skye?
The last was from Yummee Tum-Tum, a Chinese restaurant in Hollywood. I order takeout from them on Tuesdays when they have a two for one special. The message was garbled, the caller a young woman who spoke English as a second language. The gist was that I’d ordered for delivery and then not answered the door. Even though she was sorry, my credit card was going to be charged.
My stomach felt wobbly. The menus. Eddie hadn’t just read the menus; he’d ordered Chinese food. They always asked for a phone number, and he’d given them mine. It would have been easier for him, so why wouldn’t he? For a moment, I wondered if he’d been planning to try and charge the food to my credit card? But then I stopped worrying about that and instead wondered, why would anyone order Chinese food and then decide to kill themselves instead?