When we got to his cubicle, Tripp said, “Usually we do this in an interview room, but they’re booked right now. We’ve been interviewing witnesses from last night’s shooting.”
“Was it bad?” I asked.
“A couple teenage girls got caught in the crossfire. Yeah, it was bad.” Tripp looked like he was ready to punch someone when he said that; it made me kind of like him.
I sat in an uncomfortable, wooden chair next to his desk. While he poked around looking for a pad and something to write with, I looked over his desk. A framed photo of the detective and his partner at some kind of ceremony sat in the center, toward the back of the desk. She held an award while they both smiled. The rest of the desk was a mess, but as I studied it, I began to detect some order. In one corner sat a couple of binders, one an LAPD procedural manual, the other from the union. Also on that side of the desk was an upright, metal file holder, which held the forms they commonly used. On the side of the desk nearest me sat an ancient computer, a multi-line phone from a company that had gone out of business a decade ago, a stack of miscellaneous business cards held together by a rubber band, colored post-it notes with phone numbers stuck to the desk in neat rows across, and a couple worn spiral notebooks like the one Tripp had pulled out the night before.
There were two very telling personal items. One was a cup that said “Easy Does It”, which presumably meant Tripp was in some kind of twelve step program; the other a memo in the center of his desk from the LAPD LGBT Advisory Board. I wasn’t close enough to read it, but I could see it wasn’t a general memo sent around to everyone in the department. It was addressed to Detective Aaron Tripp.
I had a big “Oh” moment. My gaydar hadn’t gone off the night before, and now I felt a little dim-witted. It did make sense out of the moment when Tripp pulled his partner aside before she melted into the background. Tripp’s own gaydar had obviously been working just fine; he’d sized me up in a couple of seconds. It bothered me a little that they were strategizing about how to talk to me about a suicide. But I suppose they didn’t know for sure it was a suicide at first. And to be fair, I did tell a white lie or two. As cops, they probably assumed everyone was lying to them.
“We’re going to go over everything, slowly and clearly,” Detective Tripp said. “I may ask some questions along the way.”
How had I not noticed him the night before? His eyes were the color of honey, an arresting complement to his skin. I couldn’t help but wonder what he looked like without the suit. I realized I was gawking and turned away. He mistook my reaction and said, “I know this is difficult. But we have to do it.”
We spent about twenty minutes going over my relationship with Eddie, such as it was, and my discovering his body. During that time, Detective Hanson peeked into the cubicle and asked a couple of questions, barely glancing at me. We seemed to be finishing up when he reached into his desk and pulled out Eddie’s cell phone.
“Do me a favor,” he said. “Call your friend.”
I pulled out my phone, found Eddie’s name and tapped it. Putting the phone to my ear, I listened to it ring. The cell phone in Tripp’s hand remained silent. Eddie had another phone. Immediately, I realized that Eddie must have had a business phone, one used exclusively for massage, and a personal phone. Tripp held the personal one.
I felt my cheeks flush under his glare. Then his eyes flicked up, over my shoulder. His partner was back, standing behind me. She stepped in front of me and, with a dirty look, asked me, “Did we get all of Javier’s belongings while we were at your house?”
The massage table was still in Jeremy’s old office, and there might be an extra phone lying around. I felt pretty stupid. I should never have lied about how I met Eddie. Now I could see that it could turn into a real problem. I was stuck.
“I think you got everything,” I said, with a lame smile.
Hanson stared at me long enough that I thought for sure she’d call me out on my lie. I stared back, hoping to brazen it out. Bulkier than I remembered, she was thick in the hips and heavy in the shoulders. She wore a man-ish suit, a heavy crucifix around her neck, and her hair pulled back into a severe bun. The full effect was imposing, which I imagined was good for busting perps. But lousy for getting dates.
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
