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
