“Well, I hope you told them I’m too vanilla for you,” I said with a sting in my voice. Jeremy was quiet. “Oh, my God, what did you tell them?”
He lowered his voice. “There are bruises on my neck.”
“Did you tell them you made me do that to you?”
“Skye was in the room. What would he think?”
“You let the police think it was my idea so that your boyfriend wouldn’t think you’re some kind of sex deviant. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“You make me sound awful.”
“Jeremy, why did you want me to do that to you? Is it something you do a lot?”
“I’ve never done it before. I’ve heard about it...and that guy hanging himself in your garage or, you know, whatever happened to him...it made me think it might be fun to try.”
“Did you tell the police about sitting in front of my house the night Eddie was killed?”
“They didn’t seem to care about that,” he said. I was pleased that he’d at least stopped lying about being there.
“So, were you sitting out in front of my house that night? What time?”
“I guess it was six-thirty. Six forty-five.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Why? Why were you there?”
“Skye wanted to see it. So, I showed it to him.”
“Did you bring him inside?”
“Of course not. Not without asking you.” I gave him a credit for that, but then realized he might not know where the extra key was hidden after all. “They asked other questions, too,” he said. “Like what bars you go to, and if I knew any of the guys you went with.”
I sighed heavily. “They’re trying to prove I’m into this scarfing thing. They think I killed Eddie by mistake. They’re looking for other guys I might have done it with.”
“You didn’t, I mean...you couldn’t, right?”
“Couldn’t what?”
“You didn’t kill him, did you?”
“How can you even think that?” I sounded outraged, but I had to admit I wanted to ask Jeremy the same thing.
“I don’t think that,” he insisted. “But I have to ask. I mean, you have been acting, well, different.”
“I didn’t kill him.”
I was nearly home, but then, abruptly, I turned onto Cahuenga and headed into the valley. It was ten-thirty. I’d read in the paper that Eddie’s graveside service was set for eleven at Hollywood Hills Memorial Park. The cemetery was located on the side of a large hill and boasted a lovely view of smoggy Burbank for the dearly departed and their loved ones. I’d be able to get there on time.
Going to the funeral was probably not a good idea. I knew that. But I was out of good ideas. I could have gone home and sat in my house waiting for something to happen, but that made even less sense than going to Eddie’s funeral. I pulled off the main drag and wound my way up a pleasant driveway and parked my car.
As soon as I got out of the car, I was able to pick out Eddie’s grave because about fifty people were huddled around it. I walked up the hill. The incline was steep, and I did my best not to walk on anyone’s grave. When I got close, I hung back about twenty-five feet from the crowd. I didn’t really want his family to see me. They’d probably jumped to the same conclusion the rest of Los Angeles had, that I’d killed Javier. Fortunately, the Hernandez family was seated in the front row with their backs to me.
The red-haired priest I’d seen on TV was conducting the service. Next to him were Carlos Maldonado dressed in a black suit and Eddie’s fiancée Sylvia Navarez in a black mini-dress with black stockings. I assumed they were planning to speak, as well, which is why they weren’t seated with the other mourners.
I thought I saw the back of Eddie’s mother’s head in the front row. Seated next to her were several tall young men who were probably Eddie’s brothers. I had no idea who the rest of the people were. Extended family. Friends from high school, maybe. Were any of Eddie’s clients there? There were a couple single, middle-aged men standing or sitting solo here and there. I wondered if I should try to talk to them and what I should say if I did? “It’s a tragedy, isn’t it? The world has lost a great masseur?”
I wondered if Eddie’s password was in front of me somewhere. For instance, there was a ten year-old boy standing near the front row. The son Sylvia had mentioned? Would Eddie have been close enough to the boy to use his name as a password? I wondered if I should get closer and hope to hear someone call him by name.
Just then, I noticed Tripp and Hanson standing at the back of the crowd. She looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. After tapping Tripp on the shoulder, the two detectives walked back to me. Hanson spoke first. “You know why we come to a victim’s funeral?”
I shook my head.
“Because the murderer sometimes shows up.” She gave me a hard glare. Any thought of giving them the flash drive was completely driven from my head.
“Thanks for the tip,” I said. “I’ll keep my eyes open. I heard you were harassing my ex-partner.”
“Yeah, that’s what we do,” Hanson said. “Harass people.”
“He was sitting in front of my house at six forty-five,” I said, fudging just a little. “So you think I rushed in afterward, had sex with Eddie, strangled him, dragged him out to the garage, strung him up, then pretended to come home, find him and then call 9-1-1. All in a little more than an hour.”
“It works for me.”
It was possible, I suppose, just not likely.
“You know what else works for me?” asked Hanson. “Not even twenty-four hours later you’re squeezing the life out of another guy while you’re fucking him. Your ex-partner’s lucky to be alive.”
“He asked me to do that,” I said lamely.
“Yeah. I bet
