When I got back to my Civic, I did a quick Internet search and found that Eddie’s table had cost somewhere between four and five hundred dollars. That seemed enough reason for a woman like Sylvia to demand its return. Still, I wondered if there was more to it. I’d used the table, though.
If there was more to it, wouldn’t I have noticed?
Chapter Eighteen
I’d left the house thinking I had plenty of time to visit Sylvia and then go home, get ready for my afternoon appointment and head out. Now, though, I only had two and a half hours before I had to be on the Westside. I would have to hurry. We’re only talking about a trip of fifteen miles or so, but in L.A. just leaving the house to go grocery shopping can mean a forty-five minute trip each way.
Traffic was moderate on my way home from Echo Park, so I only burned about half an hour. Screeching to a halt in my driveway, I jumped out of the car and ran into the house. The table was in Jeremy’s office. I unzipped the nylon carrying case and lifted the table out. I inspected the case. I re-checked the zippered pocket where Eddie kept his supplies. It was still empty.
Someone had emptied it. Of course they had. I should have seen that before. It had happened when my house had been broken into or when the police had searched. Did Sylvia think the flash drive was in there? Is that why she wanted the table? Or was she looking for something else? I set the table up.
Obviously there was nothing unusual about the vinyl surface. I would have noticed that when I was massaging David Barker. I flipped the table over. There was nothing taped to the underside. No hidden compartments. No secret message.
I started to fold the table up, when I noticed two dirty square spots near the end where the headrest slips in. I got down on the floor so I could take a good look. They looked to be squares of adhesive that had collected some dust. Something had been taped to the bottom of the table. The distance between the two adhesive squares was about a half an inch. Just the size of a USB flash drive.
Eddie had kept the flash drive taped to the bottom of the table, which Sylvia knew. Then at some point he’d decided it wasn’t a great place to keep it, so he’d come up with the Pez dispenser idea. Something Sylvia didn’t know. If she’d known, she’d have asked for Eddie’s keys. She didn’t even mention them.
So, had Eddie stopped trusting her? Now I was sure it had been Sylvia sitting in the black SUV crying. She’d sat outside while someone killed Eddie. He must have slipped up and let her know where he was. Then she brought by the killer. Could that be what happened?
I glanced at my phone to check the time. I had a little more than an hour and a half. I jumped into the shower and very quickly rinsed off the nervous sweat from the last few hours. I threw on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, grabbed Eddie’s table, and hurried out of the house. I was so intent on getting the table into my trunk that it wasn’t until I shut the trunk and was about to get into the car that I noticed a black Cadillac Escalade sitting at the curb in front of my house. In the driver’s seat was the priest I’d seen at Eddie’s funeral. He stared at me.
I walked over to the SUV and his window buzzed down. He didn’t introduce himself, he didn’t say hello, he just said, “You need to get out of town.”
When he said it, I almost laughed. It was the kind of thing a sheriff said to an outlaw in order to setup the final showdown at high noon. I didn’t laugh, though; I just gaped at him.
“Leave,” he said. “Just leave.”
I reached through the window and grabbed him by the arm. “Sylvia Navarez was sitting in a black SUV in front of my house while someone killed Eddie. Was it this one? Were you inside my house strangling him?”
His face blanched. He started the SUV.
“Tell me!” I yelled.
He began to pull away. I didn’t want to let go of him. I ran with him for a few feet, then couldn’t keep up. “TELL ME!” I let go and ended up standing the middle of Mariposa Drive watching the priest drive off.
Hurrying across town, I tried to figure out what the priest’s visit meant. Did it mean he was the killer? Or had someone confessed to Eddie’s murder and he knew who it was? Obviously, if he’d been a client of Eddie’s, he opened himself up for blackmail. But I doubted a priest would have enough money to make blackmail worthwhile. Yes, he was driving around in an Escalade, but it might belong to the parish he works for. It might not belong to him at all.
Of course, I had no intention of leaving town. The police thought I was guilty now. If I skipped town, they’d be sure of it and the chances of finding the real killer became zero. Is that why the priest had tried to get me to leave? So that no one would ever suspect him?
I parked in front of my client’s house. Even though I was nearly five minutes late, I picked up my phone and called Detective Tripp. I expected to leave a message, but moments later he picked up the phone. “Tripp.”
“It’s Matt Latowski.”
He left a slight pause, then asked. “What can I do for you?”
“I just had a priest tell me to get out of town.”
“Father O’Hannahan?”
“I guess, yeah.”
He was quiet for a long moment, then said,
