“I know. I’m sorry.”
“At least it means you’re safe.”
“This isn’t the way I wanted things to work out, Matt. You’re a good guy, and I’m going to miss having you around here.”
“I guess Charles will be getting my job. I hope he doesn’t screw up your life too much.”
“I’ll survive.”
“I’m actually calling about the flash drive. Did Cameron get it open for me?”
“Oh, yes. He did.”
“That’s great. It’s a document, isn’t it? Can you email it--”
“It’s not a document,” she said. “It’s gay porn.”
I was stunned. There was nothing useful on the flash drive. It took a moment to understand. Gay porn. Video. Then I thought about Cameron opening the file. “Oh my God, and your fifteen-year-old saw it. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t worry about that. Cameron sees whatever he wants to see. When it comes to the Internet, I’ve lost complete control. My focus is keeping him alive for two more years. If I can do that, I’ll feel like I’ve succeeded as a parent.”
I tried to pay attention to what she was saying, but couldn’t. Porn. My life depended on this file, and it was nothing but porn. So, why was it hidden? Well, all right, Eddie was engaged to a woman who thought he was straight, and it would have been hard for her to pretend he was straight if she found him looking at gay porn. So, he had some gay porn and hid it on the flash drive behind a password. It made sense.
“What was the password?” Curiosity made me ask.
“El Gordo,” she said.
It didn’t mean anything to me.
“I’m taking conversational Spanish, remember?” She reminded me because, of course, I didn’t remember. “It means ‘The Big One’.”
“Oh. Well I guess that shouldn’t be a surprise.” Obviously, it was the name of some Latin-themed porno about a big dick. She asked me a few questions about work projects, which I answered as succinctly as possible. Then I hung up. Well, that was it. I’d been counting on that list being there and now I knew it wasn’t.
Okay, I thought. What did I know? I knew Eddie, and Sylvia with him, had been blackmailing at least one of his clients. Maybe more. The car in their driveway made that clear. Whoever they were blackmailing had tried to kill Eddie once before; the bruises on his neck spoke to that. Eddie called me for a date so he could hide at my house; he was afraid their blackmail victim would try to kill him again. That’s why he wouldn’t leave. His life depended on his staying. Sometime that day Eddie made the mistake of telling Sylvia where he was, and she betrayed him, bringing the killer to my home, which is why she was outside in an SUV crying. The killer must have made a deal with Sylvia, offering her even more money for Eddie’s life, but then decided he could save himself some dough and deflect attention by killing her and blaming it on me.
I had a weird thought. I’d been assuming all of Eddie’s clients were men. I’d found him on massageformen.com, so it was logical to think that. But what if Eddie advertised elsewhere? What if he offered his services to women? He was, apparently, bisexual. It wasn’t out of the question. Were Eddie and Sylvia blackmailing Hanson? It would be embarrassing if people knew she’d seen a masseur, certainly, and if he could prove that they had sex and she’d paid for it, then her job could be in jeopardy. But was that enough for her to pay blackmail and commit two murders? And if she paid the blackmail, where did she get the money? Detectives didn’t make all that much. Did they? She didn’t make much money, but she might be able to get her hands on some. Didn’t they have stacks of drug money locked up somewhere?
I checked my email. I had a massage request for later that morning. I emailed my phone number back and indicated that I’d be available at noon. It was cutting things close, but I could make it. A few minutes later, the phone rang and I chatted with a guy named Rick for a couple of minutes. We confirmed our appointment. Fortunately, Rick didn’t live too far away.
Getting ready as quickly as I could, I ran out of the house, freshly showered, wearing just shorts and a T-shirt and carrying my massage kit. The table was still in my trunk. Rick lived in a small, Spanish house in the flats of Hollywood. It was only a ten-minute drive from my house. I parked under a blooming Jacaranda tree. I figured my car would be covered with messy, purple petals when I came out, but I didn’t mind. I liked the trees.
The house was well tended with a nice little yard surrounding it. I assumed it had been a fixer just a few years back, and from the looks of things, Rick had done a lot of the work himself. It wasn’t badly done. In fact, it was well done. But it didn’t have that anonymous quality of professional work. This house had been rehabbed with a lot of personal attention.
As I usually did, I began to guess what he’d look like. I was guessing mid-fifties, a little over-weight, balding probably. I knocked on the door, and a few moments later he answered. I was shocked.
He was in his late twenties and obviously spent a lot of time at the gym. He wore a pair of 501s and nothing else. His chest was well-defined. Not body-builder defined, but nice. Very nice. He had blond hair, a wide smile and pretty blue eyes. The thing that really shocked me was that Rick was the kind of guy I would never dare walk up to in a bar. I wouldn’t stand a chance. And here he was about to pay me for sex. Well, a massage
