I woke up in the hospital about six hours later. Strangely, Peter was looking down at me. He looked tired, as though he’d been up for days, and he may well have been. His blond hair was disheveled and floated around his head like cotton candy.
“You are such an asshole,” he said.
“I am?”
“I called to have you come get me at the airport and some policeman answers your phone to tell me you’ve been shot. You know perfectly well you shouldn’t get yourself shot when I need a ride from the airport.”
“I’ll try not to do it again.” I almost drifted off again, then I said, “Hey, wait a minute. Why did you need a ride? What happened to Mr. Limousines and Private Jets?”
“And that’s the other thing. I’m having a personal crisis and you just have to go and have a bigger one. Don’t you have the least little bit of consideration?”
“What happened, Peter?”
“Oh my God, I am so humiliated. You know how I was thinking he’s some kind of tycoon? Turns out he’s not. He’s just an assistant. The jets, the hotel rooms, the fabulous dinners. Not only not his, but, you know, sort of stolen. From his boss. I had a lawyer screaming at me about embezzlement half of yesterday. I actually paid my own way home. Can you believe that?”
“I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“Pish posh. After being framed for murder and shot, don’t you even try to pretend you’re impressed by my embezzling paramour. I admit it. Compared to you, I’m lame.”
“I am sorry, though,” I said truthfully. He was right. By comparison his problems weren’t all that big, but they still sucked.
He shrugged. “It’s all right. The lifestyle was wonderful. But to be honest, the sex was… laborious.”
“I’m sorry about your apartment,” I said, assuming that Carlos had probably bled all over it, and whatever he didn’t destroy the crime scene personnel probably did.
He shrugged. “It’s time to move anyway. I should be closer to you. Someone needs to keep an eye on you.”
“You should move into my spare room,” I said weakly. I could use the money. What with being unemployed and all.
“That’s possible. We’ll talk about it later, though. First, you have to tell me, who’s the cop? The tall one, looks like sex on a stick dipped in chocolate.”
“Detective Aaron Tripp.”
“He’s been lurking about, glowering. I told him you were going to be okay, and he left.”
“When’s he coming back?”
Peter shrugged. “So, it’s like that, huh?”
“Yeah, it’s like that.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thanksgiving came and went. A few of my old friends suddenly remembered me and started calling. I had half a dozen invitations to Thanksgiving dinner, including ones from Mrs. Enders and Simon Willow -- both of which made me cringe. Of course, the only reason anyone wanted me for dinner was because I’d been in the newspaper and on the six o’clock news. I was now a mini-celebrity of sorts. Even if it wasn’t discussed, hosts would be able to say behind my back, ‘Don’t you know who he is? He killed a man once.’ Killing a man got you almost as many invitations as an accidentally released sex tape.
Peter had decided he’d stay in a hotel until New Year’s. That seemed incredibly extravagant, but he hinted he’d worked out a “deal” with the night manager, who was apparently quite cute. He invited me to join him for a room service Thanksgiving, but I turned down even that.
I ended up taking myself out for a simple turkey dinner at semi-popular, diner-style restaurant in Silver Lake. I didn’t have to wait too long for a table, and no one recognized me. The meal wasn’t too bad, basic and homey. I might have really enjoyed the whole experience if I hadn’t been frantic about Tripp.
I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the night I killed Carlos. Once he knew I was okay, he didn’t come back to the hospital. I’d left him repeated messages. I knew he’d be involved in all sorts of interviews with his superiors and, I guess, Internal Affairs. I’d spent a whole day giving statements myself. It had to be worse for him. Killing his partner made him front page news.
Still, I wanted to hear from him.
The Los Angeles Herald published half a novel on the whole thing. Unfortunately, the part where they exonerated me was buried deep in the back of the paper. Right above an ad offering to buy your gold jewelry for top dollar. From the way he wrote the article, Alan Moskowitz seemed vaguely disappointed that I turned out not to be guilty. He wrote that I killed “community leader Carlos Maldonado in self defense.” He could have written that I’d killed “double-murderer Carlos Maldonado in self defense.” Maybe I was splitting a hair that didn’t need to be split, but I was actually an innocent victim. It would have been nice if he’d made that crystal clear.
A TV news crew showed up at my door. I almost declined the interview, but I had to live in this town. I had to get another job. I had to be able to make friends. It would be good if people understood that I only killed people in self-defense. I didn’t watch the interview when it was on, though. I know some people would have thrown a party, but the whole thing was somehow distasteful. I’d never had much desire to be a celebrity. If I had, I’d never have become an accountant, since it’s not your typical route to fame and fortune. And if I were to be famous, well, this isn’t the kind of thing I’d like to be famous for.
Other than being an
