Page 17 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
We were now on our second—or perhaps third, we had shared at least one glass of Albariño—drink, and I was euphorically tipsy. Not even the order of patatas bravas and eggplant toast I had devoured were making me sound any less drunk—or uninhibited. And, to my partial astonishment, David didn’t seem at all preoccupied about the murder case.
“You left my place annoyingly early last night,” I finally told David, downing the last of my aptly called Tornup Tiki Punch and wondering why we didn’t go out more often.
Right, we were no longer a thing.
“I’m sorry about that,” he said with a smile that had me blushing, but I could see he was nonetheless surprised. “Frustration is the least thing I want to elicit in you when we’re together. But I’m happy we’re finally talking about this.”
“This?” I said with a chill.
“You know? Those visits that you’ve been cataloging as oneiric because they always happen at night and where there are two mandatory terms: no words and loud orgasms.”
I ignored his incisiveness. I hate it when he gets me so well. “Why did you leave so early yesterday?”
“Sleepovers have never been on offer,” he said.
“I wasn’t offering you to sleep when you left,” I pressed.
We both knew that, since we’d started hooking up again a few months before, the previous night had been the first time I had indicated I wanted to have sex again. I had sensed he was also eager, but he’d left anyway.
“There was something at work,” he said.
“Ah,” I said, suddenly not wanting to know more.
There was a brief and slightly uncomfortable silence during which I was tempted to order another drink even if more alcohol was far from what my system required. We both avoided each other by looking once again at the beautiful city as sunset had given way to night.
“I saw your neighbor after I left your apartment yesterday,” David finally said.
“Not fucking chatterbox George, please!” If the tenant in 10B had seen David leaving my place at 1 a.m., by now the whole building would know that we were “sleeping” together—and I hate being the object of gossip.
“No, the guy in 10D.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him.”
“He politely greeted me with a nod. We took the stairs together in silence. I exited the stairs at my floor, and he continued making his way downstairs. He was dressed in medical scrubs, so I assumed he must have been going to work.”
I suddenly realized something that perhaps I should have detected before. You may have been wondering about it for a while. I’ve never been the fastest at this deducing game, so pardon my tardiness.
“Do we know what time the police think Henry was killed?”
“My source at the LAPD said anytime between 10 p.m. and midnight,” David said. He’d been in my apartment since 9:30 p.m.
“And you’re sure you don’t want to tell the cops you were with me?”
“I don’t know what looks worse: not having an alibi or coming up with one after admitting we’ve lied,” he reasoned.
I was going to protest when, even if I was still incredibly inebriated, more stuff started clicking.
“What was Dashing Henry doing at the Eastern Columbia?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “My LAPD source is a bit spooked and has been very tight-lipped. I’m trying to get them to tell me more because I feel the police know more than they are letting on.”
“Of course they do! David, remember that there’s a chance they think you’re the killer. Don’t you think perhaps that’s why your source is a bit shy all of a sudden?”
“We’ve known each other for a long time. I doubt they would believe me capable of murder.”
“I’m so drunk, I don’t think I’d be able to walk home. But even I can realize how naïve what you just said sounds,” I told him, worried.
“Let’s go. I’ll take you home.” Once again, he was shutting me down. I was so used to it by then that I didn’t even try bringing up the subject again. Plus, it had technically been me who had given him the perfect excuse to change subjects when I mentioned how wasted I was, so I could not complain.
