Page 27 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
“What happened?”
“Not sure. Some neighbor or other complained about something and you jumped in to assist them, and that must have annoyed me and caught my eye,” I said. “And when I looked again, the weird guy was no longer there and I couldn’t see him anywhere. I’m sure he’s the same guy we saw today on those internet pictures.”
David was doing all his thinking silently, and I didn’t want to look in his direction again. In the past, he may have accused me of sometimes being distracted on the wheel. I wouldn’t count his mild dislike for my driving style as another one of the things that precipitated our uncoupling, though.
“So, you also saw him yesterday?” I asked.
“Don’t think so,” David said. “I think I’ve seen him around our building one or two times these past few days though. I just assumed he was a neighbor. You know how familiar faces keep popping up at the grocery store or the barber shop?”
“Not really,” I admitted. David was into community and making a difference in the neighborhood. I can’t say I was. Call me selfish, but lending my mother to the whole city of Los Angeles seemed like involvement enough.
Even if we were five minutes early, when I parked at the LAPD visitor’s parking area, my dad was already waiting there. He was immaculately dressed in a white shirt, a silk tie, and one of his woolen Hugo Boss suits. He likes nice things but never goes for anything extravagant.
He was carrying an Urth Caffé to-go cup of what I assumed was his usual order of double espresso macchiato. He went to drink from it only to drop an exaggerated amount of coffee over himself, staining his blazer.
Remember when I told the Clooney guy that I take to my dad? I wasn’t lying.
“¿Te has quemado?” I asked my dad as I was getting out of the car, worried he may have burned himself. He was trying to drain the coffee stain with a tissue and making it even worse. There was now not only coffee but cellulose residue all over his jacket.
“What? No,” he replied, also in Spanish. “But I just picked up this suit from the dry cleaners!”
“Hola, Mateo,” David greeted my dad. Did he sound a bit flustered?
“Ah, so you found David! And in record time,” my dad said, a knowing look in his expression. “Was the neighbor telling the truth? Were you two together the night of the murder?” Dad was famous for his directness.
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds in the underground garage of the LAPD. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead. Both David and I fixated on our shoes, not answering or looking at my dad.
“Anyone?” our lawyer insisted. “Were you together on Wednesday night?”
David and I may be a couple of Californian millennials used to being evasive and walking on eggshells, but my father is one hundred percent pure Spaniard bluntness and doesn’t appreciate lack of clarity.
“Yes,” we finally both mumbled, our eyes still fixed on the floor.
“You two better start telling the cops the truth. What exactly made you think that telling them you were alone when you weren’t was a good idea? In fact, why the hell did you tell them anything? I should have been both your first calls!” He scowled. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to get inside. You each are going to amend your statement and talk again to that Clooney guy?—”
“Rooney,” corrected David, and my dad gave him one of his don’t-mess-with-me-when-I’m-in-my-lawyer-mode looks. “Never mind,” David said, and I almost chuckled.
“Do we need to talk to the cops separately?” I asked.
“After having lied to them once, it’s not like they trust us a lot, so we’ll do it together. Plus, this is only a friendly chat to show them wenowhave nothing to hide,” my dad explained. “If they had anything against either of you, this would be a different kind of conversation.”
“But we still need a lawyer?”
“Sí, cariño, haven’t I taught you anything? Youalwaysneed a lawyer. Especially one that won’t charge you by the hour.”
15
We sat in one of the police station’s windowless, charmless interview rooms. I was appalled by the yellowish paint peeling off from the walls, and I started regretting coming there. I sweated nervously and remembered I hadn’t exactly had time to shower that morning. I’d been absent-minded about my personal hygiene before—so many years of drought in California, and you start developing a method for showering every other day if you’re feeling lazy. But we’d had two extremely wet winters in a row, and I had no excuse for my lack of washing other than I really hadn’t had the chance to get to it. That and no hot water. Plus, the inconvenient appearance of a corpse in the building, I guess.
We sat at the rectangular table in the interrogation room. I sat with David and my dad on one side. Seated opposite us were Detective Clooney and a black-haired woman detective in her thirties who introduced herself as Detective Moreno. I had to do a double take because Detective Moreno was stunning with her fresh face and pixie cut. I checked once again for the cameras because she looked straight out of any network police procedural show, including her choice of an impeccably fitting navy wide-legged, double-breasted suit.
“This is highly unusual,” started Clooney, taking me out of my TV reverie. “I understand you want to amend your statements.”
The detective was looking only at me and David, but we knew better than to utter a single word without having express authorization from our lawyer.
“My clients Elena Freire Valls and David Ramos wish to amend their statement regarding the night of Wednesday, February 21,” said our lawyer. He sounded assertive and confident, even in a stained suit and smelling like coffee.
“Highly unusual,” repeated Clooney.
