“Come on Detective Cloo—Rooney, don’t be a pushover. You know this happens all the time,” our lawyer replied, and I was surprised by that piece of information. Did people really change their police statements frequently? My dad never lied, but he had a way of transfiguring facts when it suited his needs as an attorney, so you never knew. “When they were first questioned by the police—without the presence of their lawyer, I may add—both my clients stated they were alone that night because they didn’t want to share a personal relationship they didn’t think was relevant to the case. They’ve since come to realize they made a mistake.”
Detective Moreno made some notes and chuckled. She looked highly entertained by the whole situation. Clooney continued staring at me and David. I shifted uncomfortably but would have gladly given away my highly prized collection of signed Sofia Coppola–directed movies on DVD to know what exactly David was feeling.
“So you weren’t alone all night on Wednesday after all?” Clooney asked David.
Our lawyer nodded for him to answer. “I wasn’t,” my on-again (or was it off-again?) lover said. “At around 9:30, I went to Elena’s apartment.”
“He was with me until 1 a.m.,” I contributed.
“And we should believe you now because...?”
“You can ask my neighbor George if you don’t believe us,” I said. “The walls at the Eastern Columbia are apparently quite thin.”
“This alibi of yours is extremely convenient,” said Clooney. “Were you really together during all that time?”
Both David and I assented.
“There was no chance for one of you to sneak outside Miss Freire Valls’s apartment and go meet Mr. Henry in the parking area of the building?” continued Clooney.
“I think they’ve both already said that they were together atMs.Freire Valls’s place,” our lawyer established. He knew I found the whole concept of using different titles of courtesy for women depending on their marital status preposterous and sexist.
“Since they haven’t been exactly forward in the past, I’d like to hear directly from them about this,” Clooney said.
“We were both at Elena’s place until I left and returned to my apartment,” David said.
“Any reason why you left?” Clooney asked.
Ouch.
“I had no reason to stay.”
Double fucking ouch.
“I saw the tenant in apartment 10D leaving his place when I left Elena’s,” David continued. “Maybe you can check with him. He’ll corroborate it.”
“How convenient,” Clooney said, and it made me think we should have probably knocked on apartment 10D that morning and brought the jazz-listening neighbor with us to this meeting. “But what about before that? Do we have to assume that you were”—he grabbed a copy of that day’sLos Angeles Voicethat had been hiding underneath some folders and read from it—“‘humping like rabbits’ from 9:30 p.m. to 1 a.m.?”
I cringed. But there’s nothing like directness to thwart certain indiscretions. “There was humping followed by sleeping.”
“And how do you know that when you were placidly sleeping, your partner didn’t take the chance to leave the apartment?”
Our lawyer was going to intervene, but I signaled that I could take care of it.
“First of all, even my neighbor knows who gets in and out of my apartment. Don’t you think I would have noticed David if he decided to go exploring in the middle of the night and then came back?” I said. “Not sure if you’ve seen any of the units at the Eastern Columbia, but there are literally no walls. And second of all, you’re implying that David came to my place to have an alibi but then forgot to use it when he talked to you the first time. Does that make any sense?”
“Does any of this make any sense,Ms. Freire Valls?” said Clooney. “Let me play something for you.”
He opened a laptop, searched for something on it, then started playing an audio file.
“Matt, I know you said we were done, but I’m sure you’ll come to realize you made a mistake and take me back. I’m at David Ramos’s building,”the recording said. I recognized the voice immediately as it made my blood run cold and my skin crawl. It was Dashing Henry’s.“It makes no sense being here, but I have to confront him. Even if he scares me. Do you think he’s capable of something against me? Maybe you should call the cops and tell them about the emails. I know, I know! You told me not to come, but I don’t always listen.”Henry stopped talking then and there was background noise. I recognized the sound made by the elevators at the Eastern Columbia and the muffled sounds of someone thumping on something.“The damn hack journalist isn’t even here. Been knocking on his door for over ten minutes! I know what you’ll say, but I needed to at least try and talk to him... And I’m already leaving anyway, looking for the car now. Wait, someone’s yelling at me from a fucking Toyota Prius!”
Detective Clooney stopped the audio file.
“This voicemail was sent to Matt Steele, Dashing Henry’s former lawyer. Mr. Steele was already sleeping when Dashing Henry called him on Wednesday night and didn’t listen to this until Thursday afternoon. He notified us immediately after realizing its content,” said Clooney. “What you haven’t heard, because I stopped the recording before that, is Henry being run over at around 10:17 p.m. on Wednesday night.”
I breathed heavily. I had hated Dashing Henry, but I sure didn’t need the picture of his demise in my mind, even if only in audio format.
“Mr. Ramos, do you have a car?” Clooney asked.
