Page 8 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
“So what was he doing here?”
“I’m afraid that’s what the cops want to know. Also, apparently he was found right next to where my car is parked, and that’s made them suspicious.” I remembered George mentioning the body was found in the parking area of the building.
“David, we should have told the cops the truth,” I said then. I didn’t like the idea of him being a suspect in all of this.
“Aren’t you worried about your boyfriend finding out that you spent the night with someone else?”
I gaped at him. This was the first time he’d referred to Victor as my boyfriend or anything else, really. But the wordboyfriendcoming from his mouth when it wasn’t to describe his relationship to me felt bizarre. Then again, David and I didn’t exactly do much talking lately.
“We’d be telling the police, not him,” I said.
“Police talk,” David continued.
“Right,” I said, realizing I wouldn’t mind that much if Victor found out. Is it bad to say that, by then, I was quite frankly bored with Victor? In any case, David didn’t have to know that. “What are you up to right now?”
He was searching all the surfaces of his apartment, looking for his notebook. His favorite black rollerball pen was already in his hand, and I had an inkling about his intentions.
“Nothing,” he said sheepishly, but I knew he was lying. Add that to the long list of irreconcilable differences: When it came to his job, David lied. Or, at least, he wasn’t always completely honest. But I’ve told you about David’s lying tendencies already, right? They rub me the wrong way.
“I know I was wrong before, when I accused you of calling the press,” I told him, trying to affect as much of a serious tone as I could. “I know you didn’t call them because you’re the one who wants to write about what happened.”
He blinked at me and opened his mouth, likely to say something defensive, but I cut him off.
“Don’t. I’m not telling you not to do it. I’m only asking you to let me help you. For all we know, right now you’re at the top of the cops’ list. Let’s figure this out together, investigating as a team so we can prove you had nothing to do with it. I’m sure telling them that you were home alone all night is not helping your situation.” I didn’t want to question the reasons behind it too deeply, but Ineededto help him investigate and make sure he’d be all right. And we both knew that wasn’t the first time we’d cracked a case together.
“I appreciate the offer,” he said, and for an instant I thought he was going to accept it. I felt thrilled about the idea of helping him. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long time. I was genuinely concerned about him. I knew that in the cops’ eyes he was probably the most plausible perpetrator, and I needed to dissuade them from that notion.
But David didn’t take me up on my proposition.
“Listen, there’s still something I need to tell you. The reason I told you we needed to talk. It’s important.” You can add his flair for melodrama to that running list of irreconcilable differences. I hate drama. I write drama, but I don’t want it in my life.
I didn’t even try to conceal my exasperation at his words.
“I know youstilldon’t want to talk to me,” he said. “Pero no podemos seguir así.”
I didn’t see why things couldn’t stay the way they were, but I relented.
“Okay, but we have to have this conversation at my place because I need to change. I’m meeting my agent in less than an hour and can’t be late for that—again.”
···
“Are you worried at all about this?” I asked David.
We’d both come up to my apartment using the stairs—the elevators were thankfully still off-limits. I don’t think I could have been inside such an enclosed space with him even for half a minute.
I was in my bedroom, smelling the clothes piled in different states of cleanliness around the space and trying to unearth the one top my sister had gifted me not even two weeks before.
“What should I be worried about?” David answered from my living room. He was fishing for his misplaced UCLA T-shirt among the wreckage that was my apartment. I hadn’t exactly had time to tidy up that morning. And he’d still not let out a single word about whatever he thought we needed to talk about.
“About Dashing fucking Henry appearing dead where you live a week before the trial was about to start.” I kept my volume loud from the bedroom.
I finally found the top I needed buried under the pillows of my unmade bed. Had I worn the garment the night before perhaps? In any case, it didn’t smell too bad to me.
“The trial was going to be a total sham. My lawyer is confident we were going to get a win or even a dismissal of the libel charge,” David said, as if both of us didn’t have a close relationship with said lawyer and knew well that the attorney in question wasn’t exactly an expert in defamation law.
I was going to call David out on that but I caught him.
He was eyeing me through the open space between the kitchen/living area and my bedroom. One thing about the Eastern Columbia: the whole building had been designed with a wall-less concept in mind.
