Chapter 15
15
W e 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.
“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 at Ms. 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’s Los Angeles Voice that 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.
“Yes,” David answered tentatively.
“And what car is that?”
“Please, let’s stop this farce. You know perfectly well, because you’ve checked his DMV registration records, that my client has had a Toyota Prius for over five years.”
“More like ten,” corrected David. My dad and I rolled our eyes. We’ve always found amusing how much David needed to be precise.
“Could that be the same Prius Henry was talking about?” asked Clooney.
“Come on! Half of LA drives a Prius,” my dad intervened again.
“Not anymore, now everyone is driving electric,” the detective corrected, looking my way. “We could have both of your cars checked, and that could work in your favor if we don’t find signs of collision or anything else in them.”
“Sorry, but no.” Our lawyer was quick. “You’ll need a warrant to get near any of my clients’ vehicles.”
“It looks good to collaborate,” Clooney said.
“I don’t care how it looks. We both know that if you want to find something, you’ll find something.”
And that’s why you always need a lawyer in the room, I guess. I was ready to tell the cops to go ahead and check my fucking car and leave me alone. And then I realized I’m a terrible parker and both my passenger side wheels have continuously suffered from my inability to parallel park without bumping into the sidewalk. Sure, someone could read so many dents as suspicious.
“Are you aware that there’s someone online who’s been impersonating Mr. Ramos?” our lawyer told the cops then.
When we’d arrived at the station, we’d explained to my dad that there was a fake email account in David’s name and everything about the article on YouReallyDontKnowWhatsOutThere.com. He’d advised to tell everything to the cops since there could be more articles soon.
“What, someone has been writing trashy articles and bylining them David Ramos, and you’re upset?” Detective Moreno said. She seemed to have a twisted sense of humor. I didn’t like it one bit.
“No, someone made an email account in his name and emailed Dashing Henry. That someone asked the actor to meet at Mr. Ramos’s place the night Henry died.”
“I didn’t write that email,” David said.
“Not even considering your career was hanging by a thread with a libel trial on the near horizon? A libel trial that can hardly go forward now that the offended party is dead?” said Clooney.
I needed to get out of there. Writing interrogation scenes was much more fun than living through them, even if I wasn’t the main suspect—or perhaps because David was.
“My career is not hanging by a thread,” said David. I knew he’d been deeply wounded by those words. “At least, it wasn’t before this morning’s article in the Voice . And I didn’t write that email. I have never used the email account from where it was sent. I’m meticulously careful in my digital communications, and you won’t find any trace between that account and any of my personal devices.”
“What about your work devices?” asked Clooney.
“I’m a freelance contributor. My personal computer and phone are my work computer and phone.”
“So, can we take a look at them then and make sure you never sent those emails?” Clooney asked.
“No, you can’t,” our lawyer intervened. “Unless you have a warrant, of course.”
“Your client just said we wouldn’t find any trace between the email account that messaged Henry and his devices. But for that, we need to look.”
“Which you’d be able to do if you had probable cause and a warrant,” Dad said.
“How does your client know Mr. Henry was supposed to meet him at his place if he wasn’t the one who sent him the email citing him there?” asked Clooney.
“As part of his duties as an investigative reporter, my client found a series of leaked emails from the deceased,” our lawyer explained. “Among them were those sent from an account impersonating him. My client won’t reveal any sources but will point to the leaked emails in collaboration with this investigation.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I realized the police already knew about the emails and Dad had been right in telling them about it.
“Great. If that’s all, I think we should get going.” Dad moved to stand.
“Just one thing.” This time it was Detective Moreno chatting us up. “We know Mr. Ramos has a reputation as an investigative journalist, and he may feel inclined to further report on this story himself.”
“I’m too involved to even fathom the possibility of writing about this messy story,” David said, his melodramatic tone fully on. I had to pinch myself not to roll my eyes. Not only was he terribly overacting, he was lying.
“Good,” Detective Moreno said, and I couldn’t believe she’d bought David’s words. I guess not everyone knew him as well as I did. “You’re in enough trouble as is. Let us investigate. It may not look like it when the Voice decides to write salacious half-fabricated stories”—she pointed toward the newspaper still on the table—“but we have reason to believe that whoever is behind Henry’s death wasn’t simply a reckless driver but someone dangerous. You wouldn’t want to get tangled with them.”
“We certainly wouldn’t,” our lawyer said, but I couldn’t help feeling the detective’s words had been some sort of cautionary advice. Also, did I imagine it, or had she been looking at me when she said those words?