Full Release by Marshall Thornton (classic books for 11 year olds txt) 📕

kind of email. Maybe telling them I know what happened to Eddie, that I know what they’re into. Then I could sit back and see who answered. What if they all answered, though? What if none of them answered?

I pulled into my parking space at the studio. It was a little after nine. I hurried through the garage and into the elevator that took me up to the lobby. As I crossed the enormous lobby with its eight-story atrium, my phone rang. Pulling it out of my pocket, I glanced at the phone and I saw that the caller was an old 213 number. One I didn’t recognize. I could answer or ignore. I answered.

“This is Alan Moskowitz with the Los Angeles Herald.” At first, I thought he wanted to sell me a new subscription, but then he asked, “Would you like to make a comment about Carlos Maldonado’s comments?”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. “You must have the wrong number.”

“This is Matt Latowski right?”

“Yes. What is it you’re calling about?”

“A young man named Javier Hernandez was found dead at your house?”

I stopped in front of the elevators that would take me up to my floor. Other late employees rushed by me to get to their desks before anyone noticed their tardiness. I lowered my voice, even though no one was listening. “I don’t think I can talk about that.”

“Do you know you’ve been identified as a person of interest in his murder? Carlos Maldonado is criticizing the LAPD for not arresting you,” Moskowitz said. He was professional and confident. He made me very uncomfortable.

“Who is Carlos Maldonado?” I asked.

“Do you want to comment?”

I realized what a bad idea it was to talk to a reporter and hung up the phone without answering his question. I was shaking as I got into the elevator. Trying to calm myself, I took a few deep, yoga-style breaths. Focus, I told myself. Yes, it was a disaster that people knew the police were centering their investigation on me, but it would be an even bigger disaster if I didn’t find a way to prove my innocence.

I got off the elevator at the seventh floor, wound my way around the floor until I got to our office suite, then slipped into my office. Immediately, I powered up my computer. While I waited, I nervously sifted through some pending work on my desk and tossed it all in my to-do box. There was nothing that couldn’t wait. My voicemail light on my desk phone was flashing. I checked my voicemail. Bobby Sharpe had left a message asking if we could meet on Wednesday. I quickly called him back and set up the appointment.

By that time, the PC was up and running. I took Eddie’s keys out of my pocket and was slipping the Pez dispenser/flash drive into the USB port when Sonja stuck her head in my office. “Matt, come into my office.”

With a sinking feeling, I followed her. When we got to her office, she shut the door behind me. Her entertainment center was open, and the TV was on. It was tuned to the independent channel that ran local news for most of the morning. “My husband called me. They ran the story in the last hour cycle. They’ve been promo-ing it, so they’re going to run it again.”

“Oh,” I said, not sure what else to say.

“You’re not surprised?”

“A reporter called me a few minutes ago. I haven’t had time to deal with it.” Or even mentally process it.

She raised an eyebrow, gave me a disapproving look, as if this was all something I’d done just to annoy her. “You’ve been identified as a suspect in a murder. You’d better find time to deal with it.”

“I mean I am dealing with it. I’m trying to figure out how to prove I didn’t do anything.”

“Have you hired a lawyer?”

I shook my head. “Cash flow problems.”

“Hire a lawyer,” she instructed me, but failed to offer any help with the retainer. “Here it is.” She turned the sound up on the television.

On the screen, the camera focused on a stocky, Hispanic-looking man with his arm around a young, dark-haired woman in her twenties. In his early forties, the man was muscular, his hair black and close cropped. Behind them stood a red-haired priest. In front of them stood half a dozen reporters with microphones and cameras.

The Hispanic-looking man was speaking. A crawl beneath identified him as Carlos Maldonado, Latino Community Action Committee, “As a former Los Angeles police officer, I can assure you I’m empathic with the difficulties of police work. However, it has been nearly a week since the murder of Javier Hernandez, a suspect has been identified, and it is important to the Latino community that justice be served in this terrible crime. We urge anyone with information that might be helpful to the police to step forward and aid in this investigation.”

The report cut away from them, and suddenly I filled the screen. It was a terrible picture of me; I was red-faced and disheveled. It was the mug shot taken the night Jeremy and I had our fistfight. It made me look like a criminal, a rather stupid criminal.

“Police have identified Matthew Latowski as a person of interest in this case. His home has been searched and police are awaiting...”

The reporter droned on, but I tuned out. I’d just been publicly identified as a suspect in a murder case. Why did they do that? Did they hope I’d crack under pressure? And why was this Carlos guy deliberately attacking me? The report cut back to him. I studied his square, solid body, which gave the impression he was ex-military as did his close-cropped, black hair turning gray at the temples. His eyes were dark and intense.

“Javier Hernandez was a fine young man,” he said. “A young man I remember well through my work with the Adventure Scouts. He’ll be fondly remembered by his friends and family.”When he was finished, Maldonado