"He could be outta the state -- he could be outta the country for God's sake. You know how long it could take me to find him?" blurted Detective Ortiz.

I was still at Mark Fitzgerald's house, standing in the kitchen with this slimy P.I.

"And you could be arrested for breaking and entering, you know. I say, we get the hell outta here and go have a bite to eat."

"We're not leaving till I find out where he is, Ortiz. Do your job."

Mark's passport was gone, most of his clothes removed from his closet, and only a small overnight bag was left where his luggage was stored. I asked a neighbor who confirmed that he'd been picked up earlier by an airport shuttle service. Mark had given the neighbor a set of keys and asked him to check in once in a while.

Searching the trash, Ortiz found a ripped up withdrawal slip made out for "cash" in the amount of $50,000. Apparently, Mark was planning on being gone a long time. But where? Home to Atlanta? Europe?

I called his work.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald has had a family emergency and has left for several months. Dan Honet is covering his cases, shall I connect you...?"

God.

Did Mark plan this just today or yesterday? Did he realize we were closing in on the evidence we needed and got scared? Scared of facing who he really
is?

"He's a goner, Lewis," Ortiz smirked. "Face the fact. But you're still gonna have to pay me for this job."

Boy, was I gonna be glad to see the last of this slimy Neanderthal.

*****


Driving back to West Hollywood, I had never felt so weird. No closure, no confrontation, nothing. I had wanted to return to Andrew-- victorious from a great battle-- but instead we were both going to have to deal with the fact that Mark Fitzgerald may have slipped through our fingers.

And was gone-- off to take advantage of some other poor people. To destroy a few more lives.

What was I supposed to do with my anger? How was I supposed to fix everything Mark had destroyed so completely?

What about Andrew?

Was there any way for us to come back together? Would he ever forgive me for my part in all of this?

"Thanks, Mark," I yelled out loud, my frustration mounting and overflowing. Luigi Espinosa, the loser son of a Portuguese fisherman, was on his own again trying to fix another fine mess.