by Lisa Lutz
“Are you going to leave her alone now?” I asked.
“I have no choice,” my mom replied. “There’s nothing I can do for you here, Isabel. She’s perfect. If I were Henry, I’d pick her, too. She’s got a better job and she’s less emotionally stunted.”
“It might have been better for both of us if you never admitted your motivation.”
“I agree,” my mother replied.
“What am I going to tell her?” I asked. “I arranged to look into this matter for her.”
“Since you’re so willing to look into matters for people, why don’t you just come back to work?”
“I’m not ready,” I replied. “Now, what am I supposed to tell Maggie?”
“You don’t have to tell her anything. I’ll talk with her. Say something about how I needed to investigate her since she was spending so much time with my teenage daughter.”
“You think she’ll buy that?” I asked.
“If I sell it,” Mom replied, and I knew she was right.
I got to my feet. I couldn’t spend another second in that house. I did, however, have to get in my last words: “And you people wonder why I’m in therapy?”
By early evening, I was ready to return to David’s and my house and get a good night’s rest for my first day on the job at RH Investigations. There was one pressing matter, however, that I had to take care of first: find my car.
I toyed with the idea that it had been stolen, but stealing a ten-year-old Buick with three dents, a missing hubcap, and a duct-taped fender doesn’t seem like the best use of one’s time.
I searched for an hour, and just when I was about to give up, I found my car parked on Leavenworth at Green. I even had a ticket for parking during street cleaning. I wondered how this kind of mistake could be made. “Leavenworth” looks nothing like “Taylor,” even if it’s written on your arm. Since I found the car and it was safe to park in that spot until morning, I left it and returned to my house. Once again, I scouted the vicinity before scaling the perimeter fence and entered through the back door.
I slept a full three hours 1 until I woke up in a panic, hearing sounds by the exit that sounded almost like someone turning a key in a lock. I sat for fifteen minutes in a crouch with my ear to the door, preparing to jolt into hiding should I see the knob actually turn. You’ll be happy to know that it was a false alarm. An hour later, after checking the video feed on my computer and practicing some deep-breathing exercises, I was back in bed, simulating sleep.
CASE #001
CHAPTER 6
I was twenty minutes late for work because, well, David was late for work and I couldn’t leave until he left. Rick Harkey was not pleased. I supposed the actual excuse wouldn’t go over well, so I told him that my alarm didn’t go off. Turns out that’s not the best excuse, either. I’ve been late for work before, plenty of times. But I was always at ease disappointing my parents; having a mostly-stranger scowl at me was uncomfortable.
Harkey was also displeased with my wardrobe. He guided me in to a small nook with a Formica table, a couple of chairs, a paper shredder, and a bulletin board and asked me to quietly read from a yellowed and worn piece of paper pegged to the far right corner.
DRESS CODE
Men should wear suits or dress slacks with a dress shirt and a sweater.
Women should wear skirts with nylon stockings or dress slacks with a blouse and/or a sweater.
No T-shirts, no blue jeans, no sneakers, no sweatshirts, and no flipflops or Birkenstocks.
When I finished reading, I came to the unavoidable conclusion that I would have to keep this undercover investigation as brief as possible. I was currently wearing blue jeans, boots, and a button-down shirt under a sweater with the tails hanging out. Harkey reminded me about the no-denim rule and then suggested I tuck in my shirt.
After my six-hour shift—filing via a numbered system that worked as security against my prying eye, and shredding an entire box of Harkey’s five-year-old financial statements—I was almost looking forward to my therapy session. Only I couldn’t tell Dr. Rush about my new job or my new home or anything, really.
THERAPY SESSION #14
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
ISABEL: My car keeps moving.
DR. RUSH: That’s what they do, those cars.
ISABEL: I mean, I park the car and the next time I go to drive it, it’s not where I remember it.
DR. RUSH: Maybe you should write it down.
ISABEL: I tried that.
DR. RUSH: And what happened?
ISABEL: I took a shower.
DR. RUSH: Why don’t you try writing on a piece of paper next time?
ISABEL: Okay. I guess that’s sound advice.
[Long pause.]
DR. RUSH: Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?
ISABEL: Not that I can think of.
DR. RUSH: Think harder, then.
[Long pause.]
ISABEL: You don’t have as much stuff as Dr. Ira.
DR. RUSH: It’s been a while since I’ve been to his office, so I can’t comment.
ISABEL: If you do go to his office, you might want to mention that he could use a new bookshelf and maybe he should bolt both bookshelves to the wall. You have a nicer office than Dr. Ira. I like the fountain and the coffee station in the waiting room. I also like your carpet better.
DR. RUSH: Stop stalling, Isabel.
ISABEL: Excuse me?
DR. RUSH: Did you forget what we talked about last week?
ISABEL: No. But what exactly are you referring to?
DR. RUSH: Therapy is not a place you go to kill time, especially if it’s court-ordered.
ISABEL: I don’t think that’s what I was doing.
DR. RUSH: It seems that way to me.
ISABEL: How does that make you feel, Doctor?
DR. RUSH: Isabel, according to the revised terms of your plea agreement, you have ten more sessions with me after today. If the rest of this session goes like the first part, you’ll have eleven sessions left. All I have to do is file some paperwork with the court.
ISABEL: You must really like paperwork.
DR. RUSH: You must really hate self-examination.
ISABEL: Well, yeah. Who doesn’t?
DR. RUSH: Most people aren’t as resistant as you are.
ISABEL: Really? So, I’m, like, already your worst patient?
[Long pause.]
ISABEL: Sorry. Refresh my memory. What am I supposed to do?
DR. RUSH: Just talk about something that’s on your mind—but keep me and Dr. Ira out of it.
ISABEL: [sigh] There are a lot of things on my mind. I wouldn’t know where to begin.
DR. RUSH: Let’s start with your family.
Part III
PROGRESS
THE RANSOM
PART I
A fter therapy, I really needed a drink, so I took the Muni train to West Portal and stopped in at the Philosopher’s Club. Paddy O’Brien 1 was tending bar as usual, so I ordered a beer and sat down at a table so he wouldn’t think I was interested in having a conversation.
“How are ya today, orgeous?” Connor asked. Normally I wouldn’t assume he was talking to me, but since the only other person in the bar was Clarence, I answered.
“Fine,” I said, picking up a discarded newspaper to further discourage conversation.
“Eye ot ay etter or ya,” he said.
“Huh?” I replied.
Connor approached the table and said something else, but I didn’t pay attention. He placed a sealed business-sized envelope on the table, stamped and addressed to me care of the Philosopher’s Club. There was no return address. I broke the seal on the envelope and found a piece of paper with letters cut and glued from newspaper and magazine print that read:
I Know Your Little Secret
If You Want To Keep It
You Will Meet My Demands
Instructions To Follow
My first reaction was to mentally catalogue my many secrets. But I was tired and that was a lot of unnecessary work. Clearly my “secret” was my new living arrangement. My “blackmailer” was equally obvious. The note had Rae written all over it. 2
I finished my beer and headed over to my parents’ house.
Rae was in her room, supposedly studying for the PSAT retake on Friday to clear her name. I found my sister hanging upside down off her bed in the middle of what I can only assume was a fascinating phone call.
“No—it’s not possible. I don’t believe it. I’ll never believe it. Well, maybe under those exact sets of circumstances, I might believe it. But right now…I don’t…I better go. My sister is here and she’s showing no signs of leaving. See ya tomorrow. Bye.”
Rae sat up in bed, looked me over, and said, “You look unwell.”
“I’m tired,” I said, trying to muster a cold edge to my voice. Exhaustion slurred my words, so it didn’t come off as I had hoped.
“You should try sleeping,” Rae replied. “Or at least taking vitamins. There’s a box of Froot Loops downstairs. Help yourself.”
The non sequitur threw me and shifted the tone of the conversation in Rae’s favor.
“I don’t follow how Froot Loops relate to vitamins or sleep.”
“They’re vitamin-fortified,” Rae explained.
“Don’t push your drugs on me,” I replied, feeling a surprising surge of hostility.
“What do you want?” Rae asked, losing her patience.
“What do you want, I think is the point.”
“I want a new car.”
“Be reasonable.”
“A used car.”
“ That’s what you want?” I asked, barely containing my outrage.
“And world peace,” Rae said, fishing for what I was looking for.
“Don’t play games with me, Rae.”
“Are you stoned?”
“I’m here about the note.”
“What note?”
“Your little blackmail letter.”
“I stopped blackmailing people years ago.”
“You’re denying you wrote—correction, cut and pasted—the note.”
“Izz, if you’re being blackmailed, it’s not me. If you want to provide me with the details, I can look into the matter for you.”
My phone rang just in time. I needed to convince Rae that my situation wasn’t urgent. Otherwise she’d have the leverage of having spotted a weakness.
“Hi, Morty,” I said into the receiver.
“Izzele. Get over to my house right now. I have an emergency.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Not that kind of emergency.”
“Then you shouldn’t call it an emergency. Where’s Ruth?” I asked.
“She left an hour ago for a bridge game. Are you coming over or what?” Morty asked.
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell anyone,” Morty said.
“Who am I going to tell?”
“Not one word!” Morty urged, and then hung up the phone.
“I have to go,” I said. “But this isn’t over, Rae. I’ll be in touch.”
“Get some beauty rest,” Rae said as I passed through her doorway. When I was almost out of earshot, she mumbled, “You need it.”
THE MORTY PROBLEM
T wo weeks after Morty’s return from the hospital, his health was mostly restored, although he didn’t own up to that fact. Still in his ensemble of striped pajamas, terry-cloth robe, and severely worn slippers, Morty met me at the door and directed me into the kitchen. A single piece of paper sat on the table next to a cup of coffee and a half-eaten sandwich.
“What am I going to do?” Morty asked, standing back from the page as if it were an explosive object.
I picked it up. It was a divorce petition, naming Ruth Schilling as the petitioner and Mortimer Schilling as the respondent. My guess was that the document had not yet been filed at the court, so it was still in the threat category, like a loaded gun in a holster.
“She’s bluffing, right?” Morty asked.
“I don’t think so. If she’s found an attorney, what would keep her from filing the paperwork?”
“I can’t believe she’d do this to me. While I’m at death’s door, no less.”
“Knock it off. No one’s buying the sick act anymore.”
“What should I do?” Morty asked, weaving his hands together like a villain in a silent film.
“What do you mean?” I replied.
“What’s my next move?” my old friend asked in all seriousness.
“Sit down,” I said authoritatively.
Morty didn’t budge, so I pulled a chair for him and repeated my demand. He sat.
“You’re moving to Florida, old man. And if you don’t, I can guarantee your children will toss you in a home and leave you there to rot. Ruthy has been with you for fifty-five years. You made a deal and you’re going to stick to it. Got it?”
Morty’s face flushed with anger, which soon faded into acceptance. He nodded his head sullenly.
“Get out of your pajamas and start packing,” I said.
MY NEW JOB
DAY 2
I couldn’t risk being late two days in a row, so I phoned David when I was ready to leave and asked him if he could look for my watch in the guest bedroom—which is located in the back of the house, where he wouldn’t see me on my way out. However, David was still asleep (at 8:20 A.M.? The universe was turning upside down!), so I apologized for waking him and exited his residence with yet another David mystery to solve. Because of my own new work schedule, it was hard for me to keep track of David’s work habits, but as far as I could tell he hadn’t been at the office since his return.
I was having some trouble keeping track of the mess of mysteries in my
head, so I tried mentally organizing them as I waited for the bus. Once the bus came, it was a different story. I grabbed the last open seat in the back by the window and took a quick nap, setting my phone to ring fifteen minutes later. Minimally refreshed but on time, I strolled into the offices of RH Investigations at 8:55 A.M., wearing a pencil skirt, boots, an oxford shirt buttoned to the top, and a cardigan sweater, with my hair in a severe bun. I would have looked really put together if all the clothes hadn’t been heavily wrinkled.
I shredded files and answered phones for the first two hours. Harkey was the kind of employer who could be sitting at his desk doing nothing but drinking coffee and clipping his nails, and if the phone rang, I would have to walk from the back room to the reception desk and answer it. While I was out of Harkey’s view, I inspected the office systems as best I could. The key to finding the Truesdale/Black/Bancroft files would be cracking the numerical filing system. I also needed some alone time with the files.
Fortunately, Harkey had a business lunch that day. He showed me a stack of files, told me to answer the phones, and jotted down his cell number should any emergencies occur. I could tell he was uneasy leaving me alone in his office, but he had a system in place that would take some time to crack. Besides, Harkey was arrogant enough to assume I couldn’t decipher his simple code.
I figured I had ninety minutes tops before Harkey returned, so I got straight to work.
I picked up a file with the following number on the tab: 07.8547519.1. Inside was a file opened in 2007 that was clearly a background report on a man named Mark Hedges. The 07 surely referred to the year the file was opened. This simplifies purging files at a later date. Generally, a numeric filing system involves A) the date on which the file was opened, B) the name on the file, or C) on rare occasions, a random number (for security purposes) that must be cross-referenced against another list. I took a guess that the numbers after the year marker referred to the name on the file. So I looked back at the Hedges file. This was elementary-school code breaking. Allow me to explain Harkey’s simple code system.