Revenge of the Spellmans

by Lisa Lutz

  Each letter in the alphabet has a numerical representative that is either one or two digits. Each number corresponds to the letter’s simple sequence in the alphabet. A is represented by 1 and Z is represented by 26.

  To find the file on Black, Truesdale, or Bancroft (since I wasn’t sure who Harkey saw as the true subject of the investigation), I pulled out a pencil and paper and worked out each potential file number. Then I searched for a numbered file corresponding with Truesdale (nothing), then Black (nothing), and finally Bancroft—where there was indeed a file. I pulled the file, made copies of its contents, stuffed them in my purse, then returned the file to the cabinet and checked the clock. I had fifteen minutes before I could expect Harkey to return from his lunch. I raced to file as many files as I could and then I misfiled a few, just in case I needed some fuel to get fired in the near future.

  The investigation had Bancroft’s name on it, but the true subject was Linda Truesdale-not-Black. The file consisted of a surveillance log, a background report, and a list of attempts to access her financial data. At the bottom of the log sheet there were references to MP3 files, which I assumed meant Harkey had some audio recordings connected to the case.

  According to the log, they were on the XYZ drive, but when I checked the computer there was no such drive. This led me to believe that the files were being hidden. I just had to figure out where.

  One hour and thirty minutes after Harkey’s departure, I could hear his booming voice on his cell phone as he approached the office. I quickly escaped from the computer directory, returned to the file room, and made a show of dusting off the countertops.

  INVISIBLE ISABEL

  T his new bit of information left me puzzled about how to proceed. When my shift ended at Harkey’s, I decided to drop by my parents’ house to come clean about my undercover investigation—and solicit some advice. When I arrived, Rae was seated at the kitchen table, books and papers splayed in front of her, pencil in her mouth.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, even though the answer was obvious.

  “‘Studying,’” Rae said, using finger quotes.

  “For what?”

  “The Psssat.”

  Then my dad entered the kitchen. I said, “Dad, I need to talk to you for a minute.”

  My father sat down at the table across from Rae and began eating some yogurt. I pulled a chair next to his and repeated my previous request. Dad ate his yogurt as if I were invisible.

  Had my faculties been in normal operating condition, I would have recognized the unique stance of my father when he’s giving me his finest bit of attitude. Instead, I stared at my dad as if he were some alien life form and then turned to my sister for a consultation.

  “Something’s not right about Dad. What is it?” I asked.

  Rae briefly studied Dad’s body language and said, “It would appear that he’s not speaking to you.”

  “Dad, are you talking to me?”

  No response.

  “That’s a dumb question,” Rae said. “I mean, if he’s not talking to you he’s not going to answer the question, is he?”

  “You ask him,” I said.

  “Dad, are you not talking to Isabel?” Rae asked.

  “Isabel?” Dad replied. “Who is Isabel?”

  Rae turned to me. “It’s worse than I thought,” she said.

  Then my mother entered the room.

  “Mom, Dad’s not talking to me,” I said. “Why?”

  “I’m not talking to you, either,” my mom said, except that she sort of was.

  Since Rae was the only one fully recognizing my presence in the room, I decided to turn to her for an explanation.

  “Why aren’t they talking to me?” I asked.

  “If I overheard things correctly, I think it’s because you went to work for Rick Harkey. Why would you do that? That guy is such a tool.”

  Dad cleared his throat, cuing Rae to elaborate.

  “And Dad’s mortal enemy,” Rae continued.

  “Thank you,” Dad said to Rae.

  “I have an explanation,” I said to anyone who was listening. “Is anyone interested in it?”

  Dad finished his yogurt, got up from the table, and headed into the Spellman offices. Mom said, “You really screwed up this time, Isabel,” and left the room.

  “I have an explanation!” I said. “Does anyone want to hear it?”

  “I do,” Rae said, but I was already out the door.

  The mile-long walk back to David’s and my house seemed to take forever. My feet felt like lead and I wanted to punch the wind that was slowing me down. I longed for a three-hour bus ride, but I was going to settle for a bed. I was going to learn how to sleep in David’s place one way or another. I dropped into a drugstore and purchased some nighttime cold medicine. 1

  I slipped into my apartment unnoticed, got into my pajamas, and took the medicine.

  An hour later, I was still staring at the ceiling—sleepy, but not asleep, bored and miserable because my mind couldn’t focus on anything but the fact that I might spend yet another night conscious and useless. My phone buzzed and I was relieved for the break from my own thoughts.

  It was Charlie. I mean Ernie. My client, remember? Well, I barely did, so I figured I should remind you.

  “I’m just checking in,” he said.

  “Oh, good,” I replied, trying to figure out whether I had any information for him.

  “Any new leads?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I replied. I was working the case, so there had to be a few new leads. Right?

  “I’m all ears,” Ernie said.

  “Yes. That’s true. You do have big ears,” I said (yep, out loud).

  Ernie laughed. Thank god. I recovered and told Ernie I was working on a lead, but I had nothing I was ready to tell him. There was another long pause. I can’t tell you whether anything was said during that time, but I do think I got in a very brief catnap. Then Ernie woke me.

  “I bought Cosmopolitan the other day. You know, the magazine.”

  “Oh, good,” I replied, and then I tried to say “cosmopolitan,” but I couldn’t.

  “You okay, Izzy?” Ernie asked.

  “I just took some cold medicine. That’s all.”

  “Do you have a cold?”

  “No. What were you saying?”

  “My wife reads Cosmo —that’s what they call it—so I thought that maybe it would give me some insight.”

  “Did it?” I asked.

  “I read an article about things men do that make women mad.”

  “So, what are you going to do, Charlie?”

  “Who’s Charlie?”

  “Ernie. I meant Ernie. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to try to stop doing those things,” he said.

  “Good,” I replied.

  “I love my wife,” Ernie then said.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want her to leave me.”

  When I got off the phone with Ernie, it occurred to me that sleep deprivation was eroding my detective skills. I looked at the Bancroft file one more time and tried to envision what my next step in the investigation would be. No information that could explain why Linda was being investigated could be gleaned from the contents of the file. But that audio recording was suspicious; I knew I had to get
my hands on it. I wrote myself a note on my arm: “MP3?” Then I took another dose of cold medicine and finally drifted off to sleep.

  THERAPY SESSION #15

  [Partial transcript reads as follows:]

  ISABEL: There might be something seriously wrong with me.

  DR. RUSH: I wouldn’t say that.

  ISABEL: Medically, not psychologically wrong—although I can understand the confusion.

  DR. RUSH: Please elaborate.

  ISABEL: I can’t remember things. Last night I wrote myself a note on my arm. “MP3,” with a question mark. This morning when I woke up I had no idea what it meant. Lately if I write on my arm it’s to remind me of where I parked my car. See, another symptom. I never used to forget where my car was. Well, once or twice.

  DR. RUSH: Are you sleeping?

  ISABEL: Last night I took some nighttime cold medicine and I got a full seven hours.

  DR. RUSH: If you need cold medicine to get to sleep, you should see a physician.

  ISABEL: I don’t need cold medicine to sleep. I mean, I can sleep on a bus without any assistance.

  DR. RUSH: Excuse me?

  ISABEL: I think it will just take some time to get used to my new apartment.

  DR. RUSH: So you’ve moved recently?

  ISABEL: Yes. 1 Oh, but I figured it out.

  DR. RUSH: You figured out what?

  ISABEL: What MP3, question mark, means.

  DR. RUSH: What does it mean?

  ISABEL: It was just a reminder to check something on the case I’m working on.

  DR. RUSH: I thought you had taken a break from PI work.

  ISABEL: I agreed to this one case, just to get my feet wet again and see how I felt about the whole thing.

  DR. RUSH: What is the case?

  ISABEL: A guy thinks his wife is cheating on him or shoplifting. It seemed nice and boring, but then it got a little bit interesting.

  DR. RUSH: How so?

  ISABEL: Someone else is following the guy’s wife as well. That means she’s doing more than cheating, or at least whoever is interested thinks so.

  DR. RUSH: Are you obsessing again?

  ISABEL: I’d say I’m extremely curious.

  DR. RUSH: Is it going to become a problem?

  ISABEL: The last time I got in trouble was for investigating someone I wasn’t supposed to investigate.

  DR. RUSH: A neighbor?

  ISABEL: Right. But this time I’ve been hired to investigate this woman, and the case has taken an unexpected turn. I’d be a lousy PI if I just ignored the evidence right in front of me.

  DR. RUSH: You have to find a balance. Can you do that?

  ISABEL: Maybe.

  DR. RUSH: Let’s look at it a different way. Is the case in any way negatively affecting your life?

  [Long, long pause.]

  DR. RUSH: Are you pausing because you’re genuinely thinking or are you pausing to kill time?

  ISABEL: At first I was thinking and then I’m pretty sure I fell asleep for a few seconds. What was the question?

  DR. RUSH: Has taking this job negatively affected your life?

  ISABEL: Well, my parents are giving me the silent treatment. Although my dad is way better at it than my mom, as usual.

  DR. RUSH: Have they done this before?

  ISABEL: My dad didn’t talk to me for a week after I sold his golf clubs on eBay.

  DR. RUSH: Why did you do that?

  ISABEL: He never golfed and I needed the cash.

  DR. RUSH: I see.

  ISABEL: And my mom said only a few words to me for three weeks after my expulsion from ballet class.

  DR. RUSH: Why were you expelled?

  ISABEL: Long story. 2

  DR. RUSH: Why do you think your parents are so angry with you this time around?

  ISABEL: Well, they’ve been asking me to come back to work, and the next thing they know, I’ve taken an administrative position with a competitor they both despise. It’s understandable.

  DR. RUSH: I’m not following. Why did you take a position with a despised competitor?

  ISABEL: Because he knows something about the case I’m working on.

  DR. RUSH: Is that ethical?

  ISABEL: It’s in a gray area.

  DR. RUSH: Shouldn’t you be staying out of that area?

  ISABEL: I’m not sure you can be a good investigator if you’re not willing to break a few rules here and there.

  DR. RUSH: Do your parents understand that?

  ISABEL: Sure. But if they’re not talking to me, then how am I going to explain myself?

  DR. RUSH: Why don’t you write them a letter?

  ISABEL: Huh, I hadn’t thought of that.

  After therapy, I took the bus 3 back to “my” place and spent a quiet evening in, composing my letter of contrition to the Parental Unit. My “Dear Mom and Dad” letter touched on all the issues that I knew were the roots of their disappointment. It even included a wholehearted apology for all my past misdeeds. I would include the letter in this document, but it was too sincere to make for decent reading material.

  That night I went to sleep without cold medicine. I got in about two hours until I woke from a nightmare involving David storming my apartment accompanied by about a dozen SWAT team members and a battering ram. I stared at the ceiling until dawn, planning my next bus ride.

  CASE #001

  CHAPTER 7

  E arly Tuesday morning, I dropped the letter in my parents’ mailbox. I then took a detour before work. Robbie Gruber—a computer expert who runs a business named Call-A-Geek—has been Spellman Investigations’ go-to guy for technical troubles for as long as I can remember having technical troubles. No one can sort out a computer problem better than Robbie. However, it comes at a cost.

  I’ve seen Robbie bring my mother to the brink of tears and watched him and my father almost come to blows. Robbie tosses around the word “moron” like he has a daily quota to fill. He accuses you of being so dimwitted that you couldn’t find an on/off switch without a map. His shouting will unnerve you so much that you won’t be able to follow his simple instructions—“CONTROL! ALT! DELETE! HOW FUCKING HARD IS THAT!” And when
your computer is restored to health and Robbie is packing his things to go, he will shame you into thanking him.

  Robbie keeps his front door open (which doesn’t seem wise when you have the kind of enemies he does), so I let myself in. When he saw me, he didn’t say hello but rolled his eyes and continued doing whatever it was he was doing.

  “Hi, Robbie,” I said with a tone of perkiness I was sure would irritate him. “I need your help.”

  “I’m busy. Come back later,” he replied.

  I pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. “Nope.”

  I took the log sheet from my bag and put it on Robbie’s desk, along with two twenty-dollar bills.

  “I’ll make it quick,” I said.

  “What?” Robbie said, finally making eye contact. Although I’ve noticed that it’s not eye contact he makes. He looks at the spot just between your eyebrows. He can’t stand to look you in the eye.

  “Look at the log sheet,” I said. “All the files are in their exact location except I can’t find the XYZ drive. There is no XYZ drive when you look in the browser. I’ve also checked the individual computers in the office. Should I assume it’s an external hard drive?”

  “You lost a file on your own computer?” Robbie asked in a tone so condescending it would be impossible to duplicate.

  “Not my computer. Someone else’s. I’m trying to figure out why I can’t find this folder when everything else is easy to access.”