by Lisa Lutz
“A legal consult?” Maggie asked.
“Hopefully it won’t come to that,” Rae said. “Look at this essay. Do you think it deserves a C-minus?”
As Rae passed the paper over to Maggie, I turned my attention to Connor.
“Is Milo around?”
“He’s in the office, sorting through his old files. He’ll be happy to see ya.”
We’ll see about that, I thought to myself.
I entered an office that had been transformed from its previous dingy overload. A paper shredder sat in the corner with two tied bags of devoured documents. Milo was evidently on the cusp of reducing his life’s accumulation to a single file cabinet. I sat down in the lumpy chair across from his desk. It’s there more for show than anything else—Milo doesn’t appreciate visitors in his office, hence the uncomfortable chair. It’s an obvious dichotomy when you catch a glimpse of the lumbar support on Milo’s ergonomic specimen.
“So, you’re really leaving me?” I asked.
“I like how you’re making this all about you.”
“You could have called me.”
“I told you I was moving.”
“But I didn’t believe you.”
“I’m in love, Isabel.”
“I figured it wouldn’t last.”
“That’s very supportive. Thank you.”
“So, what are you going to do about the apartment?” 2 I asked.
“Bernie says he wants to keep it in the family. Why? You want it back?”
This was an interesting offer. I wasn’t sure how long I could keep my scam going and live with the accompanying sleep deprivation. Every day I felt my mind slipping more and more. Besides, visiting the museum on occasion is one thing, but if my blackmailer got any more ambitious with his/her cultural initiatives on my behalf, I could see it becoming seriously inconvenient. And if David ever found out, I thought he just might kill me, or at the very least spend the rest of his days finding ways to torture me.
“Let me think about it for a few days.”
“By the way, where are you living now?”
“In my apartment—you know, the crappy one in the Tenderloin.”
Milo opened his desk drawer and passed me an envelope, an envelope addressed to me with NOT AT THIS ADDRESS — RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the front.
“Well, wherever you’re living, you need to figure out how to get your mail,” Milo said, clearly not wanting any of the details.
I decided to change the subject.
“When are you moving?” I asked.
“Two weeks. This Sunday, Connor’s throwing me a good-bye party at the bar.”
“How long have you been planning this party?” I inquired, curious that this was the first time he’d mentioned it. What if I hadn’t shown up? Was he planning on saying good-bye to me at all?
“About three weeks. I sent you an invitation, but I guess it got lost in the mail,” Milo said with an unnecessary amount of attitude.
The chair was digging into my leg and cutting off my circulation. I stood up, eyeing it with disdain.
“That’s not a chair; it’s a torture device,” I said.
“This is an office, not a waiting room,” Milo explained in defense of the chair.
“I guess I’ll see you Sunday,” I said.
Before I exited, Milo had to impart his own words of wisdom. Thankfully, his were relatively brief.
“Tick tock.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “I don’t speak clock.”
“Time is running out, Izzy. One day, you got to grow up like the rest of us.”
I’m not sure anyone would consider Milo all grown up—a career bartender skipping town to move in with a woman he barely knew. He was giving me advice? It felt like a new low.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” I replied, although at that point I couldn’t remember what statement I was replying to.
CULTURE 101
I drove by David’s house on a reconnaissance mission. I didn’t want to bother parking unless I was certain I could find safe passage into my apartment. I saw Maggie’s car in the driveway. I assumed that Rae had insisted on a drop-off at my brother’s house and then further insisted that Maggie come in for coffee, tea, or s’mores. Who knows?
I had time to kill and was at a loss for how to use it. At the moment I wasn’t sure where to take the investigation. I’m not the kind of person who makes to-do lists, but if I was, going to the museum would have been on the list. According to the literature included with my ransom note, SFMOMA stayed open late on Thursday. It was Thursday. I phoned Henry.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“Good. So you’re not busy,” I said.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“SFMOMA.”
Forty-five minutes and twenty-four dollars later, 1 Henry and I strolled among the permanent collection. Henry liked to stop and stare for a long time at each piece. Me, I liked to grab all the free pamphlets I could get my hands on and attempt to memorize as many artists’ works as I could, just in case my blackmailer decided that a quiz was in order.
I can’t say that I was 100 percent bored, but Henry’s extended viewing started to get on my nerves.
“Okay, let’s move this show along,” I said after I timed him staring at a Jackson Pollock 2 piece for thirty-four seconds.
An hour and a half later, Henry and I exited the building on Third Street and found a diner a few blocks away. Over a grilled chicken salad (for Henry) and a burger and fries (for me), we did what I suppose most people do after taking in some culture. I considered this practice overly time consuming: Look at art and then talk about art. I don’t see why people can’t look and talk at the same time.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Henry asked.
“It was okay,” I replied. “These fries, however, are amazing. Are you sure you don’t want to try one?”
Henry shook his head disappointedly. “Seriously, Isabel. Wasn’t there one piece of artwork that you liked?”
“I guess I kind of dug that Rauschenberg guy.”
“Which piece?”
“The one where he erases the other guy’s drawing,” I said.
“ Erased de Kooning Drawing ?” 3 Henry clarified.
“That’s the one,” I said. “I probably would have liked it even more if I knew that de Kooning guy.”
The remainder of our dinner conversation revolved around more familiar territory. Henry informed me that french fries don’t count as a vegetable and I accused him of eating like a girl on a diet. Then we decided to stop arguing about food and I told him about Morty and Milo leaving me for warmer climates. Henry said that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen if I made friends my own age. I ignored him for three minutes after that comment until he mentioned that we needed to review our plans for the sting operation.
The evening ended a few hours later when I dropped Henry off at his door. In case you’re wondering (and I know you are), there was no goodnight kiss or confession of undying love. Okay?
THERAPY SESSION #19
&nbs
p; (REVISITED)
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
DR. RUSH: Two weeks ago you mentioned that you were being blackmailed.
ISABEL: Did I?
DR. RUSH: Yes.
ISABEL: Must have slipped my mind.
DR. RUSH: Would you like to talk about it?
ISABEL: Nah.
DR. RUSH: Well, I’d like to talk about it.
ISABEL: It’s really not that big a deal.
DR. RUSH: Do you know your blackmailer?
ISABEL: I’m in the process of narrowing down the list of suspects.
DR. RUSH: How does your blackmailer communicate with you?
ISABEL: Anonymous notes.
DR. RUSH: What do they say?
ISABEL: I really don’t want to talk about it.
DR. RUSH: If these sessions went according to your plan, you’d sit here in silence for an hour eating your lunch.
ISABEL: One time I asked you if I could eat lunch. One time.
DR. RUSH: Tell me what the gist of the notes is and then we can move on.
ISABEL: “I know your secret. If you want to keep it you will meet my demands.”
DR. RUSH: So, what’s your secret?
ISABEL: I thought we were moving on.
DR. RUSH: We are. To what your secret is.
ISABEL: [sigh] My blackmailer knows where I live. At least I think that’s the secret he or she is referring to.
DR. RUSH: Where do you live?
ISABEL: I don’t want to lie to you, Dr. Rush.
DR. RUSH: I’m flattered.
ISABEL: I don’t want to tell you the truth, either.
DR. RUSH: Are you being serious, Isabel?
ISABEL: I sense judgment in your tone, Doctor.
DR. RUSH: Right now I’m just confused. The judgment part will come later.
ISABEL: You’re funnier than Dr. Ira.
DR. RUSH: My couch is funnier than Dr. Ira.
ISABEL: See?
DR. RUSH: You really aren’t going to tell me where you live?
ISABEL: If it makes you feel any better, most people don’t know where I live.
DR. RUSH: My feelings don’t come into play here.
ISABEL: It’s nice to have one person I don’t have to worry about.
DR. RUSH: Are you getting enough sleep?
ISABEL: No. But I drink a lot of coffee and take the bus, so things even out.
DR. RUSH: Why can’t you sleep?
ISABEL: I’ve got a lot on my mind.
DR. RUSH: [impatiently] For instance? [Long pause.]
ISABEL: Something strange is going on with my brother.
DR. RUSH: We’re not talking about your brother.
ISABEL: It’s my therapy. I thought I got to choose the topics.
DR. RUSH: Let me ask you a question: Have you been hired to investigate your brother?
ISABEL: He’s family. You don’t need a paycheck to investigate family.
DR. RUSH: I’d like to return to the topic of blackmail.
ISABEL: Why?
DR. RUSH: Because it’s a clearly defined stressor in your life.
ISABEL: It’s not that stressful. Can we please talk about something else?
DR. RUSH: If you can come up with a topic as good as blackmail, I’m game. [Long pause while I pretend to think of a worthy subject.]
DR. RUSH: I’m onto you and your long pauses. 1
ISABEL: Okay. I’m being bribed by a political consultant.
DR. RUSH: Seriously?
ISABEL: Yes.
DR. RUSH: Why?
ISABEL: Because he thinks I know something. But I don’t know anything…yet.
DR. RUSH: What does he think you know?
ISABEL: If I knew that, then I’d know.
DR. RUSH: [sigh] Is this bribe incident connected to the blackmail?
ISABEL: Absolutely not.
DR. RUSH: What makes you so sure?
ISABEL: The bribe is serious. The blackmail is child’s play.
DR. RUSH: I need you to be more specific.
ISABEL: My blackmailer is making me wash cars and go to the zoo.
DR. RUSH: Go to the zoo?
ISABEL: It was supposed to be SFMOMA, but I thought I could go to the zoo instead. My mistake. My point is they are entirely unconnected. [Long, long pause.]
DR. RUSH: [sigh] Bizarre forms of blackmail, bribery, secret residences. The odds of all of this happening to one person, Isabel—
ISABEL: It sounds worse than it is.
DR. RUSH: Let’s look at this from a different perspective. Your imagination has gotten you into trouble in the past. That’s why you’re in therapy. You can’t deny that you tend to put a paranoid slant on most things you observe.
ISABEL: That was the old me.
DR. RUSH: Are you sure?
ISABEL: I’ve made progress, Dr. Rush. Lots of progress.
[Long, long pause.]
ISABEL: Haven’t I?
Part IV
EVEN MORE PROGRESS
CASE #001
CHAPTER 11
O n my way home from therapy, I was followed. Since I usually park my car within several blocks of David’s residence, and only the blackmailer knows where I live (presumably), I had to assume that someone—probably Harkey or one of his goons—had put a tracking device on my vehicle. To throw my pursuer off, I parked my car west of Van Ness near Broadway. This would put me in a different neighborhood than my usual and would confuse my tailer, until I could lose the tracking device. In case anyone was following me on foot, I didn’t return “home” straightaway; I crossed Van Ness and entered a café on Polk Street.
If I know Harkey’s logic like I think I do, he put a tail on me to derail my investigation. Either through intimidation or interference, he figured he could get me off the case. However, the tail confirmed that there really was something to investigate—so it had the opposite of its intended effect. Dr. Rush might argue that this was a perfect example of taking my job to extremes, but some truths have to be uncovered. I may have made some wrong turns in the past, but so far on this case I had no regrets. What I knew for sure was that I had to get to the truth before Harkey did.
I could only assume that the core of the Truesdale/Bancroft mystery rested in their distant past, mostly because I couldn’t find any recent dirt on either of them. I’d had trouble locating any bank records on Linda, and tax returns are impossible to access. I had a feeling that Linda had money in her own personal account, but unless I could get a look inside that PO box, I’d never know. I needed to dig deeper. The only information I had from Ernie was where the women attended high school. Like so many other things in modern society, that information is protected by strict privacy laws. I couldn’t get my hands on anything unless I bribed a school administrator, and I was keeping this investigation clean. Well, mostly.
I looked up both women on classmates.com, 1 and neither had registered under Benjamin Franklin High School. I searched the listings for the year Linda graduated and zeroed in on the person with the most recent activity. Her screen name was fairydust611, 2 which led me to the conclusion that she was either a unicorn-loving lunatic or a drug dealer, but I figured a drug dealer had better things to do than reconnect with her high school classmates. Lunatics are often far more forthright with their information than the sane, so this boded well for my investigation. I e-mailed fairydust611 and asked her whether she had been in touch with Linda Truesdale since high school. I explained that I was an old friend who lost her contact information in a fire (I figured fairydust611 would appreciate the sense of drama).