Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again

by Lutz, Lisa

  OPERATION LOCKED DOOR

  PART-III

  Wednesday, March 22 0900 hours

  Rae and I prepared for our parents’ next-day return by giving the house one final going-over. Under normal circumstances Rae and I would have trashed the place once again, but Henry’s presence there had modified our usual behavior. He even forced Rae to clean out her closet. My sister and I only needed to tackle the stack of dirty dishes that had accumulated since Henry’s departure, which was significant considering how little time had passed. As we scraped the food off the plates and loaded them into the dishwasher, I realized that tonight would be the last time I could investigate (a.k.a. break into) Subject’s residence without the watchful eye of the parental unit. There was no telling when they’d plan their next disappearance.

  I noticed that in Subject’s absence he had forgotten to close the window in his mystery room. In fact, it was the first time I had seen that window wide open. I saw it as an omen, an opportunity I could not waste. I waited until nightfall, put my cell phone on vibrate, and stuck it in my back pocket. I ran downstairs to Rae, who was making one final farewell (until next weekend) batch of Rice Krispies Treats.1 I dimmed the lights in the living room and guided my sister to the window.

  “I don’t think he’s coming back tonight, but if Subject pulls into his driveway, you call my cell. Don’t move from this spot until I tell you to.”

  “What are you going to do?” Rae asked suspiciously.

  “Don’t worry about it; just call my cell if Subject comes home.”

  I ran upstairs to David’s old bedroom, pushed the east-facing window all the way open, took out the ladder that had failed me the last time, and stretched it across the six-foot divide between Subject’s residence and the Spellman home.

  The weight of the extended ladder, before it reached Subject’s windowsill, almost toppled me over. But I threw my weight onto the end and managed to stretch the ladder out the final two feet to reach Subject’s office window, bridging the gap between the residences. By now I hoped the darkness outside would obscure my escapade.

  I was conscious that my intended act was a felony, but my conviction in my quest outweighed whatever moral ambiguity remained. Simply, it was okay to break the law if it meant exposing Subject for whatever act he was guilty of.

  I’m not afraid of heights, nor am I a thrill seeker (at least not in the bungie-jumping school of thrill seeking) but I was respectfully frightened as I crawled across the ladder that rested some fifteen feet above ground. My passage took no more than forty seconds as the metal rungs dug deep into my shins and knees. Only sheer adrenaline masked the pain that began to surface as I reached Subject’s windowsill. I dove into the office head-first and collapsed on the floor, grabbing my legs in pain.

  Once inside the forbidden room, I realized that I had forgotten a flashlight. I decided to risk turning on the overhead. The room consisted of an L-shaped desk with a computer atop the main part and two printers and a laminating machine along the side. One of the color printers looked like it could be used for making phony identification cards, although nothing evidencing that fact was in sight. I turned on the computer and as I waited for it to boot up, I tried the drawers on all the file cabinets. Locked. For the next ten minutes I picked the lock on the file cabinet closest to the desk. An envelope with a small stack of fifty-dollar bills, which I estimated to total five hundred1 dollars, and two credit cards in Subject’s “name” were inside. The bottom drawer of the file cabinet was filled with personal bills and invoices for his landscaping company. There was nothing out of the ordinary. There was also no reason why this room should be locked twenty-four hours a day.

  I turned to the computer and looked for files, but Subject appeared to have used a program that wipes away all the files after each use. There had to be a backup hard drive that he worked off of. I assumed he kept the hard drive in one of the other locked cabinets, and so I started working on the locks.

  Approximately fifteen minutes after I entered the office, my cell phone buzzed.

  “What?”

  “Get out now,” Rae said on the other end of the line.

  “He’s back?” I asked, as my heart started pounding violently inside my chest.

  “Hurry,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  I scanned the room for evidence of my entry. I turned off the computer, straightened the contents of the file cabinet drawer, and pressed the lock with my thumb. I hadn’t anticipated a room so prepared against a potential breach. The computer was erased, the file drawers locked, the waste basket empty. I realized as I was heading for the window that my fingerprints were everywhere. I pulled the sleeve of my shirt over my hand and did a fast wipe, hoping to at least smudge all my prints.

  Then I climbed out of the window and crawled back onto the ladder and across the makeshift bridge. The dismount of my circus act was a clumsy head-first collapse into David’s old room. I was just about to fix my attention on the withdrawal of the ladder when I noticed Henry Stone sitting on the bed, looking positively furious, and Rae by his side, looking downright guilty.

  First things first: Get rid of the evidence—other than the direct witnesses. I struggled to pull the ladder back into the room. Henry got up to help me once I yanked the ladder off Subject’s windowsill and began losing control against the seesawing weight. He pushed me aside, pulled the ladder into the room, closed the bedroom window, and pulled the blinds.

  He stared at me for an awkwardly long time.

  “Rae, could you leave me alone with Isabel?”

  “No, you snitch. You stay right there,” I said. Rae must have called him the second I defenestrated myself.

  “Don’t call her a snitch,” Henry snapped.

  I turned to my sister. “Where’s your loyalty?” I asked. “To Henry or me?”

  Rae stared at her feet. “It looked dangerous, really dangerous.”

  “Leave her alone,” Stone demanded. “Rae, give me a minute.”

  Rae exited the room, knowing that my retribution would come one way or another. Stone sat down on the bed and took his time formulating his verbal barrage.

  “I’m a police inspector and I just witnessed a felony. What am I supposed to do?”

  “He’s guilty of something, and when I find out what that is, you’ll thank me.”

  “Can you stop?” he asked. It was much more a sincere question than a directive.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied, feeling my eyes start to water, my grip on everything slipping. It wasn’t a question of my will or my discipline or my understanding of the law. I couldn’t stop. I knew I wouldn’t feel right unless I had the answer. Nothing else mattered besides knowing what John Brown was guilty of.

  “Could you be wrong about him, Isabel?”

  “Maybe,” I replied. “I’ve misread evidence before. But I know what someone looks like when they’re hiding something. He’s hiding something really big.”

  Stone appeared helpless, sensing that my resolve was something even I couldn’t control. He got to his feet and headed for the door.

  “This is no way to live,” he said.

  “No kidding.”

  Stone was about to say something else, but he simply shook his head and left.

  That night Rae and I ate pizza for dinner and Rice Krispies Treats for dessert. Then we stuffed the pizza boxes into the recycling bin behind the corner store to hide the evidence.

  I couldn’t bring myself to observe Subject’s residence any more that night, knowing that if I witnessed any unusual behavior I would not be responsible for my own actions. Well, I would be—technically—but it wouldn’t feel that way.

  ARREST #1

  PART-I

  Thursday, March 23

  0800 hrs

  My parents couldn’t hide their joy at landing upon Spellman soil. I suspect they mistook each other’s enthusiasm as that very simple happy-to-be-home feeling. A feeling I had not expe
rienced in quite some time, what with me not having my own home and all.

  My mother threw the suitcases inside the door and began her inspection. Rae1 tailed her every move, asking innocent questions about the cruise, but covertly trying to make sure we hadn’t missed anything in our clean-up. I, on the other hand, kept careful watch on Dad. We would have to talk about his secret soon enough. But I decided to give him time to settle.

  When the doorbell rang, it was my father who answered it. I heard the initial exchange from the kitchen.

  “Is Isabel Spellman here?”

  “Can I ask what this is regarding?”

  “Is she home?”

  “Isabel!”

  I walked to the foyer, unaware that I had just missed my last chance to escape. Not that escaping would have been advised.

  “I’m Isabel. What’s going on?” I said as I noticed two uniformed police officers standing in the doorway.

  “We have a warrant for your arrest,” the first officer said.

  “Huh?” was my numb response.

  My father reviewed the warrant. “B and E?”

  Dad turned to me with a dazed look on his face. I shrugged my shoulders, playing innocent for the time being.

  “What kind of evidence do you have for this charge?”

  “Foolproof evidence,” the second officer said. “Mr. Brown had a hidden camera trained on his west-facing window and has a very clear recording of Ms. Spellman climbing through that window and searching the premises.”

  My mother entered the room while the officer was outlining my guilt. It had been over twelve years since I committed an actual felony—rephrase, been caught committing an actual felony. My mother, unlike during my adolescent years, was unprepared for this moment. She simply gawked in disbelief.

  “Is this true?” she asked.

  “I can explain,” I replied.

  “Stop talking,” my dad said.

  Rae heard the commotion from her bedroom and ran downstairs. She watched as the first officer handcuffed me.

  “Oh, no,” was all she said.

  “Isabel Spellman,” the officer spoke in a monotone, “you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

  Part III

  MYSTERIES AND

  MORE ARRESTS

  ARREST #1

  PART-II

  Thursday, March 23

  0900 hrs

  The last time I was in a holding cell was two years ago, when I “assaulted” my sister after I found out that she had disappeared herself. Since Rae was unharmed and my motivations were of the sympathetic variety, all pending charges were dropped. I had no record. But if the B&E charges stuck, then I would have a record and I could lose my PI license.

  I was arraigned four hours after my arrest and bail was set at five thousand dollars. Mom took another eight hours before arriving at the precinct and posting bail. I used that time to affect an unapproachable but nonconfrontational demeanor toward my parade of cell mates. In that half day’s time, without any reading material to occupy my thoughts, I dwelled on the collection of suspicious behavior reports that I had amassed in the previous months and determined that three were worthy of an upgrade to Mystery status. To refresh your memory, the list follows:

  The Mystery of Mom

  Evidence: Motorbike vandalism, unmet dental appointments, hostility toward oldest son, unexplained absences.

  The Mystery of David

  Evidence: Drinking before noon, grooming standards declining, wife has skipped town, constantly agitated, appears guilty of something, disappearing to a yoga retreat.

  The Mystery of “John Brown”

  Evidence: First and last names are conveniently common. Cannot establish a true identity under that name; Subject has offered conflicting dates and places of birth; Subject has responded suspiciously to almost all identifying questions; Subject keeps a secure room in his home for no apparent reason; Subject has been observed having contact with two women who later disappeared. Subject deliberately set me up for a B&E arrest. Why?

  The case of my father was solved, although it still needed to be revealed to my mom. On the mostly silent drive “home” with Mom, I contemplated whether I should tell her. I was so lost in thought that I didn’t notice Mom was not driving to 1799 Clay Street, but instead pulling up in front of my old apartment in the Avenues.

  “Your suitcase is in the trunk,” Mom said. As I was trying to understand her intentions, she clarified. “You can’t stay at our house anymore. Please don’t make me change the locks.”

  “Mom, you’re not serious.”

  “You just lost the last twelve hours of your life in jail—”

  “Technically it’s called a holding cell—”

  “—for breaking and entering. I don’t know what to say to you.”

  “Don’t you want to know why?”

  “I don’t care. You could lose your license. He could file a civil suit against us. We’d be ruined.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. But I know he’s doing something he shouldn’t be doing. I just want to find out what it is. Maybe help some people.”

  Mom unlocked the car door. “Please let the police handle it. Listen, it’s late. I’m tired. The disappearance took a lot out of me,” she said. “Call if you need anything. But you cannot come by the house for at least the next few weeks, until we sort things out with Mr. Brown.”

  “What about work?” I asked.

  “Your only case is the Chandler job. Try to channel all your investigative energy into finding the thugs who admire your work so much.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied without my usual conviction.

  Mom shot me a hard look and popped the trunk. I hoisted my suitcase out of the car and left it on the curb. I walked back to the passenger window and leaned inside. I tried to think of something to say that might justify my actions, but Mom got in the last words.

  “You’re thirty years old,” she said, rolling up the window. I stepped back onto the curb and watched her drive away. Her exit line stung more than you might imagine.

  I lumbered up the stairs to my old apartment and knocked on the door just to be safe. A deep, male voice grumbled, “It’s open.”

  Through a fog of cigar smoke, I spotted five older “gentlemen” seated around a kitchen table littered with beer and pretzels, playing poker. Bernie’s face lit up when he saw me.

  “Hey, roomie,” he said, getting to his feet. “Why don’t you give your uncle Bernie a kiss?”

  Bernie approached with his arms open for an embrace. I zigzagged past him in a move that resembled something a running back might do and grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. I noticed the pot of chips on the table. This was no friendly game.

  “I could call the cops and shut you down,” I said.

  “Sweetheart,” said a sixty-something man with the most chips. “We are the cops.”

  Bernie sidled up next to me. “What do you need, Izz?”

  “I need to sleep,” I replied, almost in tears.

  “Take the bed,” Bernie replied. “Me casa is su casa.”

  “Su casa used to actually be mi casa,” I said. “How long is this game going on?”

  “Who knows? As long as we can stay awake and no one’s got all our dough.”

  “Good-bye,” I said. After a night in a holding cell, I could not face a night with Bernie and four other drunken ex-cops.

  My parents, while I was on the inside, had parked my car at Bernie’s legal residence. I decided to stay at a motel that night to clear my head. Apart from solving three mysteries, I had to find a place to live in a city where the percentage of vacant apartments hovers around four percent.

  I spent the night at a Days Inn in the Avenues. Mom packed my luggage with the care she might show a cheating husband whom she’s tossing from the house in a fit of
anger. I threw on some flannel pajamas and crawled into bed.

  My mental landscape made sleep almost impossible. There was something about my mother’s disappointment that flattened me. Putting everything in perspective, John Brown’s secrets were not worth the cost of my family or my career. At least, I understood that intellectually. Sleep only came in the early hours of the morning, when my mind could process no more information.

  UNSTAGED DENTAL APPOINTMENT #7

  Friday, March 24

  1600 hrs

  Rae phoned my cell the next afternoon to suggest I meet her at Daniel’s office for a tête-à-tête1 about the recent goings-on in the Spellman household. Since all I was doing was camping out in a café, drinking far too much coffee and continuing my fruitless background check on Subject, I agreed to meet her.

  The debriefing began in the examination room before Daniel entered.

  “Has Dad said anything to Mom about his meds?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Rae replied. “How sick is he?”

  “Don’t worry about it. He’s fine. He just has to take care of himself. I’m going to give him a little more time to tell her.”

  Daniel entered the examination room. He performed a double-take when he saw me leaning against the corner wall.

  “Isabel. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Hi, Daniel,” I said, and then I kissed him on the cheek. “I needed to discuss some matters with Rae and I’m forbidden in the Spellman home, so we thought we’d meet here.”

  “Why are you forbidden…scratch that question,” Daniel said wisely. He’d had enough Spellman drama to last a lifetime and would not seek out any more. Daniel put the bib on Rae while I dug for more details.

  “Have you witnessed anything unusual from Subject’s residence?” I asked.

  “Dad went to talk to him this morning,” Rae said.

  “Open your mouth, Rae,” Daniel said, the buzz of the handpiece whirring in the background.

  “What was he doing?” I asked.

  “Ooing ings oer,” Rae said.

  “What?”

  “Smoothing things over,” Daniel translated.