by Lutz, Lisa
Sigh.
“Henry, are you there?”
“Why do you need Luminol?” he asked.
I lied, because that’s really what he wanted me to do. “There’s this stain on my carpet. I’d feel a whole lot better about living here if I knew for sure it wasn’t blood.”
“You took his rug, didn’t you?”
“No. I need it to check the stain on my carpet, like I just said. Can you hook me up?”
“No, Isabel.”
“You could if you wanted to.”
“I’m not going to argue the point.”
“So you don’t know where I can get some?”
“I can’t help you,” Stone replied, and I hung up the phone.
You might think it odd that a private investigator would have trouble finding a solution that’s used on every major television crime show. But the truth is crime scenes are surveyed by cops, not PIs. At best, we might see a picture of one or witness a courtroom reenactment, but we don’t investigate murders. I have never had cause to use Luminol before in my entire career. Therefore, I had no idea how to get my hands on it.
I called the only person who might know and might keep her mouth shut about the conversation.
“Rae Spellman’s phone,” Rae said as she picked up on her personal line.
“Why don’t you just say hello?” I said.
“Because if I just say hello it implies that the person has reached me and I can’t get out of talking to him/her/it.”
“But you have caller ID.”
“Some people block their identities.”
“I don’t.”
“Did you call for a reason?”
“Do you know where I can get Luminol?”
“Oh my god, you found a crime scene. I want to see it,” Rae said like a five-year-old begging for ice cream.
“No.”
“Please.”
“Where can I get Luminol?”
“There are tons of laboratory supply places online.”
“There’s no time for that.”
“You could try the Spy Shop.”
“I hate that place. It’s so tacky.”
“You just have to weigh your dignity against your desire to know the truth,” Rae said, and I hung up the phone once again.
Within ten minutes I was in the financial district, circling the block outside of the Metreon Center. I parked in a loading zone and entered the Spy Shop. As predicted, Luminol was for sale in overpriced metallic containers that looked sleek and television friendly. My transaction took under three minutes. I exited the shop and got on the bridge with my oversized companion, the Oriental rug.
When I arrived at Len and Christopher’s apartment, I debated how to play out my little charade. In the car ride it was my plan to offer the gift, bring it inside, and spray the Luminol while I had my polite hosts preparing tea and scones. However, there was something decidedly tasteless about this scenario, and since I was already on shaky ground with my actor chums, I decided to come clean.
“I need to do an experiment in your loft,” I explained when Len opened the door.
“That’s a new one,” Len wearily replied.
After a cursory explanation of my “case” and the recent trouble it had landed me in, my friends decided to oblige, since they know how my own brand of tunnel vision works.
Len, Christopher, and I lugged the hundred-pound carpet into their spacious loft and spread it out over the wide space of their twenty-by-thirty-foot concrete floor.
“If I don’t find any blood on it, it’s yours,” I said, hoping the offer of a potential gift might make my hosts less grumpy.
The rug, worn in various places, didn’t show any signs of foul play to the naked eye, but that’s what the Luminol was for. As much as I was looking forward to administering the spray myself, my actor friends wanted to live out their CSI fantasies and insisted that I let them do the inspection. Since I had invaded their home with a potentially blood-soaked item, I thought etiquette insisted I let them have their fun.
Christopher sprayed the Luminol first, crouching over the rug, studying it with the air of one who does this for a living.
“My turn,” Len said, reaching for the spray bottle.
“I’m not done yet,” Christopher replied, like a schoolboy not yet ready to relinquish his toy.
“One more spray and then it’s mine.”
“Fine.”
Christopher sprayed once, then twice. Len turned to me to intervene.
“Isabel, make him give it to me.”
“Christopher, I believe it is Len’s turn,” I said diplomatically, although I had already come to the conclusion that no blood would be found on the carpet.
Len took over the Luminol spray and doused the rest of the carpet in the solution. Nothing showed up. Then Christopher left the room and came back with an altogether different spray.
“It reveals urine and sperm,” he explained.
“Eew. That’s disgusting.”
“I picked it up when we were dog-sitting that time, remember, Len?”
“Oh, I remember,” Len said, rolling his eyes.
Christopher sprayed the rug and traced the green light over to the corner, revealing yet another stain.
“You think he peed on his own rug?” Christopher asked.
“No, I think somebody’s dog or cat peed on it and maybe he couldn’t get the smell out. This is why I’m the detective. So, do you want the rug?”
Fifteen minutes later, the rug and I were heading back across the bridge. I returned to the Goodwill store to re-donate it.
The foreman was, as one might expect, confused.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I realized that it would be healthier for me if I just moved on. Shouldn’t hang on to the past, that sort of thing. Clean slate, new carpet.”
On the way back to my closet, my cell phone rang.
“Izzy, it’s your good friend Bernie.”
“I think of you more as my enemy,” I replied.
“Always a kidder.”
“Deadly serious.”
“I have some great news, kid.”
“Shoot.”
“Daisy and I are back together.”
“That’s really just great news for you and Daisy. I don’t see how the rest of the world might benefit.”
“Kid, the apartment. It’s yours again. I had it scrubbed from top to bottom and I even cleared some more closet space.”
“I got an apartment, Bernie.”
“I thought you were living with your parents.”
“I had to move because of the restraining order.”1
“So you don’t need my place anymore?”
“Nope,” I said, but then I remembered something. “Bernie, I’ll call you back in a half hour.”
THE PHILOSOPHER’S CLUB
1700 hrs
The bar, as usual, was empty except for one “on tab” customer nursing a drink and reading the newspapers in the back. Milo was wiping glasses just for show. It’s not like he has to clean any.
I sat down at the bar and waited for a grumpy welcome.
“What can I get you?” Milo asked, without too much attitude.
“Can you afford seven hundred bucks a month rent?”
“First, last, security?”
“No. Just seven hundred. This month would be prorated.”
“Yeah, I could swing that,” Milo replied.
I pulled the key off the chain and wrote down the address.
“It’s a sublet. The guy, Bernie, is there now. I’ll watch the bar ’til you get back.”
“You sure you can handle it?” Milo asked.
I scanned the empty room and said, “Don’t make me say something rude.”
Milo departed and I pulled my computer from my bag and kept tabs on Subject. I also treated myself to the most expensive
scotch in the bar. While I stared at the Dot on the computer screen, which remained parked at 1797 Clay Street, my sister entered the bar.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, although she didn’t seem all that surprised.
“I’m over twenty-one,” I replied, “so the real question is, what are you doing here?”
“It’s still my birthday, so I thought I’d take myself out for a drink. Besides, I needed a break from the unit. Where’s Milo?”
“Apartment hunting,” I vaguely replied.
“The usual,” Rae said, pointing at the ginger ale tap.
Since it was indeed her birthday and the bar was mostly empty, I decided to let the rules slide for a day. I poured Rae a shot of her favorite beverage and tried to pump her for information.
“Have you noticed any more unusual behavior from Subject?”
“I overheard him talking with Mr. Freeman. He’s definitely moving, although I couldn’t tell you where. But I think he’s vacating by the end of the month.”
“That’s less than two weeks,” I said, thinking to myself.
“FYI, you better get the tracking device back before he goes. Mom’s been looking for it. She’s onto you.”
“Thanks for the info,” I said.
“What are you going to do?”
“Don’t know,” I replied, although my mind was sorting through some interesting ideas.
“One more for the road?” Rae asked, pointing at her drink.
I squirted another shot of ginger ale and told Rae to drink fast. I wanted her out of the bar before Milo returned. Rae swallowed her shot and put two dollars on the counter, which I slid back to her.
“It’s on me. Happy birthday.”
“Later, Izzy.”
Milo returned an hour later, his sour mood neutralized just a touch.
“You’re a good kid,” Milo said, pinching my cheek. “Deep down,” he continued. “Deep, deep down.”
The following night, upon learning that Petra had indeed returned, I performed what I told myself would be my final act of vandalism in my adult life. I drove by David’s place, found Petra’s car parked in the driveway, and let all the air out of her tires.
I then left a message on her voice mail: “It was me, in case you were wondering.”
I returned to my closet and drank two whiskeys as I watched the John Brown dot on my computer screen. I don’t recall in all my thirty years feeling quite so pathetic.
My mother called later that night as I tried to formulate one final plan to expose Subject for what he really was.
“Isabel, do you have any idea how expensive those GPS tracking devices are?”
“Uh, yes.”1
“If you don’t return them2 within forty-eight hours, I will dock your pay to cover the cost of replacement.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, and hung up the phone.
Clearly there was another covert investigation happening in the family. But I couldn’t concern myself with that. I had the Dot to worry about, and the Dot was moving.
THE DOT MOVES OUT OF 1797 CLAY STREET…
Saturday, May 27
1140 hrs
Subject remained at 1797 Clay Street throughout the morning. I kept an eye on the Dot for signs of movement. If he was going to dump his car, this would be the time to do it. If I was going to continue my hunt, this was the point of no return.
1205 hrs
My phone rang. Milo, having just arrived at the bar, had checked his messages.
“Isabel.”
“Milo.”
“Do you have business cards with the bar’s phone number on them?”
“Maybe a dozen or so.”
“Under the name Izzy Ellmanspay?”
“I almost never give them out.”
“Ellmanspay is pig Latin for Spellman?”
“You are so sharp.”
“That is so juvenile.”
“Got a message for me?”
“A guy named Davis is looking for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe I’m nitpicking here, Izzy, but if you’re gonna use the bar as your own personal storefront, how about giving me a heads-up?”
“Sorry, Milo. You know I’m etiquettely challenged.”
“You got some mail here too.”
“I’ll be by later. Thank you, Milo,” I said, more politely than usual.
1230 hrs
Rae called.
“Subject’s on the move,” she said, and hung up the phone. Sometimes my sister enjoys the cryptic communications common in spy films.
The Dot got on the Bay Bridge and took I-80 to 580 east. I concluded the Dot was taking I-5. From I-5 the Dot could go anywhere. I had to follow the Dot now or accept that I would never know the truth, and also I really had to get that tracking device back before the Dot moved out of the state. But the Dot knows my car, and so I decided to solicit help from the one person who had more at stake than I did.
1245 hrs
I arrived at Mr. Davis’s home; he seemed to be expecting me. I explained my intentions quickly, providing just the brushstrokes, so that we could get on the road and make up for lost time. Subject was an hour ahead of us, but he wasn’t shattering the speed limit, so there was time to catch up.
1300 hrs
The interior of Mr. Davis’s four-wheel-drive Range Rover was spotless. I sat in the passenger seat with my computer open, shifting my focus between the Dot on the screen and the SUV’s speedometer. I fought motion sickness by leaning out the window and taking in intermittent gasps of cold, fresh air.
“If you maintain a speed of seventy-five miles an hour, we should be able to catch up within the hour.”
“Now that I’m a captive audience, tell me what you know,” Mr. Davis said. His previously rational tone seemed to have grown more agitated in the last few minutes.
“In the interest of full disclosure, I have to be honest. I think Subject—I mean, Mr. Brown—knows something about your wife’s disappearance, but I have no real evidence and I can’t promise you that we’ll find anything.”
“What makes you think he has anything to do with my wife’s disappearance?”
“It’s a hunch, and that’s all it is. I have to be honest. But he met with her briefly before she disappeared and I know that he has been connected to at least one other missing woman in the last five years. Anyone would tell you my theory is thin, but it’s all we’ve got.”
My cell phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Isabel, it’s Henry.”
“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to sound casual and not guilty.
“Don’t talk. Just listen and answer my questions with simple yes or no answers. Do you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have your earpiece?”
“Huh?”
“The earpiece for your cell phone. Do you have it with you?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on so I can’t be overheard.”
“Hang on,” I said, and then searched for the earpiece in my purse. I connected the device.
“Is it in?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in Mr. Davis’s Range Rover right now?”
“Uh, how did you know that?”
“What did I just say? Yes or no answers only. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Isabel, I want you to say, ‘Hold on a second, I need to look that up.’”
“Huh?”
“Say it.”
“But that goes against your previous statement.”
“Don’t make me ask you again,” Henry said, in a voice so loaded with irritation that I had to acquiesce.
“Hold on a second. I need to look that up,” I said.
“Is the tracking device up on your computer screen?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“Close it and pull up a bill and
read me the balance on the bill.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Just follow my instructions. Please, Isabel.”
I followed Henry’s instructions, although I was slowly becoming convinced that his recent incessant contact with the Spellman clan had caused him to lose his mind.
“The balance is fourteen hundred dollars and eleven cents.”
“Leave the bill on the computer screen. Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I need to explain this as briefly as possible so Mr. Davis does not get suspicious. There won’t be time for questions. You just have to trust me. Do you trust me, Isabel?”
“Of course,” I replied.
“Good. The man you’re following. John Brown. He’s not what you think he is.”
“I know that. That’s the point.”
“Yes or no only!”
I decided silence was the best way to go.
“John Brown is good, not evil,” Henry said, and then there was more silence because yes or no would not suffice as a response.
“Did you hear me?” Henry asked.
“Yes.”
“As for Mr. Davis, the man you are currently in the car with…”
“Yes?”
“He’s evil. Not good.”
I turned to my driver and smiled, hoping I hadn’t tipped my hand.
“Annoying client,” I mouthed.
“I’m gonna need more than that,” I said to Henry.
“In time. Right now, you need to redirect Mr. Davis south, back to the city. Pretend you’ve hung up the phone, but leave it on. I’ll explain while you’re driving. You keep me posted on your current coordinates. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Now say ‘good-bye.’ But don’t disconnect.”
“A pleasure, as always, Mr. Peabody,” I said, just to annoy Henry.
In a state of utter bafflement, I followed Henry’s instructions. I kept my sidelong glances to a minimum and focused on the computer screen. I pulled up a map of the city that could stand in for the previous GPS tracking program.
“He’s turning around,” I said to Mr. Davis. “He’s coming back in our direction.”
“Why would he do that?” Mr. Davis asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Let’s keep driving until he’s closed the distance. Then we’ll turn around.”
1400 hrs
Davis was growing suspicious, I suspected. His patience with me was wearing thin.