by Lutz, Lisa
Maggie turned and recognized her boyfriend’s impeccably shined shoes. Henry, overhearing our conversation, folded the newspaper and quickly approached the table for his final debriefing.
“Remember,” he said to Maggie at low volume, “always maintain eye contact. Otherwise she’ll sense weakness. Be clear on your nonnegotiable points. And don’t forget: The Marshmallow Rule2 isn’t on the table. Good luck.”
Henry kissed Maggie on the cheek and returned to his concealed position in the corner.
Maggie checked her watch. Rae was already ten minutes late—a blatant sign of disrespect. Maggie dusted cookie crumbs off her skirt and then was distracted by another minor crisis.
“Damn it!” she said. The hem of her skirt was held together by a safety pin. “I wrote myself a note a couple weeks ago to fix that. Shit. Now I know why my boss was staring at my knees all morning. She thinks I’m a slob. ‘Nice skirt,’ she said. I actually said, ‘Thank you.’”
Okay, so Maggie is a little bit neurotic, but in the kind of way that makes neurotic sound more like a benign genetic characteristic, in the vein of detached earlobes or tongue-rolling ability, rather than a personality disorder that might require psychiatric intervention.
I decided to offer Maggie a helpful suggestion. “Next time you’re at Henry’s place, just leave the skirt out. By morning, your hem will be as good as new.”
“I don’t like it when he touches my clothes,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t believe how many shirts of mine he’s ironed.”
“Really? I think I’d look at it as a perk. Kind of like dating a dry cleaner. Wouldn’t you make the most of that?”
“She’s here,” Maggie said, eyeing the front door.
Rae entered, wearing a black overcoat and a scarf. She looked older than I’d ever seen her before, almost like a sixteen-year-old. Her sandy blond hair was pulled into a messy ponytail and her girlish freckles had started to fade. She wore a stoic expression to mark the seriousness of this event. When the negotiations began, I had some trouble controlling my own amusement. Anyway, I recorded it all so I wouldn’t forget the details.
THE NEGOTIATION
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
ISABEL: Who would like to begin?
MAGGIE: Rae, first let me apologize for dipping into your Halloween stash.
RAE: I worked hard for that.
ISABEL: You shouldn’t be trick-or-treating at your age, anyway.
RAE: I thought you were the impartial mediator.
ISABEL: Let’s not drag this out. Rae, what’s your first demand?
RAE: I want to watch Doctor Who at Henry’s house every week.
MAGGIE: Why? This whole season is a snore. [Long, hostile pause.]
ISABEL: Maggie, do you agree?
MAGGIE: No problem.
ISABEL: Your counter?
MAGGIE: I would like it if she didn’t change the locks on me and Henry again.
ISABEL: She agrees to that. Anything else, Rae?
RAE: I’d like to have a constantly replenished supply of candy in my usual hiding place.1
MAGGIE: Anything in particular?
RAE: Licorice, Hot Tamales, Jolly Ranchers, peanut M&M’s, Milk Duds, and some dark chocolate. I hear it’s good for you. [Maggie hands Rae a piece of paper and a pen.]
MAGGIE: Write it down.
ISABEL: Maggie, your counter?
MAGGIE: I’d prefer it if you didn’t swap soy milk for regular milk again. That stuff’s disgusting.
ISABEL: Okay, if everyone is in agreement, I think we can call this meeting a success.
Rae passed her list of junk food supplies to Maggie with a cold formality. I could only assume that the tension would ease over time—or at least I hung on to some remaining shreds of hope. My sister asked me for a ride home and I passed her the keys and told her to wait in the car.
When Rae exited the café, Henry revealed his presence once again and approached the table.
“I better run,” he said, kissing Maggie, this time on the lips. I stared out the window during this exchange. Henry thanked me for my services and departed. I put on my coat and thanked Maggie for her patience.
“You must really like him,” I said.
“I do,” she said convincingly. She then wrapped her cookie in a napkin and stuffed it in her pocket. “There’s something I was hoping you could help me with,” she said, sounding embarrassed.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I think someone is spying on me.”
“Really?” I replied cautiously.
“I know. I sound like some conspiracy theory nut, but…my credit report has been run recently. Some previous coworkers and friends tell me they’ve been getting phone calls about me.”
“What kind of calls?”
“My secretary said someone called asking about my schedule for the weekend. She claimed to be from a charitable organization—my secretary couldn’t catch the name. But she didn’t offer any more information, and that was it.”
“When did the phone call happen?”
“A few days ago.”
“I’ll start with the credit report and we’ll go from there,” I said. However, I wasn’t terribly concerned for Maggie’s well-being. In my mind, Rae was suspect numbers one, two, and three.
Maggie suddenly realized she was fifteen minutes late. For what, she did not say. She thanked me again and raced out of the café. She jaywalked across the street without looking in either direction and, from my vantage point, cheated death.
In an hour’s time, I had returned the source of so many people’s troubles to the Spellman residence. Rae launched into a hearty complaint about the silent treatment she was receiving from Henry Stone.
“Not one word in the last week. Do you have any idea what it’s like to have your best friend pretend you’re invisible?”
“I don’t. However, I’ve never stalked, harassed, and terrorized my best friend. So I wouldn’t, would I?”
“Whatever,” Rae replied, and then got up and poured herself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs.
My mother returned home as Rae finished up her afternoon snack. My sister threw her dirty dish in the sink, mentioned that she had homework to do at Ashleigh’s2 house, and asked if she could take the car. Our mother handed her the keys and told her to be home by eleven since it was a school night. I waited until Rae was out the door before I spoke my mind.
“What are you doing letting her take the car? She should be grounded after what she did to Henry and Maggie.”
“Oh, right,” Mom said as if she’d forgotten to pick up eggs at the grocery store. “Slipped my mind.”
If I had more energy for troubles not my own, I would have launched into a lengthy discussion with my mother about her lax parenting techniques. When I was a kid (and, yes, it does trouble me that I’m already using this phrase) I wouldn’t get the keys to the family car after vandalizing someone else’s property.
The truth was that my mother had other things on her mind. Brochures were now scattered across the table. Upon closer inspection, they were propaganda for Ivy League and a few other esteemed universities.
“Is that for Rae?” I asked.
“No, it’s for you,” Mom replied. “I refuse to give up hope.”
I ignored the sarcasm. “Where’d you get those?”
“I went to a college fair. In light of Rae’s test scores, there is no way in hell she’s getting out of earning at least a four-year degree. At least.”
“She wants to run the business, Mom. She’s not interested in anything else.”
“She can run the business after she goes to college. By that point, she might have changed her mind.”
“You can’t force her to go to college.”
“Oh yes, I can,” Mom replied with an air of deep assurance.
“Okay, then,” I replied, eager to escape whatever drama was unfolding. I didn’t escape fast enough, however
.
“I wouldn’t kill myself over this negotiation if I were you,” Mom said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“It looks like things might be getting serious between Henry and this woman, no?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re alright with that?”
“Yes.”
My mother attempted a meaningful look; I did my best to pretend not to notice.
“Let me tell you something, Isabel. If you just sit there and do nothing, one day it will be too late.”
“What business is this of yours?” I asked.
“I’m your mother.”
“It’s my life. You’re just a member of the audience,” I said, getting up to leave.
“Well, I want my money back!” Mom shouted after me as I headed for the front door. “Because this show sucks!”
CASE #001
CHAPTER 2
I’m sure by now you’re wondering what happened to that lone case I was working on—the Case of Ernie Black’s Not Terribly Suspicious Wife Who Probably Wasn’t Cheating on Him. The next day, Ernie called me and mentioned his wife was seeing her friend again—the rich wife of the congressman. Ernie hinted that maybe there was an untoward relationship between the two women. It was starting to feel like he was grasping at straws because he couldn’t live with the unknown (believe me, I know the feeling). Had my second day on the job gone the same as my first, Ernie would have paid me his hard-earned three hundred bucks1 and we would have parted ways for good. But then things got interesting.
On Thursday afternoon, Linda Black met Sharon Bancroft for lunch at the Mark Hopkins hotel. I couldn’t observe the actual luncheon part of the afternoon since I wasn’t sure how the maître d’ would take to a woman in blue jeans and a T-shirt occupying a table and drinking only water or coffee (remember, this is a bare-bones investigation—any extra costs, like a pricey lunch, would have to be preapproved by the client, and it was too late to go home and change clothes). So I sat in my car, across the street from Linda’s car, and read the newspaper for the next hour and a half.
Don’t worry. That wasn’t the interesting part.
Linda and Sharon exited the Mark Hopkins hotel in tandem. Sharon passed her ticket to the valet, who retrieved her shiny new Jaguar. The women said their good-byes in the driveway. I watched Sharon half smile and give Linda a kiss on the cheek. The redhead started backward a few times, indicating that she was ready to leave, but Sharon continued to talk. When Linda finally made her escape and began walking the few blocks to her car, a sense of calm seemed to wash over her face. If my binoculars weren’t deceiving me, that is.
I turned on the ignition and waited for Linda to pull out of her parking space. She was an easy tail, completely unaware of her surroundings, no sense that there was any reason that someone would follow her, which points to someone who is either overly confident or has nothing to hide. I had decided in that moment, as I watched Linda check her rearview mirror for traffic, that the only mystery here was why Linda was friends with Sharon. It was my plan to go home and inform Ernie that he could feel confident in his wife’s faithfulness.
Linda pulled her Honda Civic north onto Taylor Street. As I veered onto the road after her, I was cut off by a light blue Nissan with darkened windows. Since it’s always wise to keep one car length between you and your subject, I decided against laying into the horn. Linda turned left onto Sacramento, followed by the rude Nissan, followed by me. It looked like Linda was going to continue up to Van Ness Avenue and make a left, heading for the freeway—her usual route. Ernie and I agreed I should save him money at all costs, so I phoned him and asked if his wife was planning on returning home after her lunch. Ernie said Linda had just called him. She was on her way home. Since I was only a few minutes from my own home, I saw no point in continuing the surveillance.
Linda signaled for a left turn when she reached Van Ness. The Nissan was still right behind her and also signaled. The Nissan had made a U-turn on Taylor Street between California and Sacramento streets. Since California and Sacramento run parallel, there’s no logical reason for the Nissan to have made a U-turn when it could have simply turned right onto California and reached the same destination. As much as I wanted to go home, this surveillance wasn’t over.
The Nissan stayed on the Honda’s tail from Van Ness and Sacramento all the way to Linda’s residence in Burlingame. Linda never noticed her pursuer, and the pursuer never noticed me. Linda parked in her driveway; the Nissan parked a few doors down. I noted the license plate number on the Nissan and debated whether to phone Ernie or not. I opted against it, since I couldn’t figure out how to ask him, without causing alarm, why someone else might be following his wife.
I returned to the Spellman household to run the license plate. Slipping past what sounded like a very serious family meeting in the living room, I gathered scraps of the conversation, including “future,” “no choice,” “education,” and “important.” I ignored Rae’s pleading look and entered the office. Family conflicts had eaten up enough of my leisure time.
It took me five minutes to learn that the Honda-tailing Nissan was registered to a Robert Goodman. A common name. It could’ve been anyone, but I felt a tic of familiarity.
Robert Goodman?
Bob Goodman?
Bob Nogoodman, as my Dad used to call him.2
Bob, for a sporadic eighteen months, had been a part-time employee of Spellman Investigations. His tenure with the firm ended at least five years back, when my mother discovered that his surveillance reports were pure fiction. Unfortunately, Bob had few skills beyond surveillance, or, more specifically, sitting on his ass all night long.
I made a photocopy of Bob’s personal information from the file and noticed a Post-it in my dad’s handwriting that said, “If he doesn’t answer his cell, try the 500 Club.”
This might seem a little too easy, but Bob used to consider the 500 Club his own personal living room. I drove straight to Seventeenth and Guerrero, hunted for parking, and found a space adjacent to Dolores Park. When I arrived, Bob was sitting at the bar. I ordered a beer, waited a beat, and then slipped into my ploy.
“Bob? Is that you?” I asked as I guided my beer and my behind over to the bar stool next to him. Bob couldn’t place me at first, so his preliminary expression was one of suspicion. Bob had never been a friendly man. Did I mention that before?3 Then Bob remembered me.
“Oh, hey there, Izzy,” Bob said without a gram of excitement.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“I guess.”
“How long has it been?”
“A while,” said Bob, staring at the game on the TV.
“What have you been up to?” I asked, hoping to draw him into some kind of conversation.
“Nothing much.”
“Are you working?”
“I’m retired.”
“Right, but I thought you did some freelance stuff—security, PI work…”
“Not lately.”
“Really?” I asked, trying to contain my skepticism.
“Really,” Bob replied, finally making eye contact. He was growing suspicious. I wasn’t sure how much steam I had left before the conversation would be officially over.
“So, what have you been up to?” I asked.
“This and that.”
Bob certainly had no reason to deny being employed. Unless, of course, his employer insisted that he sign a confidentiality agreement. Now all I had to do was find out who Bob was working for, who hired them, and why. Piece of cake.
I returned to my parents’ house (once again sneaking through the window) and ran a credit report on Bob, hoping it would reveal his current employer. But Bob’s primary income was from his pension, and no current employer was listed. As I slipped out the window, I began to contemplate an innocent scenario that could explain why two private investigators were surveilling one Linda Black.
DAVID’S SECRE
T
That same night, when I finally had David’s place to myself, I poured myself a drink from the bottle of Jack Daniel’s with my name on it and roamed the sprawling residence, searching for either more incriminating evidence or at least something that could explain the gun.
After an hour and a half, all I’d found was a snack-sized bag of M&M’s in the back of a file cabinet and an unopened box of Red Vines in the linen closet. I thought about the “Do NOT” list, especially its “Do not sleep in my bed” dictum, and decided to refocus my investigative energies on the bedroom. I had already checked between the mattress and the box spring, rummaged through the storage bins on the top shelf of his closet, searched for false bottoms in his dresser drawers, and even scanned the floor for loose boards. Nothing.
I was about to give up on the bedroom when I grabbed a flashlight and crawled under the bed. There was nothing on the floor, but when I twisted onto my back I found a notebook stuck in the slats of the bed frame.
I’ll be honest: I was hoping for something juicy like a diary, although in retrospect the idea of my brother having a diary is rather disturbing, so I guess in the end it was a good thing. Besides, even I would be racked with guilt over reading someone’s diary. Not that I wouldn’t do it, but I would certainly feel bad about it.
What I found was a notebook resembling a ledger. Inside I found something unexpected. It was a handwritten spreadsheet of dates, sporting events, point spreads, bets, wins, and losses. It was in my brother’s handwriting and there was no way to see this notebook as anything but a gambler’s record. But, obviously, the gambler was my brother, and based on the record of wins and losses, he was losing big.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to contemplate a scenario that didn’t paint my brother as a compulsive gambler. The following morning I decided to give myself a break from the David investigation and involve myself in a much more enjoyable activity.
“DO NOT THROW ANY PARTIES…”
As you may have gathered, it was my plan to break every rule on David’s “Do NOT” list. The party was the one rule I was most looking forward to breaking. However, good parties usually involve a celebratory occasion, and since birthdays, New Year’s, and every other booze-oriented holiday were either long past or far away, I had to arrive at an altogether different festive theme. And then it occurred to me—a theme more festive than any other I could think of: the end of my court-ordered therapy.