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

  “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 bus3 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

  Early 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.”

  Robbie glanced at the log sheet and went back to work.

  “Probably a hidden share drive,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not explaining that to you. You won’t understand—I guarantee it. Just follow my directions and do not deviate from them in any way. You can’t just use the network browser to search for the drive—it won’t work, because it’s a hidden drive, get it? Go to the Tools menu and choose Map. Network. Drive. Do I need to repeat that?”

  “No, I’m recording you,” I replied.

  “After you Map Network Drive, type in backslash, backslash, computer, XYZ, dollar sign. When I say ‘computer’ I’m using a placeholder for the name of your file server. Don’t type in ‘computer’ like a complete moron. And a dollar sign is just a dollar sign—shift-four. Got it? And you know what a backslash is, right? It’s leaning backward, not forward. If you do exactly what I tell you, you should find your file.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Don’t make me come back here.”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Robbie replied, snatching the money off the desk. “Close the door on your way out.”

  The front desk at RH Investigations was backed against a wall and offered a clear view into Harkey’s office if the door was open, so it followed that he had a clear view of me. With the door open and Harkey’s eye on me whenever he didn’t hear the click of the computer keys, my window of opportunity to search for the relevant files was limited. I decided there had to be a better way.

  THE RANSOM

  PART II

  After exiting the offices of RH Investigations, I turned on my cell phone. There were five voice mail messages, as follows:

  MESSAGE #1: It’s me.1 So I need the scoop on this Gabe guy. Great hair. Call me.

  MESSAGE #2: Izz, it’s Rae. So, Mom and Dad got your letter. They seem less mad. I’d be happy to facilitate a peace deal for a small fee. I’ll be in touch.

  MESSAGE #3: Izzele, it’s Morty here. I just want to make sure I’ve thought of everything in regard to the whole moving to Florida business. Give me a call so we can put our heads together.

  MESSAGE #4: Isabel, it’s Gabe. I’m not sure what you did about Grandpa, but good job. Thanks. Oh, and your friend Petra gave me a great haircut. Um, yeah. Okay, that’s all. Good-bye. Call me if you get the chance. I have something to ask you.

  MESSAGE #5: Izzy, why am I getting mail for you at the bar? I thought we talked about this.2

  Before I hopped on the train to the Philosopher’s Club, I returned the call that required the least effort.

  “Hi, Morty, it’s Isabel. Listen to me very carefully: You have two choices. You move to Florida or you and Ruthy get a divorce. End of story. If you need help packing, give me a call.”

  I managed to fit the above words in between “Hello” and “Wait!”

  Within twenty-five minutes of hopping on the Muni train (it was too crowded to sit, and therefore to nap) I was at the Philosopher’s Club, reading the following letter in the customary ransom note format.

  Would Like to Keep Your

  Secret, Wash, Dry, and Wax Your

  Father’s Audi this Weekend

  If my blackmailer was Rae, she was trying to redirect suspicion toward my father. What was odd about this strategy was that she could only enjoy the status of puppet master but not reap any other rewards. If the note didn’t have Rae written all over it, I would have accused my dad of the crime. Either way, it was disappointing, since I would have to spend at least two hours on a Saturday morning tending to his vehicle. I had to pay for someone’s silence, but I’d rather pay that than rent. I blocked out Saturday morning on my schedule and hoped that it would silence my sister for a while. If not, I would have to retaliate.

  Then I ordered a drink and sat down at the bar. Clarence misread my sluggish deportment as sadness and approached with the clear intent of improving my spirits. He said nothing but this:

  “A skeleton walks into a bar. He orders a beer and a mop.”

  I didn’t get it at first, but when I did, convulsive laughter took over—the embarrassing, unstable kind of laughter. When I finally came to I felt nauseous and needed a nap. I found my way to a booth in back and sprawled out.

  “This ain’t a motel! Wake up, Izzy!”

  Milo, the human alarm clock, ruined my much-needed rest, and then he didn’t stop to say hello. He turned to the Irishman, said something about going to the bank, reminded him not to let people sleep, and then left.

  As I was trying to shake off my afternoon sleep-hangover with an Irish coffee,3 Henry entered the bar. Alone. He sat exactly one bar stool over from me, as if he didn’t even see that I was there.

  I slid over to the next bar stool and said, “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

  Henry turned to me, surprised, and said rather angrily, “Where have you been?”

  “Just over there,” I said, pointing at my previous bar stool. “And over there before that,” I added, pointing to the inviting booth.

  “I dropped by your house two times last week. The first time I rang your buzzer at one A.M.—”

  “What are you doing ringing my buzzer at one A.M.?”

  “Let me finish.”

  “Okay,” I said, studying Henry’s demeanor. He was not himself that day.

  “The second time, I woke up some guy who said you had moved. Where?”

  “I can’t believe they rented that place already. I bet the new tenant looked sleepy.”

  “Where are you living?” Henry asked.

  Think fast. Think fast. Don’t ruin this great thing you’ve got going.

  “I’m staying with a friend for a bit. You know I was laid off here, so I need to save my money.”

  “What friend?”

  “No one.”

  Connor approached and pointed at Henry’s almost empty whiskey.

  “An I get ya anooder?”

  Henry said yes and slid his glass forward.

  “You understood that?” I asked.

  “Ow abut you, orgeous?” Connor then asked me.

  “Would you please stop calling me that?4 I’m good for now.”

  Henry sipped his refreshed drink and consulted the ceiling.

  “Did you move in with that Gabe kid?”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Then where are you?” he asked.

  “I’m crashing at my friends Len and Christopher’s place in Oakland.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because I don’t have a job and can’t afford rent,” I replied. “And don’t tell anyone named Spellman.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m not talking to any of them.”5

  “Well, if you do end up talking to them, don’t mention that I moved out.”

  Silence ensued, which, as I’ve explained before, I’ve grown quite comfortable with. But then I got the feeling that Henry maybe wanted to talk to me about something. There are hundreds of bars in this city, many near his home, any one of which he could patronize and drink alone in.

  “How’ve you been, Henry?”

  “Fine,�
� he replied abruptly.

  “How’s Maggie?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why not?”

  “I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

  “Is she missing?”

  “No.”

  “On the lam?”

  “Are you capable of having a normal conversation?” Henry asked as he got to his feet. He was less angry than disappointed. It was one of those rare moments when I had a brief picture of what it might be like to know me. I grabbed Henry’s wrist to stop him from leaving.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m going to try. I promise.”

  Henry gazed at me suspiciously and wondered what my angle was.

  “Sit down,” I said.

  What followed was a long, awkward pause, because I wasn’t even sure where to begin.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  “We broke up. That’s all,” Henry replied.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Another long pause followed. I would like you to note that my comments were all perfectly reasonable and noninflammatory. Further evidence that my social skills are improving. I finished my drink and pointed to the glass. Connor, who apparently can read people better than I can, refilled it silently to avoid disrupting the nonconversation Henry and I were having.

  “Would you like me to tell you about my own troubles as a means of distraction?” I asked.

  Henry turned to me and almost smiled.

  “Yes,” he said.

  So I shared a few of my latest sagas with him: I told him about my trouble sleeping in a bed, but that the bus was working out for me. I explained that the constant sleep deprivation was messing with my memory in general, but especially in locating my car. I even told him that I took a job with my father’s mortal enemy (although I provided few details beyond that point, since some of my activities loitered just outside of legal). Then I told him about the advances I had made in therapy. Henry asked for examples and I came up a bit short, but did recall that I had recently discovered the power of a carefully worded note and told him about my “Dear Mom and Dad” letter.

  I was running out of distraction-worthy material, so I pulled out my coup de grâce, which I really wasn’t planning on using, because the information would lead to follow-up questions. But since I’m the master of evasion, I figured I could risk it.