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 turned to the doorway and saw Henry Stone, blocking the now dim light from outside. I couldn’t read his expression until he took a few steps in and the shadow previously cast over his face slid away, revealing the severity of his expression. I hadn’t seen Henry this angry in months.

  He approached the bar.

  Trying to keep things light, I said, “Should I make a run for it?”

  “I need to speak to you in private,” Henry coldly replied.

  “She can talk to you right here,” Connor said. “We don’ have any secrets.”

  “Yes, we do,” I interrupted. “We have many.”

  “Nothing is funny about this,” Henry said.

  Letting up just a touch on my smartass act, I said, “Please step into my office,” and guided Henry over to a booth in the back room.

  Henry took in the room and, when he was satisfied that no one was watching, slid a baggy across the table right in front of me. It looked just like the baggy that was in my trench coat pocket. Come to think of it, it was probably no longer in my pocket.

  “You left this in my office, my office inside a police precinct, inside a criminal courthouse.”

  “Shit,” was all I said at first. I reached for the drugs, but Henry snatched them away.

  “What were you thinking?” he said. “What if one of my superiors found it before I did?”

  “I’m so sorry. It’s not what you think.”

  “Your pot? Or did you just score it for your Irish friend?”

  “I have an excellent explanation and if you keep being rude to me, you’re not going to get it.”

  “This better be good,” Henry said.

  Five minutes later, after I told Henry the whole story, he agreed. It was good. Unfortunately, we still had a problem. Since I remain ardently antisnitch and didn’t want to force Rae into that role and Henry is, well, a cop, we had opposing agendas. Or so I thought.

  “What are you going to do with this information?” I asked.

  “What information?” Henry replied, sliding the greens back in my direction. “Make it disappear, and not in an incendiary kind of way.”

  “Got it. What are you going to do about Rae? Just let it slide?”

  “Of course not. Logan Engle is out of her life for good.”

  “How will you swing that?”

  “Through the same means by which their relationship started,” Henry replied.

  “Blackmail?”

  “Yes,” Henry replied, “because that’s the kind of person you people have turned me into.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “No, you’re not,” he said with all the conviction my apology lacked.

  LOST WEDNESDAY #1

  So how was yesterday?” I asked the unit the morning after their mysterious twenty-four hours of solitude.

  “Fabulous,” Mom replied. “We should have started kicking you all out of the house years ago.”

  “Glad to hear it,” I replied.

  Then I turned to my father to gauge his reaction. He was oddly focused on his computer screen.

  “How about you, Dad? Did you have fun?”

  My father looked up at me and smiled evenly. “When your mother has fun, I have fun.”

  “That can’t always be the case,” I replied.

  “I suppose there are exceptions to every rule,” Dad said.

  I was going to suggest a few of those exceptions, but we were rudely interrupted by my sister, who stormed into the office carrying what I would later learn was a book inside a paper bag and dropped it with a thud on Mom’s desk. Without saying a single word, Rae then approached the whiteboard and authored a new rule.

  Rule #32—Put reading materials away when you’re finished

  Then Rae turned to me and said, “Don’t even think about vetoing this rule.”

  “What are you going on about?” I asked my sister.

  “That’s all I’m going to say,” Rae replied, refusing to make eye contact with anyone else in the room. Then she departed as swiftly as she arrived.

  “Should I ask?” I said, eyeing the book with both fear and curiosity.

  “She’s such a prude,” Mom said.

  “Did you ever have the sex talk with her?” Dad asked, deadpan.

  “No. I thought you did that,” Mom replied.

  They were having fun and wanted to draw me into their game. My curiosity, as always, got the best of me and I approached my mom’s desk, pulled the book out of its brown bag, and immediately slid it back in its appropriate package.

  “I second Rae’s rule. You need to put that stuff away when you’re done with it.”

  My glimpse of the “literature” was brief. I saw tangled flesh on the cover and the words “unlocking,” “secret,” and “sex.” I’m pretty sure there were a few other words involved, but I got the gist and averted my gaze, like I might be watching the end of a slasher flick. While leaving this kind of material out in the open seemed dangerous in a household where all the children are fluent in the language of mockery, I suspect none of us wanted to consider the idea long enough to toss out any sarcastic remarks. Besides, I had other family matters on my agenda for that day.

  I sent my father an instant message on his computer to keep my mom in the dark:

  Me: Dad, you want to go to lunch with me today?

  Dad: What’s the hitch?

  Me: No hitch. And I’m buying.

  Dad: Really? That sounds just wonderful. I’m really looking forward to it. Where will we go? Can we try the new Thai place on Polk?

  Me: Yes.

  Dad: Fantastic!!

  Me: It’s just lunch, Dad. I didn’t buy you a pony.

  “Ready to go,” I said to my father at twelve thirty sharp.

  My mother looked up from her desk. “Going somewhere?” she asked.

  “Lunch,” I said. “I figured you and Dad could use some quality time apart after yesterday’s marathon of … well, whatever it was you were doing.”

  “Why don’t you ever invite me to lunch?”

  “Next week. Your turn,” I replied, thinking it might be a good idea to split them up to see whether they had their stories straight.

  Something about these Lost Wednesdays needed explaining. Although, honestly, I wasn’t sure I wanted to delve into that terrain.

  At lunch, this was the extent of my delving:

  “So, should I even ask about yesterday?” I asked.

  “Ask at your own risk,” Dad replied.

  “Uh … everything’s okay between you and Mom?”

  “Yes. It’s just a tune-up.”

  “And you need that because … ?”

  “Isabel, marriages require work. We have job stress and two high-maintenance children, and we’ve been married thirty-five years.”

  “Two high-maintenance children?” I asked.

  “No offense, Isabel. We don’t count David.”

  “I think Mom would count him.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Mom is investigating David again and using me as her proxy. I don’t want to do it anymore.”

  “Just say no.”

  “I’ve tried that, but she finds another angle to hook me.”

  “Not a phenomenon I’m unfamiliar with.”

  “I need her off my back and I need her to leave David alone. He’s fine. Maggie’s fine. How do I get myself out of the situation?”

  “Can’t you make something up?”

  “One look at me and she knows when I’m lying.”

  “There are ways around talking,” Dad replied. “That’s what the rule board is for.”

  I thought about it and realized that maybe it could work. Then I switched gears. I wanted to see if Dad could do anything to derail my mother’s lawyer-date commandment.

  “Don’t you think it’s creepy that Mom is making me go on dates with men I don’t like?”

  “I do
,” Dad replied, making real eye contact for the first time all lunch, “but it’s even more bizarre that you’re doing it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You could say no,” Dad replied. “That’s not a word you’re unfamiliar with. Sometimes I think it was the only thing that came out of your mouth for fifteen years.”

  “You know what happens when you cross Mom,” I replied.

  “I do,” said Dad. “But how bad can it be? You live in your own apartment, have your own life, she can’t ground you, take away bar privileges, dock your pay. I promise that. So why are you doing it?”

  Dad made an excellent point. A point I wasn’t prepared to answer. I had to play it cool.

  “She has her ways,” I answered and then picked up the check and pretended to be calculating the tip, like someone who has never calculated a tip before. I even used my fingers for show.

  My dad rolled his eyes and looked at me with concern and a bit of embarrassment, I think.

  “Just double the tax, Isabel,” Dad mumbled.

  “Really?” I said. “Is that how it’s done?”

  After I paid the check, Dad stared at the table for a minute as if he were trying out some words of wisdom in his head.

  “Don’t be too hard on your mother with the dating thing.”

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “She worries it’s her fault.”

  “What’s her fault?”

  “How do I phrase this?” Dad said, consulting the ceiling.

  “Just spit it out.”

  “She thinks your trouble with men is her doing. She wanted her girls to be strong. She thinks maybe she took it too far.”

  “Oh my god. She just wants to take credit for everything, doesn’t she?” I said, trying to lighten things up.

  I’d asked my dad to lunch to pump him for information, not to have a serious conversation. I was hoping the moment would pass.

  “Dad, I’m okay. You need to stop worrying.”

  The moment didn’t pass. Dad stared down at the table, afraid to make eye contact.

  “Isabel, have you ever thought about going back to therapy, just to check in on things and stuff?”

  Dead silence. How did I answer this question?

  “I’m going to let you in on a secret, Dad. I never quit therapy. I still see Dr. Rush once a week.”1

  For once, Dad was utterly speechless and didn’t try to fill the void with sentimental aphorisms. He smiled and patted me on the head and said, “That’s my girl.”

  As Dad and I strolled back to the Spellman office/homestead, we passed a newsstand. Dad stopped in his tracks and stared at the women’s section of the magazine rack. I figured it was a passing glance, but he stayed put. I slid next to him and tried to follow his eye line.

  “Do you want to make him wild in bed or get rid of cellulite for good?” I asked.

  Dad grabbed a piece of the gender-specific propaganda off the rack and paid the newsagent. Once the exchange was complete, Dad continued on his way. I followed.

  “My gift to you,” Dad said with a wicked smirk on his face.

  I pulled the magazine out of the paper bag and read the cover blurbs, hunting for the point of this offering.

  Are you a shoe addict? Take the quiz

  White lies: Certain truths should not be told

  And finally, the eureka moment:

  The Dating Bible: Ten things you shouldn’t do on a first date

  “That is so sweet,” I said as I slid the magazine back in the bag.

  “You probably don’t have to do all ten,” Dad replied.

  Back at the office, I authored a new rule.

  #33—Communication only by instant message this afternoon

  I typed the following:

  Me: David is fine. The big blonde is a headhunter he was in talks with.

  Mom: You sure?

  Me: Positive.

  Mom: Thank you.

  Me: I’m not doing any more dirty work for you. Got it?

  Mom: Don’t forget, you have a date tomorrow at eight P.M. Drinks at One Market with a James Fitzgerald. He’s blond and will wear a red handkerchief. Err on the conservative side.

  Me: Don’t worry. I’ll err as usual.

  Mom: Stop that.

  WAKE-UP CALL

  My alarm clock shoved me out of bed and growled, “Bloody ’ell, wake up, Isabel!” Connor was already roused by the digital version of himself, which had buzzed rudely at five A.M. sharp. I had managed to ignore the first wake-up call since I was in deep REM sleep. However, he had only just gone to bed a few hours back and apparently doesn’t sleep through anything above fifty decibels. Me, under the perfect set of circumstances, I can max out around eighty.

  To avoid further agitating the already agitated and sleep-deprived Ex #12, I dressed quickly and inelegantly and slipped into the kitchen to make coffee. Only, the bag that holds the coffee was empty and after an extended hunt for more of the same, I came up short. I returned to the bedroom and tapped the heel of the sleep-deprived bed-grouch and demanded to know where he hid my coffee.

  He muttered something inaudible, which I concluded meant that we had run out and he had not replenished our supply.

  I controlled the temper tantrum that would have usually surfaced and said with calm rationality, “You are the worst boyfriend in the history of the world.”

  Ex #12 lifted his head, smiled sheepishly, and said, “An’ yoo arr even worse than that. There’s plenty of coffee to be had outside these doors.”

  “Satan,” was my clever reply.

  “Will I see ya later?” Connor asked, still thick with a groggy Irish slur.

  “No, I have a date tonight.”

  “Right. Forgot. Now give us a kiss and get the ’ell outta here so I can sleep. I have nightmares to get back ta.”

  I kissed Connor on the lips. His breath still stank of whiskey. I flicked him on the forehead to remind him that not replenishing the coffee supply is a punishable offense and then I did as I was told. I got the hell out of there.

  The notion that coffee can be had anywhere, anytime is a patent untruth. Most decent coffee shops don’t open until six A.M. I planned to be at my post before then, so I traveled the two miles to my parents’ house, entered the premises through the office window (habit), and quietly started the coffee brewing.

  The peaceful quiet of dawn was broken by my sister’s whine.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your shirt?” Rae asked, standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sporting pajamas and tangled bed hair.

  I looked down at the wrinkled blue Oxford that I’d pulled from the pitch-dark closet. I thought there was a chance I could lie my way out of the conflict, so I said, “It’s under my shirt.”

  “Prove it,” Rae replied, as I knew she would, so it was silly to even try.

  “I forgot, okay. It’s early. I don’t even know what you’re doing up.”

  “Finishing an English paper. I think I have an extra shirt lying around,” Rae said. “I’ll get it for you.”

  Rae disappeared while I poured a travel mug of coffee. When my sister returned, she handed me the new Spellman uniform—a blue T-shirt with yellow felt letters unevenly ironed on the front.

  Free Schmidt!

  I proceeded to unbutton my shirt, planning to layer the uniform under my usual wrinkled attire, but Rae would have none of it.

  “Put it on over your shirt,” Rae said in a whiny, demanding tone.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t like people staring at my boobs all day.”

  “It doesn’t bother me,” Rae replied.

  “That’s because you’re a walking billboard,” I replied.

  Rae shook her head with a dramatic sense of disappointment and said, “A man spends fifteen years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit and you’re worried about people staring at your chest?”

 
There was no point in continuing the conversation. I threw the FREE SCHMIDT! shirt over my long-sleeved button-down and exited the house with my mug of coffee.

  After six weeks of surveilling Dr. Hurtt and Harkey, all I had was a subject they had in common: Marco Pileggi, patient of Dr. Hurtt’s and subject of Mr. Harkey’s insurance investigation. Without seeing the surveillance reports themselves (which wouldn’t become available unless there was a trial) I couldn’t be certain that anything untoward was happening with the investigation. Marco Pileggi appeared legitimately injured. He wore his neck brace at all times and didn’t do things like climb ladders, hang Christmas lights, or prowl the Tenderloin for hookers. If Marco wasn’t doing anything wrong then Harkey could hardly doctor a report saying otherwise. I was staring at the deadest of dead ends and even at that very moment I wasn’t ready to admit it.

  My cell phone rang at six fifteen A.M., just as I was settling into reading the paper, drinking my coffee, and hoping that Harkey’s men would lead me in the direction of a serious violation of investigative codes.

  The number was listed as private.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m watching you, Isabel.”

  It was Harkey’s voice; I would recognize that counterfeit growl anywhere.

  “What a coincidence; I’m watching you too, or more specifically, I’m watching Jim Atherton watching Marco Pileggi. Another insurance case, I assume.”

  “What do you think you’re going to find?”

  “With a PI as crooked as you, the sky’s the limit.”

  “I’m careful, Isabel.”

  “You didn’t used to be.”

  “And yet you couldn’t prove anything.”

  “Not yet.”

  “You shouldn’t have started this, Isabel.”

  “I didn’t start it; you struck first, actually.”

  “Like I said before. I had nothing to do with that audit.”

  “I just hope all your books are in order.”

  “You should stop worrying about me, Isabel, and clean your own house. You wouldn’t want to disappoint your parents, would you?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that. They’re used to it. Besides, eliminating the competition would be great for business.”

  “I thought you’d be a more worthy adversary.”

  “What makes you think I’m not?”

  “There’s trouble under your nose and you don’t even see it.”