Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  “This isn’t a time to turn down work,” Dad said.

  “It’s not all about money,” I said.

  At this point Rae turned to Demetrius and said, “Ignore her. It’s almost always about money.”

  Demetrius then made a show of looking at his watch. “Time for my lunch break,” he said, escaping the final scraps of the meeting.

  I turned to my sister, trying to find a way to reach her. “What would you do if Mom and Dad hired someone to follow you?”

  “I’d shake him and get on with my day,” she replied.

  “You really don’t have a problem with this?” I asked again.

  “Nope.”

  It was then that I finally accepted that Vivien Blake wasn’t going anywhere, or more specifically, wherever Vivien Blake was going, we were going to know about it.

  In a weak retaliation against my sister’s alignment with the unit, I tried to burrow down to the core of the David/Rae mystery dispute.

  “Rae, why don’t you tell Mom and Dad about the prostitution ring you were running out of David’s house?” I said.

  “They know why I was kicked out,” Rae replied.

  “Oh yeah? Why?” I asked.

  No answer. I cleared my throat.

  “Anyone planning on answering my question?” I asked.

  “I thought everyone knew,” Dad replied.

  “No, not everyone,” I said.

  “She was dipping into his liquor supply,” Dad replied, trying to look appropriately concerned, but since dipping into the liquor supply is the equivalent of littering in the alternate universe of Spellman crimes, his expression belied the intended sentiment. Rae was getting a tap on the wrist and it was for a crime she did not commit.

  “Is that what David told you?” I asked.

  “I thought the punishment was a bit harsh,” Dad said. “But his home, his rules.”

  “Huh,” I said, watching my sister aimlessly shuffle papers on her desk to avoid my gaze.

  I sent my sister a quick text message.

  I’m onto you.

  Get a life.

  In the last five minutes of the summit we split the office work and delegated the surveillance cases. Mom and Dad took the case of the Man in the Library; I took the Lady in the Navy-Blue Suit; Rae, as predetermined, studied the file of the Girl with the Rap Sheet; and per my agreement with Mom, Walter Perkins was all mine. As for Demetrius, he steered clear of all surveillance assignments. “Call me crazy,” he once said, “but following white people around doesn’t sound like the wisest pastime for an ex-con.” I told him he didn’t know what he was missing. He argued that he did, since he used to case joints when he was a TV thief. To each his own. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of excitement over the broad scope of our new casework; aside from the break in monotony, it provided me with some excellent quality time away from the office, and hence, my family.

  However, other people’s families were a different story. As I drove home from work, I found that I was almost looking forward to another evening with Gertrude Stone.

  She was out cold (or napping as some people call it) on the living room couch but woke as soon as I arrived home (through the front door, no less). The moment she saw me, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, got to her feet, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

  “What have you got in mind?” I asked.

  “A friend of yours called and invited us to the grand reopening of the Philosopher’s Club.”

  “What friend?”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.”

  “Did he have an Irish accent?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I dated a mick once; I know what they sound like.”

  Automatically assuming that Milo was back in town, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden shift in my personal weather. Was it possible that Ex-boyfriend #12 (Connor O’Sullivan) had skipped town and returned the bar to its rightful owner, which meant that I could become a rightful patron once again?

  “Let’s go,” I said, calling a cab. I had a feeling that neither of us would be in any condition to drive after we knocked back a few.

  “I’ll leave a note for Henry,” Gertrude said.

  The note read: Isabel and I are not here. Love, Mom.

  Twenty minutes later, feeling a surprisingly pleasant buzz of anticipation at the prospect of seeing my old friend Milo, Gerty and I entered the dim cave of the Philosopher’s Club. The familiar scent of hops and dishrags brought back comforting memories. I looked to the end of the bar, and whatever hint of a smile had begun to surface faded quickly. The bartender, on the other hand, was all aglow when he saw me. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

  “You’re back,” was my only reply.

  “You betcha,” he said. “Bernie’s back for good.”

  The next thing I knew, I was trapped in a bear hug and I couldn’t get out.

  EDWARD SLAYTER

  Monday morning at eight A.M., I began my surveillance of subject Edward Slayter. I sipped coffee and sat in my car three doors down from his home and waited for him to depart for the day. According to Mrs. Slayter, he had a board meeting at nine A.M. His driver would pick him up somewhere around eight thirty. At eight twenty-five, a black Town Car drove up to the Slayter residence in Pacific Heights. A male driver in a black suit and tie left the car double-parked, idling in the middle of the street.1 Since the Slayters have a fat driveway, especially for San Francisco, I found this behavior particularly irksome. However, the Town Car was not left idling for long. Not quite forty-five seconds after subject’s driver rang the Slayters’ doorbell, Mr. Slayter strode down his driveway and got into the backseat of the car.

  Edward Slayter was described by his spouse as a handsome, fifty-five-year-old male, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, with an athletic but not overly muscular build. The clinical nature of her description struck me as a bit odd. Spouses usually add humanizing details—he has a scar on his chin from when he fell out of a tree as a child; there’s a mole above his eyebrow that he talks about having removed every now and then; he has an ever-so-slightly receding hairline, which he monitors religiously. But Mrs. Slayter added no personal flourish to the portrait of her husband. The only unnecessary detail she added was that his walk was always brisk, as though he were in a perpetual rush. Since Mr. Slayter was a busy man with many fiscal responsibilities, this detail seemed extraneous.

  My instructions were simple, too simple: Monitor subject’s activities. If they strayed from his reported schedule I was to promptly notify Mrs. Slayter via text message. Typically, further documentation is requested—photographs, videos, and written reports. I asked Mrs. Slayter if she was interested in any of that and after a brief, reflective pause, she said, “I don’t believe that will be necessary at this time.”

  The driver zigzagged across side streets to South Van Ness Avenue, one of the primary veins that run through the city, and turned south. The dense morning traffic forced me to keep a close tail, which is always problematic if you’re following a subject who is expecting a tail. As far as I could tell, neither the driver nor the subject took much notice of the navy-blue Buick that was never farther than two cars behind them.

  As expected, the Town Car pulled up in front of 111 Market Street. Mr. Slayter did not wait for the driver to open his door. He was one of that rare breed of rich folk who still know how to open and close car doors all on their own. Subject leaned into the car again and spoke briefly to the driver. Subject closed the door and the Town Car pulled back onto Market Street and disappeared into the distance. Subject then entered the building, but not without first holding the door for a few other pedestrians.

  Street parking in downtown San Francisco requires good karma or ESP, as far as I’m concerned, so I never even consider it an option. I found a ridiculously pricey garage nearby and gave the attendant an exorbitant tip to keep my car near the exit. Then I sat on a stoop outside the building
and opened a book to kill time. It was a slow death. The next time I checked my watch, only an hour had passed. I returned to my reading until I felt a shadow above me.

  “Do you like chess?” a middle-aged man in a shabby wool sweater that smelled of body odor and, I think, one of those pine-tree air fresheners you get at the car wash asked with a wide grin on his face. He was missing a tooth, which as far as I could tell was better off than the ones that remained.

  “Excuse me?” I said, trying to breathe through my mouth.

  “Do you like chess?”

  “No,” I flatly replied.

  “That’s funny,” he said, smiling.

  “Why is it funny?”

  “Because you’re reading a book on chess.”

  “Oh, I get it.”

  “See, it’s funny.”

  “I don’t find it as funny as you do,” I replied.

  “Would you like to play?”

  “Play what?”

  “Chess.”

  “I just told you I don’t like the game. Why would I want to play?”

  “If you don’t like chess why are you carrying a chess book around?”

  “Because my boyfriend wants me to like it.”

  “But you don’t.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Have you told him?”

  “He thinks we should have some common activities.”

  “That makes sense. Can’t you pick something else?” he asked.

  “That’s the problem. There really isn’t anything else.”

  “I see,” he said. “But you like him?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you like him right away or did it take a while?”

  “It took a while,” I replied, suddenly feeling awkward having such an intimate discussion with a stranger.

  “Sometimes it takes a while to like chess. Also playing it is more fun than reading about it.”

  “That’s true about almost anything.”

  “So, do you want to play?”

  “You’ve got a chessboard on you?”

  “Always.”

  “Huh.”

  “Just a friendly game.”

  “What would make it an unfriendly game?”

  “I don’t know; it’s just a saying.”

  I checked my watch and the entrance to 111 Market. Twelve forty-five P.M.

  Mr. Slayter had told his wife that after his noon meeting he was likely to have lunch at a downtown restaurant. The man with the unfortunate tooth decay took my silence as acquiescence and promptly pulled a board and a jangling felt pouch out of his canvas bag. He took a seat next to me and began setting up his ivory army.

  “Okay,” I said. “But if my friend shows up, I’ll have to run, even if we’re in the middle of the game.”

  “Charles Black,” the man said. “My friends call me Charlie. But I always play white, so don’t let my name confuse you.”

  “I should warn you, Mr. Black, I’m not very good at this.”

  “Call me Charlie,” he said.

  “Okay, Charlie.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “Jane.”

  “That’s easy to remember.”

  “I know,” I said. That’s why I picked it.

  One hour later, Charlie had apparently broken all of his previous chess records by winning ten games in a row. In fact, one of those games, Charlie explained,2 was called a fool’s checkmate, a rare and laughably quick win that almost never happens, even when playing the most amateurish opponent. I congratulated Charlie for my impressive defeat and was saved from future humiliation when I saw Edward Slayter leaving the building. Mr. Slayter stood alone on the threshold of the skyscraper doors and scanned the area as if he were looking for a tail. In fact, he looked right at me and then moved on. Eventually he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and began walking up Montgomery Street.

  “That’s my friend,” I said to Charlie as I got to my feet.

  “That’s your friend?” Charlie said with a sprinkling of concern.

  “Yes. I have to go,” I said, tossing my bag over my shoulder.

  “But he didn’t wave or anything,” Charlie said, still with the concern.

  “We’re the kind of friends who don’t wave,” I said.

  “Oh. I see,” Charlie said politely.

  “See you around,” I said. And then I waved.

  Charlie waved back and smiled; I hoped he didn’t read too much into that wave.

  Mr. Slayter’s next appointment was not lunch. If you’re thinking I have a scandalous tale to tell involving hookers, loan sharks, bookies, or even a mistress, let me set you straight. Mr. Slayter had a doctor’s appointment, plain and simple. This was easy to verify since he entered a building that required signing in at a security desk. I don’t often mention this fact, but terrorists have made some parts of my job quite a bit easier. I probably won’t mention that again.

  Since I was to inform Mrs. Slayter if Edward deviated at all from his plans, I sent her a text message with the information gleaned from this remarkably dull surveillance. Ten minutes later Mrs. Slayter sent me a reply, thanking me for my hard work and suggesting I conclude the surveillance for the day.

  I returned to Spellman Investigations headquarters and was surprised to find a vacated office. Instead of taking advantage of the peace and quiet and catching up on work, I decided to head down to the basement and catch some Zs on the cot. I’d had yet another barn burner of a night with Gerty. She seemed to have taken a shine to the Philosopher’s Club. Frankly, I didn’t know how much longer I could keep up with her. Even I usually stay in on a Sunday night.

  TRAPPED . . . AGAIN

  Some people don’t learn lessons as quickly as others do. The Spellman basement has been home to a wild variety of punishments spanning close to three decades of my life. In my early youth, my parents would stage military-like interviews to find out the truth behind the finger paint on the walls or the sticky/sweet substance that now lived in the carpet. I suppose the methodology is the same whether you’re interrogating a war criminal or a second grader. Remove all forms of distraction, create an uncomfortable environment (dim lighting, rickety chairs), and starve the person of natural light—for a child, even five minutes works.

  My point is that I’ve endured many uncomfortable situations in that room.

  Then again, sometimes you need a nap and the room is as dark as a high-quality hotel room and people leave you alone in there and so you sleep and then you wake up and you overhear a conversation and you can’t leave the room until the relevant parties have finished the conversation and left the office, so they don’t know you’ve heard it. And the next thing you know, four hours have passed. When you do finally escape, you have to jump through the office window and you scratch your arm on the way out and you start to wonder if you’re getting too old for this sort of thing. You think one of these days the urge that you’ve been tussling with your whole life—the need to get to the bottom of everything—will fade out. But it hasn’t yet and you wonder if maybe you need to take a more proactive approach and maybe you think it might be time to go back to the shrink. Then your train of thought is interrupted by Mr. Peabody next door, who has just witnessed your defenestration and is giving you that look he always does. You take your sleeve to the windowsill and pretend you’re dusting and then you walk along the side of the house to the front door and enter.

  I found my father foraging in the refrigerator. My mother was planted on the couch, which provides a direct view of all activities in the kitchen. Dad once suggested a rearrangement of living room furniture and I eventually came to realize that it was so that any couch dwellers couldn’t keep up with kitchen activities. He went so far as to solicit the services of our gardener to help him move the couch. Gardener’s services were solicited again when my mother returned home, insisting that things remain in their rightful place. Mom’s not too obsessed with the location of household furniture (though she’s rearranged the office
at least ten times in the past twenty years in an effort to improve work production), so I suspect she was onto him right away. Dad pouted the rest of the day.

  I watched my father watch my mother out of the corner of his eye as he used the refrigerator door to block Mom’s view and grab a cookie off of a baking sheet on top of the stove. Dad slipped back into the office, where I followed him. “Not one word,” Dad said as he dug into the cookie. A quizzical expression flashed across his face as he consumed the baked good. “This is excellent,” Dad said. “Why is D so hit-and-miss with his baking?”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” I replied, knowing the answer.

  “That would be rude.”

  “What’s new?” I asked. I asked that because after overhearing Mom and Dad’s conversation, I knew that something was new.

  “Not much,” Dad replied.

  “When I say ‘What’s new’ I’m not just referring to what might be new in your life, but more like is there something I should know?”

  “I love you,” Dad said, eating his cookie.

  “No, that’s not it,” I replied.

  “When somebody tells you they love you, you should say ‘I love you’ back.”

  “I love you, Dad. So, anything you want to tell me?”

  “Um, I think you’re doing a good job.”

  “Thanks, so nothing’s new?” I asked again, hoping my repetition would become tiresome enough to result in an answer.

  “Since the last time you asked, I finished the cookie,” Dad said.

  “If that’s how you want to play it,” I replied.

  “What’s new with you, Isabel?” Dad asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Two hours earlier

  Now might be a good time to describe that conversation I overheard, which caused me to be trapped in the basement, followed by a window escape and an extremely unsuccessful Dad interrogation.

  Footsteps and fuzzy voices overhead woke me from a fitful nap. I climbed the basement stairs but stopped short at the door. I didn’t want to interrupt the clearly private conversation between the unit. It went something like this.