Trail of the Spellmans: Document #5

by Lisa Lutz

  “This brings back memories,” D said.3

  “Be careful of your back,” Grammy said to my dad as she watched nervously. “You’re not a young man anymore.”

  “Yes, Mom, I’m aware of that. It would be nice if you didn’t tell me that every single day.”

  After D and my dad headed down the front steps, I turned to my mother for an explanation.

  “Grammy’s moving out?”

  “Yes,” Mom replied, nodding her head effusively.

  “How’d you make that happen?”

  “I didn’t,” Mom replied. “It was all D. He saw how miserable we all were and he convinced Ruth that she should hang on to her dignity and independence as long as she could and he took her on a tour of the city and helped her find an apartment. He said it didn’t take much persuading. She thinks we’re a bunch of animals anyway. Ruth signed a yearlong lease last Friday,” Mom said. She was so happy, she was almost crying.

  “So that’s what they’ve been up to,” I said.

  “I think he might be my favorite person in the whole world,” said Mom.

  “Shouldn’t that be Dad? Or maybe even me?”

  “No, it’s D,” Mom replied.

  “I guess he’s kind of tops on my list too,” I replied.

  Mom, desperate to move the move along as quickly as possible, picked up one of Grammy’s daisy-print suitcases.

  “That’s too heavy for you, dear,” Grammy said to Mom as she entered the foyer. “Let the men handle it. Or Isabel.”

  My mother ignored Grammy and comfortably lugged the suitcase to the truck.

  “So, you’re moving out,” I said to Grammy.

  “I found a lovely garden apartment just two miles away. We can see each other as much as we’d like. I should be very comfortable there. It’s quite clean, and they take pets. A rare combination.”

  “Pets?” I asked.

  “I’ll be taking Perdita with me.”

  “Who is Perdita?”

  “You people know her as FourPete. Such an undignified name for a dog. Don’t you think?”

  “Actually I think dogs are supposed to have undignified names.”

  “We’ll have to agree to disagree.”

  Yeah, on everything, I thought. But I kept that to myself. I picked up two more suitcases and loaded them into the truck, while Dad and D removed the dresser from the guest bedroom, which was Grammy Spellman’s dresser from years ago.

  A few more odds and ends were extracted from the house and then FourPete4 hopped into the back of the truck and Grammy, Dad, and D filed into the cab. Mom and I waved from the driveway as they departed.

  As soon as the truck turned the corner, Mom pumped her fist in the air, shouted with glee, and gave me a high five.

  “How does it feel?” I asked.

  “Like I just lost one hundred and ten pounds.”

  Mom strode back into the house and over to her desk. On top lay the latest book club tome, which she dropped in the trash. Then she picked up her crochet bag and emptied the yarn into the steel bin. She tossed her Russian workbooks in there as well and then picked up the trash and carried it into the backyard. She grabbed the lighter fluid next to the barbecue and sprayed a good stream inside the can. Then she lit a match and set the whole thing aflame.

  “Dosvedanya,” she said.

  “Congratulations,” I said as we watched Mom’s hobbies burn to ash.

  THE SPARROW FLEES THE NEST

  I met with Vivien at a café in the Mission. She was spooning her way through a pyramid of whipped cream atop a bowl-sized serving of mocha. A manila envelope rested on the table. I ordered a regular coffee and took a seat. “Was it difficult?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” she replied, sliding the photos in my direction.

  I perused the new and improved evidence: expertly shot images of Margaret Slayter and subject #2—later identified as Boris Gavrilenko, Margaret’s Ukrainian trainer—in most compromising positions. One image showed them kissing in her Mercedes, and another had them embracing at the back entrance to her gym. The pictures satisfied my prerequisites: They provided sound evidence of an affair and did not in any way resemble my father’s work.

  “Good job,” I said. “You’re a natural.”

  “So, like, how does somebody get into your line of work?” Vivien asked.

  “If any side jobs come up, I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Do you have something for me?” Vivien asked.

  “I do,” I replied, placing a sealed envelope in the middle of the table.

  Vivien didn’t reach for it right away. She let it sit there.

  “What’s inside?”

  “I have the names and current addresses of your biological parents and some basic background information, photos, occupations, and so on.”

  She took another sip of her mocha. “Hmmm,” she said. “You know, when I figured out I was adopted, I had a lot of ideas about who my bio-parents were. Sometimes I’d picture them as Ivy League intellectuals. Sometimes criminals. For a while I was really keen on the idea that my father was a cat burglar and my mother a fence. Of course, a baby couldn’t fit into that picture. I’m sure that they’re perfectly ordinary, but I never thought of them that way. They could be anything I want them to be.”

  “If you open that envelope,” I said, “that will no longer be the case.”

  “I just figured that out,” Vivien said. She picked it up and looked it over.

  I had this overwhelming urge to grab the envelope from her and rip it to shreds. “Before you do something that you can’t undo,” I said, “think about this: The way you see your birth parents is kind of the way you see yourself. You can be anything. Sometimes when you know where you come from, it limits you. Sometimes you feel stuck. Think about that before you make any decision.”

  Vivien put the envelope back on the table.

  “Why don’t you just hang on to that for a while,” she said.

  After my meeting with Vivien, I took a cab to Mr. Slayter’s office. A man who was not Phil Vitus drove me straight there, no questions asked. Slayter holds a corner office on the fifteenth floor. It was about the size of Bernie’s entire one-bedroom apartment. A gray-haired man was seated on his couch, going over stacks of paperwork.

  Mr. Slayter greeted me with a warm handshake and a masculine pat on the shoulder.

  “Isabel,” he said deliberately to make sure he got it right. “Meet my attorney, Ritz Naygrow.”

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Naygrow.”

  “Call me Ritz,” he replied.

  “Really? Thanks, Ritz. I’ve actually never known anyone named Ritz, Ritz.”

  “She’ll grow on you,” Mr. Slayter said, as if it were an order.

  “Are the plans in motion?” I asked.

  “We’ve transferred all the money from my wife’s bank account and closed all but one of her credit cards.”

  “Has she noticed yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  I passed the envelope with Vivien’s photos to Slayter. I could have easily given him the pictures I’d found on my father’s computer, but I wanted my dad to have plausible deniability. I didn’t care if I did. And if everything went correctly, the plan was for Slayter to tell his wife he’d hired his own investigator and no one named Spellman would ever be mentioned.

  “This is all you should need for the infidelity clause. Plus, you’re likely to get Adam Cooper to testify against her if he knows there isn’t any money coming in. When you tell her . . .”

  Edward had stopped paying attention to me as he looked at photographs of his wife with another man. For as long as I’d known her, Margaret Slayter had been a sketchy, two-dimensional figure, a woman that I couldn’t imagine a man being heartbroken over. But Edward must have married her for some reason.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Slayter. This must be very difficult for you.”

  Edward slid the photos back in the envelope and gave them to his attorney, who had the decency not to take a peek at
that time.

  “I filed for divorce this morning,” Mr. Slayter said. “I plan on telling Margaret this evening.”

  “She’ll stay in the house,” I told him. “Once she realizes all her resources are gone, she’ll hang on to what she can.”

  “I plan on moving into the Fairmont for the time being. Once the divorce is settled, she will receive a lump sum that should keep her for some time, if she’s careful. And then she’ll have to move out.”

  “Is anyone else living in the house?”

  “Just our housekeeper, Marta.”

  “How do they get along?”

  “They loathe each other.”

  “Tell Marta to slack off for the next few weeks. Tell her to catch up on her daytime television and to ignore any threats that the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Slayter makes. Does Margaret have any allergies?”

  “No,” Slayter replied.

  “That’s unfortunate. I was going to suggest Marta get a dog.”

  “Have you thought about what we discussed?” Slayter asked.

  “I have. But I think I need to see the fallout first.”

  “As you wish,” Mr. Slayter replied.

  “Mr. Slayter, I think Margaret and Adam are harmless, but that was quite an unusual scam they pulled. Please err on the side of caution. I don’t know what they would become if they got desperate enough,” I said as I took my leave.

  Edward gave me a quick peck on the cheek before I left. “You’re an angel,” he said.

  “That’s a first,” I replied. “See you around, Ritz.”

  I phoned Adam Cooper as soon as I left Mr. Slayter’s office. I told him that I had some pressing news that needed to be relayed immediately. He suggested I come to his apartment, but I thought it best to meet in a public place. We agreed on the library.

  An hour before our scheduled meeting, I waited outside Cooper’s apartment in the Richmond. It was a modest twelve-unit building, from circa 1970, that needed a paint job. The units couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet each. I was curious what kind of car he drove, since he was no longer financially solvent. I wasn’t surprised when Cooper winked the lights of a brand-new BMW, with a top-of-the-line security system. He would be that asshole whose car alarm goes off in the middle of the night, keeping the entire neighborhood awake.

  The first time I met Cooper, he seemed so ordinary—in a good kind of way. The clothes so deliberately uncool. I recalled my interview with Meg and Adam’s neighbor, who described his expensive tastes and vain affectations. I realized the sweater vest was as much of a disguise as the car. When he met me, he wanted to come off as a simple, harmless man concerned about his sister’s well-being.

  Since I knew where Cooper was heading, I beat him to the library with ten minutes to spare.

  I returned to the government section of the main library and pulled the California Code of Civil Procedure and sat down in one of those glass booths. There was a particular section that I wanted to share. As I paged through the substantial book, I felt a shadow over my shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

  “Are you the Gopher?” Cooper asked. The sense of déjà vu was disturbing.

  Up close, he looked considerably changed this time around, as if he were no longer trying to hide his smarmy ways. His shirt was purple and had a sheen to it. In fact, everything he wore seemed mildly reflective, including the sunglasses that he’d left on. He sat down across from me.

  There was a homeless man or an unkempt older student studying nearby; we spoke in hushed tones for privacy.

  “I was glad to hear from you. Your father is not the best communicator in the world.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.

  “I’ve been waiting on photographs for the last two weeks. And his surveillance reports so far have illuminated nothing.”

  I was unaware that my father was not feeding information to Cooper. I needed to see what little information he did offer.

  “I’m afraid my father hasn’t been the best communicator with me, either. He’s quite overworked these days. What has he given you?”

  “A few surveillance reports and some photographic evidence that Meg is going to the gym. But I already knew that. She’s been a gym rat her whole life.”

  “Have you seen her recently? How did she seem?” I asked.

  “We haven’t spoken in weeks. Ever since I questioned the state of her marriage. That’s what this whole thing was about. I was concerned for my sister’s well-being.”

  “I see.”

  “Mr. Spellman suggested that she was perhaps having an affair. I thought that he’d provide more information, but I don’t even have the name of the individual.”

  “I do,” I said. “I even have pictures.”

  Cooper couldn’t contain his excitement. “You do?” he asked, and then he coughed, trying to cover his eagerness with a more benign expression.

  “I do,” I repeated. Then I found the page in the California Code of Civil Procedure. I spun the book around and slid it across the table. “Are you familiar with California Penal Code Section 518?”

  “No. Should I be?”

  “You definitely need to check out this code. I’ll just explain it to you because it might take you a while to read all the legalese. Basically, it defines extortion as trying to obtain property—in your case, cash—through force or fear. Now, fear can simply mean the threat of exposing the individual to shame. The sentence for extortion can be up to four years in prison and a fine of ten thousand dollars. Based on your latest credit report, there’s no way you can get that kind of money unless you extort someone.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” Adam asked, although he already knew.

  “You, sir, are not Meg’s brother. You’re her ex-husband and you’re seeking information so that you can blackmail her and siphon as much money as possible off of her extremely wealthy spouse.”

  “I’ve done nothing illegal.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know your entire biography, but you were planning to blackmail your ex-wife.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Two things: I want to reimburse you for services not rendered. I believe you paid a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Then you stopped paying your bills, which might explain the lack of investigative product. But I also suspect Dad grew suspicious and was reluctant to provide evidence when he wasn’t sure how it would be used.”

  Cooper stared at the check, folded it in quarters, and put it into his shiny pocket.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

  “Doubtful,” he replied.

  “You’re thinking you’ll just hire another investigator to get evidence against Meg. Do you call her ‘Meg’ or ‘Margaret’ or ‘sis’? That is really creepy, you know.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “The jig is up,” I said. “Mr. Slayter has proof of Mrs. Slayter’s affair and has just filed for divorce. Your ex-wife will receive an extremely modest stipend to live off of for the next two years and that is all. So, you’re going to have to find someone else to shake down, but when you do, make sure that you can handle four years in prison. Because I think I’m going to keep an eye on you. Any questions?”

  “You wouldn’t by chance know how Edward Slayter acquired proof of his wife’s affair?”

  “No idea,” I replied.

  Cooper flushed in anger. He got to his feet.

  “Are you leaving?” I asked.

  “I think we’re done here.”

  “Have a nice day!” I said cheerily. I found that people who aren’t having a nice day really loathe that phrase.

  “You won’t get away with this,” Adam said as he walked away.

  “I just did,” I replied.

  HIDING OUT

  I drove straight to the Philosopher’s Club to take the edge off before there was an edge to take off. Bernie, as always, approached me like a scuba diver in shark water, observing, moving slowly, but always with that uncertai
n feeling. I sat down at the bar. Bernie, without making eye contact, said, “What can I get you?”

  “Bourbon,” I said.

  “Maybe you want to start with a beer,” Bernie suggested.

  It was sound advice, and coming from anyone else, I might have taken it.

  “Maybe I don’t want a beer.”

  “You usually do,” Bernie said. True, but none of his business.

  “What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

  Bernie shrugged his shoulders and poured a bourbon on the rocks. If I drink bourbon, I drink it on the rocks, but I didn’t order it that way, so I decided to be difficult.

  “Did I say ‘on the rocks’?” I said, eyeing the drink as if it were peppermint schnapps.

  “My apologies,” Bernie replied.

  He reached for the drink, but I beat him to it. “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t like to waste booze.”

  After a few moments of satisfying silence, Bernie spoke.

  “How’s life?”

  “About to get very messy.”

  “Care to elaborate?” Bernie asked.

  “Nope,” I replied.

  Another enjoyable break from conversation passed. Unfortunately, the only thing Bernie hates more than quiet is an empty refrigerator.

  “Maybe I’ll put some music on,” Bernie said.

  If it were up to Bernie, only Old Blue Eyes would be playing in this bar. In fact, he’d probably change its name to the Chairman’s Club if the sign didn’t cost so much.

  “If you play ‘I Get a Kick Out of You,’ you’ll get one,” I said.

  Bernie set the jukebox on random and took his chances. A stale Beatles song blanketed the silence; then Bernie started humming, adding another layer to the soundtrack; then my phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and laid it on the bar. It was the call I had been expecting.

  “You going to pick up?” Bernie asked.

  “Does it look like it?” I replied.

  “Not really,” Bernie said as the ringing cut off.

  Then my phone rang again. Different number on the screen, but the same caller, I assumed. Bernie watched me.