by Lisa Lutz
My point is, the unit’s decision to invite Grammy into the office could only be seen as a direct act of aggression. Clearly no progress had been made in my peacemaking efforts.
Spellman Central was otherwise abandoned. Whether Grammy’s presence was responsible for that fact, I did not yet know.
“Grammy, what are you doing here?” I asked immediately upon entry.
“Albert asked me to help out since no one would be in the office this morning.”
“Where are Mom and Dad?”
“I believe they’re at an appointment.”
“What kind of appointment?”
“They didn’t say.”
“Thank you for your help, Grammy. You can go.”
“I have three messages for you. Mr. Demetrius called and he said that he had to do a last-minute interview for one of Maggie’s cases. It’s near Sacramento. He won’t be back in the office today. Vivien was here earlier and said to tell you that she’s working on Lightning Fast? Is that some kind of diet?” Grammy asked.
Grammy is diet obsessed, so it would be a natural assumption.
“It’s a moving company.”
“And your gentleman friend Henry Stone called. He said you weren’t answering your cell. He was a very nice man. It was so unfortunate that you couldn’t hang on to him.”
“Grammy, can I offer you a ride home?”
“Oh no. I’ll walk. The exercise is good for me. That’s how I keep my trim figure. What’s your secret?” Grammy asked, seething with sarcasm.
“I’m on an all-seafood6-and-bourbon diet.”
“It’s doing wonders for your complexion.”
“Good-bye,” I said encouragingly.
“Always a pleasure,” Grammy said, clutching her purse and walking briskly out of the office.
I tried to wake my computer and it responded like a teenager after a night on the town. I pressed restart and the monitor turned black, a bunch of crazy numbers mobbed the screen, and then it froze. I had Robbie Gruber on speed dial, but since I fired him, I couldn’t summon the energy for what would amount to a groveling phone call. I walked over to Vivien’s desk and turned on her computer.
Like most companies, we keep our files on a server so that they can be accessed from any computer. I was about to enter a cursory report on my first day at Divine Strategies when I noticed a file folder on Vivien’s computer desktop named Lightning. I clicked on the folder. Inside was a collection of JPEG files but not a single text document. Before I looked at the images, I checked the server for a matching file and found a Lightning folder that contained only the scanned information from our intake form. I clicked back on Vivien’s desktop, opened the Lightning file, and reviewed the collection of unlabeled JPEGs.
01 The first image was of a male subject, approximately thirty-five years old, medium height and build, with dark brown hair peppered with gray.
02 Second image showed Subject getting into his car.
03 Close-up of his license plate number.
04 Subject standing in foyer of a single-family home being greeted intimately by a strawberry-blond-haired woman with flotation devices as breasts in a pink silk robe.
05 Photo through window into bedroom of home. Subject and same woman undressing in bedroom.
06 The money shot.
There was no other information in the file and no way to confirm the identities of the individuals other than checking the license plate number on the car.
I decided this was a good time to return Henry Stone’s phone call.
He picked up on the second ring. No hello, just, “Why does it take you three days to return a phone call, and who hired Ruth7 as receptionist?”
“My apologies. I’m running my business into the ground and having trouble keeping up with non-work-related phone calls. I have no comment on the Grammy question. What’s on your mind?” I asked.
“Let’s have a drink sometime.”
“Don’t tell me you knocked somebody else up.”
“No. I just want to have a drink. What are you doing tomorrow?”
Just when I was entirely convinced that the universe was conspiring against me, it threw me a bone.
“I have plans,” I said.
“No you don’t,” he said, which wasn’t as insulting as it sounds. I rarely do have plans.
“Seriously, I have plans. I’m having drinks or something with Edward’s new chief counsel.”
Dead silence. Henry might have been more shocked by what might have been construed as me on a date than I was by his pregnancy blindside.
“Why don’t you have drinks with your new woman. I’m sure she’s thirsty.” I said, just to fill the void.
“She doesn’t drink.”
“You’re dating a teetotaler?”
“She’s pregnant, Isabel.”
“Right. Well, it will have to be another time. Are you sure you can’t debrief me over the phone, or via e-mail? I don’t mind a telegram now and again.”
“Drinks.”
“I’ll agree to drinks under one condition.”
“What?”
“I need you to run a license plate for me.”
“Now I know why you returned my call.”
After my phone call ended with Henry, I studied the photos on Vivien’s computer for a few more minutes before I made the call. I left a standard message.
“Vivien, when you get the chance, call me back.”
There was no point in giving her time to conjure an explanation or contact my sister, who at all times has a half dozen very plausible lies waiting in her back pocket.
Meanwhile I discovered yet another deception among my employees. Maggie phoned as I was reluctantly tackling the massive filing heap.
“Hi, Isabel, sorry again about the other day,” she said.
“You’re not sorry. That’s the thing.”
“What did you think of Max, Claire’s dad? His divorce should be finalized in a few weeks, but they’ve been separated two years, so he’s totally available.”
Now I was getting annoyed. “Seriously? Is that why you called?”
“No. I wanted to clear Demetrius’s schedule, if that’s all right. I need him to handle some prison interviews for me. It’ll probably take up about fifteen to twenty hours next week, including drive time. I assume he left you a note. He’s at San Quentin right now.”
Just then D walked into the office.
“Right,” I said. “He said something about that. You sure it’s going to take all afternoon?”
“It’s a long drive and the interview will take at least an hour.”
“No problem,” I said. “Let me double-check his calendar.”
The inmate interview was clearly written for this afternoon, and yet here D was at the Spellman compound.
I’m no snitch, so I decided to cover.
“I’m sure we can free his schedule whenever you need.”
“Thanks, Isabel.”
After we disconnected the call, I turned to D. “Aren’t you supposed to be at the Big Q this afternoon?”
“The what?” D asked.
“Remember, we’re calling San Quentin ‘the Big Q.’ ”
“I had to reschedule,” D said, totally ignoring my reminder. “Had a dentist’s appointment this morning.”
“How’d that go?”
“Great.”
The dentist is never great. Everybody knows that. But I like to respect D’s privacy, so I let him keep his secret. Besides, that afternoon the office had a lot of foot traffic, so there wasn’t much time for fishing.
First Loretta, D’s girlfriend, arrived. Everyone loves her. I suppose D loves her most, but she’s a favorite among Spellmans. Loretta is tall, I think taller than D, but he denies it and has refused to engage in a lineup. She’s partial to sweater sets and wears glasses and large costume jewelry. That day, she brought a giant Tupperware container of brownies. Loretta and D have been selling D’s baked goods at some gourmet shops, restaurants, and
specialty stores around the city. And since she was in between jobs and not afraid of an oven, she had been testing out D’s recipes.
Loretta slipped off the airtight lid and said, “I think you’ll be pleased.”
D took a bite of a brownie and chewed. Then he forced a smile and said, “Delicious. Did you make any adjustments to the recipe?”
“Just a dash of cinnamon. Do you like it?”
“Uh-huh,” D said. He was lying.
“I got to run. I have a nail appointment in fifteen minutes,” Loretta said. “Now, Isabel, don’t work my man too hard.”
“Haven’t you heard? No one works here.”
“Nice seeing you, hon.”
Loretta kissed D on the forehead and headed out. I picked up the rest of the brownie that D was clearly not going to eat and took a bite. It was excellent.
“This is really good.”
“Always with a dash of cinnamon,” D said, shaking his head. “Brownies don’t need cinnamon.”
“I can’t taste it.”
Then Vivien and Rae arrived, within minutes of each other, so I couldn’t interrogate them separately. I thought about leading the conversation with, “Why do you have pictures of a naked man and woman in the file for a moving company investigation?” but I had hoped they’d offer this information on their own. Besides, Rae was in the middle of crank-calling the moving company, which wasn’t exactly part of the “official” investigation, but a memo had gone out requesting that the entire Spellman staff engage in at least one time-consuming fake moving quote with Marcus Lorre.
“Okay, let’s go over this one more time,” Rae said into a burner cell phone. She proceeded to take five minutes reading off an entire list of household belongings, provided a zip code in the Boston area, and waited for the quote. “Can you bring that number down a little? A little bit more than that? Okay. I can work with that number. One last thing, I’ll need the move to happen at midnight and the movers will need to be as quiet as possible. You don’t move in the middle of the night? That’s going to be a problem. I haven’t told my parents that I’m moving them across the country. I wanted it to be a surprise. Huh. You can’t work around that? I see. I see. I’m sorry we’re not able to do business together. I’ll be sure to refer my friends, though.”
When Rae disconnected the call, she looked at her watch and did some internal calculations. “That quote took two hours and forty-five minutes off of Lorre’s life.”
“I got news for you,” I said. “It also took two hours and forty-five minutes off of your life.”
“But I enjoyed every minute of it.”
“How’s the legitimate Lightning Fast investigation coming along?” I asked.
I was now working at my dad’s computer, since mine was completely offline.
“Good,” Vivien said. “My computer has been running slow. Have you called anyone?”
“Still gathering evidence,” Rae said.
“And then what is the plan?” I asked.
“Are these for me?” Rae said to D, pointing at the tub of brownies. Apparently Rae is also in on the baked-goods business.
D nodded.
“Excuse me, back to the Lightning update,” I said.
“Once we amass more evidence we’ll figure out the best way to proceed,” Rae said, taking a bite of brownie.
“Vivien, you haven’t had any more contact with Lorre, right?”
“I haven’t called him again. I swear. Is there any chance I could get my paycheck a day early?” Vivien asked. “Since I’m not coming in tomorrow.”
“Sure,” I said, pulling a blank check from the box.
“Blech,” Rae said, spitting out her half-masticated brownie in the trash.
“You taste it too?” D said.
“Loretta made these?” Rae asked.
“Yep.”
“I hate cinnamon.”
“That was obvious,” D said.
“I can’t promise that I’ll get full price for these,” Rae said.
“Isabel didn’t even notice,” D said.
“Lots of things slip by Isabel,” Rae said.
“But not voices five feet away from me,” I said.
I gave Vivien her check.
“You still don’t know how to use the accounting software?” Rae asked.
“I’ve been busy,” I said.
“Are you reconciling the bank statements?”
“What is it with everyone and bank statement reconciliations? Checks are not bouncing. We’re good. But if you want to take over this responsibility at any time, please have at it.”
Rae started working on Mom’s computer and said, “I think we have a virus. I know a guy. Let me call him.”
Since the only special relationship I had with a computer consultant was Robbie, I told her to go ahead. Rae made the call, then took her brownies and left.
“How’s the case going for Maggie?” I asked.
“Fine. Fine,” D said. “I have some tapes to transcribe. Is there anything else?”
“No,” I said. Only D hadn’t been at the Big Q that day, so what tape was he transcribing? Of course I could have called him out on his lie, but if Spellman Investigations ever splintered into two different camps, I wanted D in mine.
He put on his headphones and began his two-finger typing.
• • •
After D left for the day, I paid the bills and then called the bank to double-check that we still had enough cash to cover the amounts. We were still in the black. Mom, Dad, or D must have deposited some checks and not told me. I would have to reconcile the bank statements one of these days. I dropped the bills in the mailbox for the last pickup and returned to the office. I decided to take a quick look at the Washburn interview transcripts that were sitting on top of Demetrius’s desk.
It felt like I had the flimsiest grasp on our caseload and I was constantly out of the loop. D was usually forthcoming with all of the work he did for us, but he was being cagey this time around. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary in the interview, except this one section here:
Q: Your mother died three years ago, is that correct?
A: Yes. Bless her soul.
Q: My condolences.
A: Thank you.
Q: And you have a sister, correct?
A: I wouldn’t bother her.
Q: Why not?
A: She’s a busy woman. Two kids. Maybe three by now.
Q: We’d like to contact her anyway. Do you know where she lives?
A: Lost touch years ago. Think she moved to, uh, Colorado or Arizona.
Q: Is she married?
A: Yes.
Q: What’s her married name?
A: I don’t remember. Isn’t that awful?
Q: Anyone else we should talk to?
A: My cousin Carl.
Q: Carl wouldn’t have a last name, would he?
Something about the interview felt itchy, like an old wool sweater on bare skin. I called over to D.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said. “I was reviewing the Washburn interview.”
“Oh?” D said, sounding itchy too. “The transcripts?”
“Yes. I was just reading them.”
“You’re reading them,” he said. “I’m interviewing his cousin Carl tomorrow.”
“Good. When you asked Washburn about his sister, what was his body language like?”
“I don’t recall,” D said. “He sounded defensive, I think.”
“Like he didn’t want you talking to his sister?” I asked.
“Yes. I got that impression,” D said somewhat hesitantly.
“When you interview Carl, see if he knows where the sister is or can point you in the direction of another family member. Okay?”
“Got it.”
“Hey, D? Why didn’t you ask him about his teeth?”
D has this interview quirk. He claims you can judge a man’s upbringing by whether his mama made him floss and brush his teeth morning and night. He almost alway
s asks inmates their dental history.
“Forgot, I guess. See you tomorrow.”
• • •
Mom and Dad came home around dinnertime. Mom checked the office on her way in.
“Where were you all day?” I asked.
“Your father and I went for a drive.”
“Why?”
“We’re checking out other neighborhoods in the Bay Area. Seeing if there’s any other place we might want to live,” Dad said.
Their house is worth a fortune and this threat has been hanging over our head for years. The timing seemed particularly cruel.
“Before you make any decisions, will you talk to us first?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t consider blindsiding you,” Mom said, referring to my corporate takeover.
“You’re going to let this go one of these days, right?”
“Sure. What are you doing?” Mom asked.
“I have to enter all the time sheets for the next billing cycle.”
“Go home,” she said assertively.
“This has to get done.”
“I’ll do it.”
“You’ll do it?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
She sighed like someone expelling all the air one breathes in a day.
“Tonight. Tomorrow. I can do it in half the time you can. It will get done. Okay?”
“Okay,” I said, gathering my files and shoving them into my bag. “Thank you,” I said.
“See you later, sweetie,” she said in a tone as dull as Grammy’s pantsuit.
Still, she called me sweetie. It was the first term of endearment she’d used nonsarcastically in about six months. Was the tide turning, or was something else afoot?
* * *