by Lisa Lutz
She got out of her car, slammed the door, and said, “Where is he?”
“He didn’t come home last night,” I said, sounding extremely alarmed. “I can’t get any information from Mom.”
“He doesn’t live here,” Maggie said. “He has his own apartment.”
“Who are you talking about?” I asked.
“D,” Maggie said. “Who are you talking about?”
“My dad didn’t come home last night,” I said.
Maggie’s expression softened with the new bit of intelligence. She slumped slightly and gripped the railing on the staircase.
“Come in,” I said. “I’ll make you some coffee.”
Maggie demanded a shot of bourbon in her brew, which was entirely out of character. At least her daytime character.
“So where is Albert?” Maggie asked.
“Mom won’t say. I was on my way to your house to tell David. Why are you here?”
“I came to see D. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but he’s pawning off his work onto Rae.”
“Why would he do that?”
“That’s why I came hunting for him. I was hoping for an explanation. As far as I can tell, all the interviews at San Quentin were conducted by Rae.”
“We’re calling it the Big Q now,” I said. “Like the inmates.”
“What?”
“Forget it.”
“Do you know where the recordings are?” Maggie asked.
“They’re on the server. Let me look for them.”
I left Maggie in the kitchen with some crack mix12 and her spiked coffee. Of course, the second I logged on to my computer, it froze. I returned to the kitchen.
“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I said. “Are you sure Rae is doing the interviews?”
Maggie laid out copies of the transcripts in front of me and read some samples aloud.
“D has a certain interview style,” she said. “ ‘Question: “You said that you had an alibi for the night of the murder. Ivan Grist was his name.” Answer: “Yeah. We called him Snake.” Question: “Why did you call him Snake?” Answer: “He had a skin condition.” Question: “Why didn’t Snake testify on your behalf?” Answer: “Cops had him by the balls. Excuse me. Drug charges. So he testified that he didn’t see me.” Question: “Sounds like a tool.” ’ ”
Maggie looked up from her reading material. “Convict to ex-con doesn’t need to say ‘excuse me’ for using the phrase by the balls and I’ve never heard Demetrius call anyone a ‘tool’ in my life. Unless you want to confess to being the substitute interviewer, I’m going to assume it was Rae.”
“What is the problem, Maggie? Because Rae is still a good interviewer.”
“There are two kinds of people in this world, Isabel. Prosecutors and defense attorneys. Rae is a prosecutor. You don’t want a prosecutor working on the defense’s side.”
“She did free Schmidt.”13
“That was a mere dalliance. She’s just as interested in putting people away as setting them free.”
“Are you sure Washburn is innocent?”
“He is innocent of the crime he was convicted of. That is all that matters.”
“I probably should have mentioned this earlier. There was a pickup truck with a sketchy man outside your house not too long ago. I think he was threatening you regarding the Washburn case.”
“And you’re mentioning this now?”
“If it makes you feel any better, he thinks I’m you. Do you want me to file a report at the police station?”
“Shaved head, tattoo of a woman on his neck, arms the size of tree trunks?”
“Sounds about right.”
“I talked to him the other day,” Maggie said. “He dropped by my office. He’s harmless. Mostly. People pay him a few bucks and he sends verbal telegrams from prison inmates, but that’s it.”
My phone rang. It was Charlie Black.
“One minute,” I said to Maggie. “Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”
“I seem to have lost Mr. Slayter.”
I left Maggie in a rush and drove straight to Slayter’s office, where Charlie was waiting for me.
As I got out of the car, I got another text from D.
Why does your sister have twelve cans of tear gas in her car?
* * *
1. Of my hand.
2. I write that only to emphasize the amount, not because you’re incapable of doing basic math.
3. For more information, see document #4 (especially if you like butler action).
4. I wouldn’t have put it past Rae to do a reverse number check.
5. Conflict resolution specialist.
6. That’s a good day. Also when Subject goes to a crowded bar.
7. Sleeping is the worst!
8. And I know this because Grammy made me study that tome like it was a science textbook as some punishment during my adolescence.
9. If etiquette is your thing, you’re in luck. I’ve shared my wisdom in my own short primer, Isabel Spellman’s Etiquette.
10. See document #2.
11. My ex Henry Stone used to do that, but I’ve never heard of that habit otherwise.
12. A snack mix that D came up with. You do not want the recipe. It’s that good.
13. For details, see document #4. T-shirts are still available.
THE NITE CAP
He was here,” Charlie said, pointing at the couch in Slayter’s office. “I went to use the restroom and when I returned he was not here.”
“Did you ask anyone if they saw him leave?”
“Evelyn said he left.”
“Did you ask her where he went?”
“She didn’t know,” Charlie said.
It was important that my powwow with Charlie seem ordinary, as if I’d dropped by to visit my boss and he wasn’t around. Charlie and I had to sort this out on our own. I looked on Edward’s desk to see if he had any appointments in his calendar.
“You called Sam, the driver, right?”
“Yes. He’s at the car wash.”
“And you’ve tried Edward’s cell?”
“No answer. I think it’s turned off.”
I picked up Edward’s desk phone and looked at his call history. The most recent outgoing call was from Edward to Ethan earlier in the day.
I approached Evelyn and asked for the address where Ethan was staying.
“I’m not sure I can give out this information.”
“I think you can,” I said. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with Mr. Jones.”
Evelyn pretended to search her desk for the information and came up short.
“I’m afraid I can’t find it right now.”
I returned to Edward’s office, jotted down Ethan’s number, and passed the slip of paper to Charlie.
“Listen to me carefully, Charlie.”
“I always do.”
“Call Ethan’s number and say, ‘Put Edward on the phone.’ ”
“Should I say please?”
“Why not?”
Charlie put his cell phone on speaker and called Ethan’s number.
“Hello,” Ethan said.
“This is Charlie Black, Edward Slayter’s valet. Please put Edward on the phone.”
“My brother isn’t here. Have you tried his cell?”
I didn’t give Charlie the rest of the script, so he panicked.
“Okay, good-bye,” he said, and hung up.
“You should have asked him if he’d seen him.”
I checked Edward’s call history again from the company line and saw an incoming call from an unknown number with a San Francisco area code. I called the number and it rang ten times until someone picked up.
“Hello,” a deep male voice said.
“Hello,” I said. “Someone from this number called recently. Can I ask who I’m speaking to?”
“This is Bill.”
“Bill, do you know an Edward Slayter?”
“Yep.”
“You do?”
“This is a pay phone, lady.”
“They still exist? Where are you?”
“The Nite Cap. You need the address?”
“Nope.1 I got it. Is he there now?”
“Been here since ten,” Bill said.
Charlie and I rushed over to the bar located at O’Farrell and Hyde. Even with the overcast skies, the bar was so dim it took our eyes some time to adjust. We found Edward sitting at the bar with a middle-aged man in a gray turtleneck and sports jacket. The unknown male had slicked black hair, a gut that could have held a basketball, and fingers adorned with rings that could have doubled as weapons. One might say that he looked connected, but it does seem indecent to accuse every middle-aged man who uses pomade of being in the mob. Plus, I don’t want you to get excited thinking this story is going to take some organized-crime angle. That’s so 1990s.
I slipped onto the stool next to my boss, who was slumped over a whiskey and mumbling incomprehensibly.
“Hi, I’m Isabel. Edward’s niece. This is Charlie, Edward’s valet. Who the hell are you?”
“I’m an old friend of your . . . uncle’s. Now that he’s got someone to take care of him, I’ll be on my way,” the man said, staggering up from his stool.
“Uncle Ed, is this a friend of yours?”
Slayter turned to me and slurred, “I don’t know who my friends are anymore.”
“How much has he had to drink?” I asked.
“Just one,” the man said. “I think something else is wrong with him.”
“Why did you ask to meet him here?”
“We had some private matters to discuss,” the man said. Then he made a show of checking his watch. “Would you look at the time? Excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”
The bartender, an older gentleman in shirtsleeves with thinning gray hair, stole a glance at Edward. I looked at my boss and for a brief moment, his eyes shot to life and he shook his head in the negative. The bartender picked up a glass and began drying it.
“Nice to meet you, Isabel and Charlie,” the man said.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.
“I didn’t give it,” the man replied as he walked out the door.
When the man was out the door, Slayter’s back straightened and he turned to me with lucid eyes.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“That man tried to roofie me.”
Two Hours Earlier
Slayter received a phone call from a man named Tony who said he had information about Ethan and that they needed to meet privately. Slayter chose the Nite Cap because he knew his friend Bill worked the early shift. He took a cab to the empty bar and met with Tony, the turtlenecked gentleman. They ordered drinks. Tony passed Slayter a slip of paper with a number on it and told him to call a man named Elmer on the pay phone. The phone call was a ruse so Tony could slip something into Ed’s drink. Bill witnessed the attempted drugging and sent Edward a text telling him what transpired. Bill had another drink at the ready, and when Tony got distracted by the entrance of another patron, Bill swapped out the drinks. Edward drank his unadulterated scotch and feigned being under the influence of more than just booze. That’s when Charlie and I showed up. According to Slayter, the only thing Tony said about Ethan was that Edward should keep an eye on him.
“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “A guy you don’t know invites you to a bar to talk about your brother and all he does is try to drug you. What’s going on?”
“It was a trap,” Slayter said. “That’s all. It wasn’t about Ethan or anything. Someone wanted to publicly incapacitate me.”
“Why?”
“Someone is trying to prove that I’m incompetent because he knows that very soon I will be. This sheds new light on your embezzlement problem. It’s beginning to seem like a well-laid plan.”
Bill the bartender poured the tainted scotch into an old Perrier bottle and put the glass Tony used into a plastic baggy.
“Evidence,” Bill said.
* * *
1. It’s a local dive bar. Of course I don’t need the address.
DOMESTIC DISTURBANCES
By Wednesday morning, I found my father back at the house. He was in the kitchen staring at a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal. He looked like he’d just returned from a two-day bender. I gave him a kiss on the cheek to sniff for booze, but I only detected a slight antiseptic odor. Still, he had dark circles under his eyes, his hands had a slight tremor, and what hair he had left was rebelling against a comb job.
“You look like shit,” I said.
“You don’t look so great yourself, sweetie,” Dad said, messing up my hair. Although I doubt you could have seen a difference in any before-and-after pictures.
“Hey,” I said. “You’re being nice to me.”
Direct communication, nonviolent physical contact, a mild insult. Nice.
Something was up.
“You can’t hold on to a grudge forever,” Dad said.
“Since when?” I asked.
“I’m going to bed,” Dad said, nodding in the vague direction of his bedroom.
“Long night?”
Dad made some noise in his throat that was noncommittal.
“Where’s Mom?”
“Out somewhere,” Dad said. I don’t think he even knew. There was definitely something wrong with their marriage, and it was time to come clean with my siblings. “After my nap,” Dad said, “I’ll see if I can deal with some of the Zylor background stuff.”
“You mean, you’re considering doing work?”
“I’m considering it,” Dad said.
“That would be great,” I said. But this was classic divorced-parent behavior. Divide the children with kindness.
• • •
I turned on the answering machine and drove straight to David and Maggie’s.
It was only noon, and I found my brother and Max sitting on the couch drinking beer and watching soccer. Their daughters were on the floor re-dressing Barbie dolls in evening gowns—the fresh boxes that once imprisoned the freakish representations of the female form rested guiltily by their sides.
“You two have quite a sweet life,” I said to the man. “It’s great that you found each other. Hello, Max.”
“Nice to see you, Izzy,” Max said.
“Don’t you have a job, Max?”
“I do. I just happen to make my own hours.”
“Parenting is a full-time job,” David said.
“I’m hungry,” Sydney said.
“There are Goldfish right in front of you,” David said.
“No Izzy food.”
“If this phase lasts, you won’t have to worry about her raiding the liquor cabinet,” I said.
David looked at the clock. “In a half hour, I will make you a sandwich. Keep playing.”
I picked up the packaging for Brain Surgeon Barbie (Claire’s doll) and Princess Barbie (Sydney’s bribe) and waved the incriminating evidence at David.
“Maggie know about this?”
David paused the soccer game, leaving the goalie frozen and contorted in midair. He rushed over to me and tossed the cardboard Barbie coffins in the trash.
“For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. But it’s the only thing that takes complete hold over them,” David said in a pleading voice.
“Some people might say the same thing about heroin,” I said.
“I didn’t buy the dolls,” Max said, as if he were explaining his presence at a strip club. Clearly the wife and ex-wife had admonished both males against the brain-altering objects.
“I get it,” I said. “You just wanted a break. You could have given them each a shot of beer or something.”
“Please don’t tell Maggie,” David said.
“I don’t need to tell Maggie anything. Princess Banana will sing like a canary.”
“No Izzy,” Banana sang on cue.
“Please stop saying that, Sydney. This is your aunt Isabel. She’s family. You are supposed t
o be nice to family.”
“Good-bye, Izzy,” Banana said. An improvement? You decide.
“I don’t care about the Barbie,” I said. “Let me just say this. If at some point you notice that Sydney is dismembering her dolls, do not automatically assume she needs a shrink. She might just be looking for a hiding place for her marijuana stash. I am here on an unrelated matter.”
“I don’t want you holding this over my head,” said David.
“Dad didn’t come home last night. I saw him this morning. He looked like he’d been on a bender or something. Mom’s not talking. Something is going on with the two of them. Since I am currently their least-favorite child, maybe you could sit them down and see what’s going on.”
“Izzy, I really think you have bigger things to worry about,” David said.
“Are you talking about the FBI business? Edward says it’s fine. There’s no way the embezzlement charges will stick.”
“I need to come here more often,” Max said.
David shook his head in exasperation and pressed the play button on the remote and continued watching the game. I could have sworn Max took me more seriously than David did. Since I couldn’t be sure that my brother would take action, I phoned Rae on my way to my hair appointment.
“Listen, there’s something wrong with Mom and Dad. There’s this tension between them. Dad didn’t come home last night and I’ve overheard some really strange conversations. I think their marriage is on the rocks. David doesn’t believe me, but something isn’t right.”
“I know,” Rae said. “I’m looking into it.”
“You see it too?”
“I saw it a long time ago.”
“So what’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I find out.”
• • •
I should have considered a wardrobe change before I turned up for my appointment at Rodrigo’s salon that Wednesday. I couldn’t afford Rodrigo, so I settled for a junior stylist named Rainbow. Even the junior stylist seemed disappointed when her low-rent client arrived. One look at me and she knew that I didn’t have a BlackBerry full of Nob Hill referrals in my Birkin bag. It might have been the bike messenger bag with reflective strips that I use that tipped her off. Still, Rainbow was a professional.