Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (29 page)

My father waved at Daniel in a friendly, denying-everything-that-had-previously-occurred kind of way. Daniel had still not forgiven him for their first encounter, and so he nodded and smiled weakly in return. He then noticed my smashed taillight and asked the obvious question.

“Isabel, did you know your taillight is broken?”

“Yes.”

“How did that happen?”

I popped the trunk of my car and pulled out a hammer I keep in a toolbox. Before my father could react, I smashed the front right headlight on David’s car.

“Just like that,” I said.

My father shook his head, disappointed in me and himself. Daniel turned to me, horrified.

“Why did you do that, Isabel?” Daniel asked.

“Because he smashed
my
taillight.”

“And why did he do that?”

My father stepped closer to Daniel and explained, “When you’re following someone at night, it’s easier to keep a tail on a car with one working taillight rather than two.”

“Why did she smash your headlight, then?”

“Two reasons,” replied my dad. “One, because she’s mad and wants payback, and two, because it will be easier for her to tell whether she was able to lose me or not.”

“How long is this going to go on?” Daniel asked my father.

“As long as it takes,” said my dad as he got back into David’s car.

Car Chase #2

I couldn’t see the detached expression on Daniel’s face because my brain was already plotting my escape. I got into my car and started the engine. I hoped that the nap had sharpened my reflexes, but I knew deep in my heart that losing my father would require a superhuman effort, an effort I didn’t truly believe I was capable of.

I zigzagged through the heavy traffic of West Portal Avenue, then turned left onto Ocean Avenue, which cleared soon after San Francisco State. My father stayed on my bumper the entire ride. He had six months of police academy and twenty years on the job to perfect his technique. He’s outrun people far more skilled or more indifferent to death than I. He knows I won’t risk my or his safety and so this chase is more of a conversation than actual pursuit. He phoned me on my cell phone and everything that had not been said was.

“I could do this all day, sweetheart.”

“So could I,” I replied.

“Tell me how to end this, Isabel.”

“Stop following me.”

“Stop running.”

“You first.”

“No,
you
first.”

“It appears we have a stalemate,” I said, and hung up the phone.

I wove my way back to Geary Boulevard and along a series of residential streets in the Richmond district—San Francisco’s sophisticated version of tract housing glided through my peripheral vision. My father sustained his unrelenting tail, not realizing that I was no longer interested in losing him, at least not this way, when there was an easier way.

I parked off Geary Boulevard on one of those impossible-to-park-on side streets that house a dense collection of two- and three-family homes. I parked in a legal space two blocks from the pub, checked the street cleaning signs, locked my car, and passed my father on the way to the bar. He rolled down his window.

“Where are you going?”

“The Pig and Whistle.”

“What are you gonna do there?”

“Get drunk.”

I walked off knowing that he’d take the bait. My father parked illegally, tossed his old badge on the dashboard, and followed me into the bar.

Dad bought the first round and the next round and the round after that. I bought the fourth round against great protest. While my father and I got good and tanked, we took a brief respite from our game of cat and mouse.

“So how are things with you and the dentist?”

“He has a name.”

“How are things with you and Daniel Castillo, DDS?”

“Fine.”

“When can we have a real conversation, Izzy?”

“As soon as you stop gathering intelligence.”

“Okay, I’ll start. There’s a chance Ray will go into rehab.”

“What kind of chance?”

“I’d say ten percent or so.”

“What are the chances it will stick?”

“About ten percent.”

“So there’s a one percent chance that Uncle Ray will get clean,” I said.

“That sounds about right,” Dad replied, his words finally starting to slur.

“Has anyone explained the odds to Rae? I mean, if she’s going to be a walking after-school special, someone should discuss the cost-benefit ratio with her.”

“We’ve had the cost-benefit talk.”

“Still, it’s impressive that he’s considering it.”

“We know you faked the drug deal.”

“What gave it away?”

“The dentist can’t act, for one thing, and I sat Rae down with a batch of Rice Krispies Treats midweek. Told her she could eat them all if she talked. She talked.”

“Is there no low you won’t sink to?”

“I gave my kid Rice Krispies Treats. You pretended to snort cocaine in front of her.”

“I pretended to snort cocaine because you bugged my apartment.”

“We bugged your apartment because you were becoming obsessed with a case. A case that is over, by the way.”

“A case that you gave me.”

“It was a mistake.”

“What?”

“Giving you the case.”

“It wasn’t your only mistake.”

My dad picked up another basket of pretzels from the bar and returned to the table.

“The first few times I found you passed out on the front lawn, I thought you were dead.”

“That was a long time ago, Dad. I haven’t passed out in years.”

“So Old Isabel isn’t making a comeback?”

“If Old Isabel were back, she wouldn’t be having drinks with her dad.”

“What would she be doing?”

“Picking up one of those nice Irish boys at the bar or trying to score a dime bag in Dolores Park.”

“So where do we go from here?” he asked.

“I leave. You don’t follow me.”

“Not going to happen.”

“I think it is,” I said as I slowly put on my coat and left a tip on the table.

“What makes you so confident?” he asked.

“You’re too drunk to drive and I can outrun you,” I replied, grinning wildly. I’d had very few knock-’em-out-of-the-park wins in the past few weeks and I was enjoying this moment. I slowly backed away to the exit. Then I swung the door open and booked out of the bar.

I could hear the rattling from the door as my father made his clumsy exit. There was no point in turning back to see his location. I just ran as fast and as hard as I could. Three blocks later I made a right turn on Fillmore Street and caught a cab. I ducked down in the backseat just in case. The driver found me suspicious and was more than happy when he dropped me off and received payment for his services. I ducked into an overdone tourist-trap café in the Marina. Amid wealthy Midwesterners and their furs on vacation, I drank coffee and sobered up.

A few hours later, as I simultaneously walked off the beer buzz and the coffee jitters, I got another phone call.

“Isabel?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Meet me at the West Oakland BART station in one hour,” said an unrecognizable voice on the other end. It could have been a man or a woman, impossible to say.

“Nah, I’m busy.”

“Don’t you want some answers, Isabel?”

“Yes. For instance, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

“Not over the phone.”

“I’m not crossing the bridge without a good reason. You know what traffic is like at this hour?”

“I can answer all of your questions about Andrew Snow.”

“Who is this?”

“Like I said, meet me and you’ll find out.”

“I’ll think about it. Which BART station, did you say?”

“West Oakland. Southeast exit. Two hours.”

“Make it three. I’m still drunk.”

I couldn’t return to my car; my father would have removed a vital part of the engine, like the carburetor. I hopped on the Fillmore bus and phoned Daniel at his office. It took some persuading to get Mrs. Sanchez to release the phone to Daniel, but eventually she did.

“I need to borrow your car.”

“Who is this?”

“Isabel.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Isabel.”

“Please.”

This negotiation was ultimately an unspoken one. I needed something from Daniel—a car—and Daniel needed something from me—an easy breakup. To assuage his guilt, he agreed to lend me his BMW. I waited on the street outside the Folsom and Third Street parking structure. The streetlight flickered for five minutes and went out. Daniel had agreed to meet me after his tennis game. He was late. I grew edgy as I sobered up. Every sound, from footsteps in the distance to aluminum cans traveling with the breeze, made my heart stop.

Then Daniel turned the corner. When he saw me, he averted his gaze. I had seen that look before. It was always followed by “We need to talk.” I knew what was about to happen, but I still tried to postpone the inevitable.

“Did you make sure you weren’t followed?” I asked.

“Who would follow me?” Daniel replied.

“My mother or my father.”

“I don’t believe I was followed.”

I held out my hand, hoping for a silent gift of the keys.

“This will never work,” he said.

“What?”

“You and me.”

“Why not?”

“What would we tell our kids?”

“What kids?”

“If we had kids, how would we explain how Mommy and Daddy met?”

“We’d lie, of course.”

“It’s over. I can’t do this.”

I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation. I’ll simply provide Daniel’s epitaph.

…The Ford screeches to a halt about ten feet behind the BMW. I turn off the ignition and take a few deep breaths. I casually get out of the car and walk over to the sedan. I knock on the driver’s-side window. A moment passes and the window rolls down. I put my hand on the hood of the car and lean in just a bit.

“Mom. Dad. This has to stop.”

Before they can compose a sentence that would properly convey their disappointment in me, I slip my hand behind my back, pull out my pocketknife, and slash their front left tire. They gave me no choice. It was the only way to end the chase. They’re not as shocked as you might expect. My father whispers my name, shaking his head. My mother turns away, hiding her rage. I stick the knife in my pocket and back away, shrugging my shoulders.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.”

I drive away, satisfied that I’ve bought myself some time. I turn onto Mission Street, heading for the entrance to the Bay Bridge. An accident on South Van Ness has stalled traffic to a standstill and the rush of elation from my newfound freedom is dulled by the blasting of horns and the ticking of the clock on the dashboard. The chance of me making it across the bridge and to the West Oakland BART station within the next twenty minutes is a near-impossible task.

I’m about to veer onto the Thirteenth Street on-ramp when my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Izzy, Milo here.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You can get your sister out of my bar before the cops shut me down.”

“Milo, I’m busy. Have you tried Uncle Ray?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t answer. And I just called your dad and he told me you slashed his tire. I’m not even going to ask. All I’m saying is that it’s Saturday night and I got a fourteen-year-old girl in my bar and I want her out of here.”

“Let me talk to her.”

Rae took the phone and said, “I wouldn’t have a drinking problem if things were better at home.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay put.”