Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (52 page)

I
awoke in the afternoon with a plan. A plan that arose out of my nagging suspicion that the secret Subject was hiding was that he was a drug dealer. It would explain the cagey behavior, the locked door, and the post-midnight exchange of goods that I witnessed.

After I dressed and downed two cups of coffee, I searched for Rae to make sure she was accounted for and discovered her in the Spellman office Googling variations on the phrase “Why would you save your own snot?” The question, as of recent days, had become a constant refrain in our house, like the chorus of a song, always spoken with a powerful, almost emotional delivery. “
Why? Why
would you save your own snot?”

I answered, as I always did, “I have no idea.”

I got into my car and drove across the bridge, arriving at the familiar Oakland warehouse shortly thereafter.

Len and Christopher were on guard from the start. They knew I didn’t drop by just for tea and cookies (although that was a perk).

Len cut to the chase. “Spill it, Spellman.”

“I have another acting job for you.”

“What?” said Christopher, nonplussed.

“I’d like you to resurrect your roles as drug dealers.”

“Who is the target?”

“That guy I was seeing. He lives next door. I think he might be a drug dealer.”

“What makes you think that?” Christopher asked.

“For one thing,” I replied, “I’ve seen him swap packages at least twice. Once in the middle of the night. Another thing, he’s really into gardening, if you know what I mean.”

The look on Christopher’s face suggested he did not.

“Well, if he’s a drug dealer,” said Len, “then he probably has his own supply.”

“Okay, then. Try to
buy
drugs from him.”

Len, having once been a drug dealer himself, still had some loyalty to his former occupation. “Isabel, that’s called entrapment.”

“No,” I said. “I think it’s called
acting
.”

“I’m going to say no,” said Christopher.

I sighed, trying to come up with another plan.

“I also think we should mention that we don’t like being typecast,” he continued.

“Ditto,” said Len.

“Huh?” I said.

“We’ve already played drug dealers for you; the other day you asked us to be armed robbers, then pickpockets. Today you’re back to the drug dealers. What’s next? Pimps?”

“Sorry, guys. But in my line of work, I don’t have much use for dukes and earls. I’m trying to catch people doing bad things, and generally you need someone living in the world of vice to draw them into it. Forgive me.”

“She has a point,” conceded Christopher.

“So, there’s no way I can convince you?” I asked.

“Sorry, luv,” said Christopher. “We’re just more Denzel than Tupac. Now would you like some more tea?”

I met Sheriff Larson during the Spellman Wars I mentioned earlier. He was a person of interest in my “unsolvable” missing person case. I found Larson suspicious the moment I met him. He rarely spoke in complete sentences, preferring simple one- or two-word responses to almost all inquiries. However, when the case was complete and I realized how mistaken I had been about the man—keep in mind, I was fairly certain he was guilty of covering up a murder or was a murderer himself—he grew on me.

After I discovered the truth—which I won’t get into here
¹
—and the sheriff was exonerated of any foul play,
²
I thought I owed Greg an apology. Somehow that apology turned into a very brief relationship, one that can best be reduced to our final exchange of words, which, interestingly enough, was the most verbose the sheriff had ever been:

SHERIFF
: Enough with the questions.

ISABEL
: Enough with the ignoring of the questions.

SHERIFF
: Do you ever stop?

ISABEL
: Eventually.

SHERIFF
: When? And I’d like an exact date.

ISABEL
: When I have all the information I need.

SHERIFF
: Your brain might be in this, but your heart isn’t.

ISABEL
: No, my heart simply requires more facts than other hearts.

SHERIFF
: Is this working for you?

ISABEL
: Not really. You?

SHERIFF
: Nope.

It had been a year since I had seen the sheriff. I figured it was ample time to cash in on whatever indebtedness a mediocre six-week relationship entitled me to. Larson gave me a friendly smile and kicked his boots onto his desk when I entered his office.

“Spellman,” he said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I sat down on the edge of his desk and said, “I need a favor.”

“I knew it,” he said. “You had that look in your eye.”

“I left you alone for a whole year. Give me some credit.”

“I wouldn’t have minded seeing you now and again, but then you start in with all those questions.”

“I’ll keep this brief,” I said, handing Larson a slip of paper with every scrap of information I had on Subject.

“I’m not sure if this is his name,” I continued, “but assuming it is, I can’t find a record of him in St. Louis, Washington, Iowa—all states he’s claimed to have lived in. What you can get, that I can’t, is whether there’s a police file on him. Like, maybe a complaint. Some record that wouldn’t be in any database. Can you do that for me?”

Larson picked up the piece of paper. “Who is this guy?”

“He lives next door to my parents. Something about him isn’t right.”
³

Larson pocketed the paper and said, “I’ll look into it.”

The favor phase of the conversation was now at an end and we moved on to the small-talk phase. One of the things I did really like about Larson was that he had little use for small-talk, so I knew our meeting would end shortly.

“So how have you been?” I asked.

“Can’t complain. You?”

“I actually can complain, but I know how you hate that, so I won’t.”

Then I made the mistake of noticing a framed picture of a woman on his desk.

“Who’s that?” I asked.

“My fiancée,” he replied, and even though jealousy was the farthest thing from my mind, I still felt something vague and unpleasant. I got up to leave.

“Is she a neurosurgeon?” I asked.

“No,” Larson replied, chuckling.

“Was she in the Olympics?”

He gave me an incredulous stare. “How did you know that?”

M
ilo continued with his unsympathetic stance.

“You know, it’s never too late to train for the Olympics. I mean, you’re too old for track and field, gymnastics, figure skating, volleyball, basketball, all the good sports, but some of those other ‘sports’”—he used the generally frowned-upon finger quotes—“you might have a shot at if you start now and train really, really hard. Like hurling. You’ve heard of it, right? It’s like shuffleboard on ice, using stones. There are those people who crouch down and sweep the ice before the stone passes. You could be one of those sweepers. I got a broom in back if you want to practice. I’d be happy to chip in for hurling outfits. They’d of course have to say ‘The Philosopher’s Club’ on them. We could use the advertising.”

“Milo, the sport you’re thinking of is called ‘curling.’”

“I could’ve sworn there was a sport called ‘hurling.’”

“There is,” I replied. “It’s played mostly in Ireland. It’s like field hockey, only much faster.”
¹

“Sounds like you have to be in shape for that sport. So, curling it is,” Milo said. “Even better, if you ask me. I was beginning to worry about a bar sponsoring an event called ‘hurling.’ I’m not sure if that’s the kind of advertisement I need.”

“What happened to you, Milo? You used to be nicer.”

“I’m old, my feet hurt me more, I got a prostate problem, and I’m just getting plain cranky. Listening to you complain about your mediocrity because you were not in the Olympics is stupid. The only sport you ever practiced was amateur vandalism.”

“I’m sorry about your prostate,” I said to Milo. “I’m sure having to pee all the time cannot be pleasant.”

From the look Milo gave me, I knew he regretted his brief moment of honesty.

You see, knowledge is power.

CHAPTER-3

Friday, March 10
1030 hrs

S
ince the next day was Saturday, I invited Rae to accompany me on the Chandler residence stakeout. At first Rae said no, but when I told her she had free reign on the snack food, she acquiesced. In the middle of the night, in a blacked-out car with nothing to do, it’s hard to resist Pringles, Milk Duds, and Hot Tamales.

Typically my sister will strike up a conversation on an assortment of topics in a five hour time span, but this night was different. She simply could not get past Mr. Peabody, her schoolteacher.

“Why? Why would you save your own snot?”

Four hours later the snot mystery and the Copycat Vandal mystery remained unsolved.

Rae and I slept through morning. We awoke, after noon, with a sugar hangover. I forced Rae to make a teeth-cleaning appointment with Daniel and then we made omelets for breakfast.

While I drank coffee and Rae downed two glasses of chocolate milk, we checked our e-mail and found the first set of correspondences from Mom and Dad on their cruise.

Rae sent the following replies:

As Rae composed her diabolical e-mail replies, I followed up on my mother’s request to contact Ron, one of our regular surveillance guys. Ron picked up on the third ring.

“Hello.”

“Ron, it’s Isabel Spellman.”

“What can I do you for,
¹
Izzy?”

“I hate that.”

“I know. That’s why I say it.”

“Mom wanted me to tell you don’t forget to take care of that thing she told you to take care of.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Ring any bells, Ron?”

“Yeah, I didn’t forget. I was gonna take care of it tonight.”

“Oh, good,” I said, trying to figure out the best way to approach this.

“That all, Spell?”

“Need any help?” I asked.

“Nope. Got it covered.”

“Because I’d be more than happy to help.”

“Izz, this is between me and your mom.”

“Whatever,” I said, and hung up the phone.

That evening, after force-feeding Rae a salad and a broiled chicken breast, insisting that she remain home to complete her homework, and further insisting that my evening plans consisted entirely of keeping watch over Mrs. Chandler’s ode to leprechauns, I drove to Ron Foster’s apartment in Daly City and parked down the block. Two hours and half a CD of
Spanish for Beginners
later, Ron exited his home and drove directly to Noe Valley. Ron, checking his near vicinity, but not, say, twenty yards behind him, decided that the coast was clear and then slashed the tires on that poor sap’s motorbike.

After witnessing my mother’s patsy at work, I drove to Mrs. Chandler’s and parked out front. The leprechauns were untouched and remained so the rest of the night. But the evening was not a total waste. Sheriff Larson called with some very interesting news.

“What have you got for me?” I asked.

“That was one thing I always liked about you, Spellman. You have no need for pleasantries.”

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t realize you could actually string two sentences together. Bravo,” I replied.

“Be nice,” Larson warned. “I got something.”

“What?” I said, pulling out paper and a pen.

“I got a friend on the job in Tacoma, Washington. Gave him the details on your guy and he asked around. A missing persons detective that he knows remembered the name. No charges were ever filed against him, but your John Brown was questioned in a missing persons case.”

“Who went missing?”

“Her name was Elizabeth Bartell. I’ll fax you all her details. Basically, the husband accused your guy of being involved in his wife’s disappearance. The husband said his wife had been seeing Mr. Brown quite a bit in the weeks before she vanished. But they couldn’t pin anything on him, so the case went cold.”

“You’re sure it’s the same John Brown?” I asked.

“Same DOB on the driver’s license, and according to the file he’s a gardener.”

“Landscaper,” I corrected.

“Fancy gardener.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Nope,” said Larson.

“Thank you,” I replied, and hung up the phone.