Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (67 page)

Monday, May 1
0845 hrs

Morty and I met in the foyer of the Bryant Street criminal court building. My ancient attorney reminded me that he would be doing all the talking. I reminded Morty to wear his hearing aid. Morty then gave my outfit—a tweed skirt and blazer with a white shirt buttoned almost to the top (a relic from days impersonating a schoolteacher
¹
)—a nod of approval.

“Why can’t you dress like that all the time? You look like such a lady.”

“Are you implying that I look like a man the rest of the time?”

“Maybe you should save all your smart talk for prison life.”

“That’s not funny.”

“You’re right. It isn’t.”

My mother and father showed up a few minutes later. Their presence there was purely for show. We thought my ex-cop dad and law-abiding/surprisingly attractive mother might unduly influence the judge in my favor.

“I heard you had a nice disappearance,” I said, hoping that small-talk would take their minds off the fact that I was facing criminal charges.

“We’ll tell you all about it later,” Mom said dismissively. She then adjusted my collar and said, “This is the kind of day a mother dreams of, watching her daughter face charges of violating a temporary restraining order. We’re just so proud,” Mom said, gushing sarcastically.

“You should consider a career in comedy,” I replied.

“Just keep your mouth shut in there,” Dad said, not finding any humor in the situation.

Fortune was smiling on me that day—at least that’s what my father said. Morty knew the prosecuting attorney. In fact, Morty gave the prosecuting attorney his first job thirty years ago.

Morty, my own personal shark in a twenty-year-old suit, conferred with opposing counsel and laid out the evidence that we were planning on showing in court. Morty presented an affidavit from my brother explaining the B&E arrest, another affidavit, under oath, from my father explaining that the call to 911 regarding my “borrowing” of the car was a misguided attempt to teach me simple etiquette. Dad then further justified my erratic behavior with the explanation that I was only thirty years old, but I had been working for the family business over half my life. I was bred to be suspicious, he explained; it was not my fault. Morty, without my consultation, suggested I needed clinical help, not probation or jail time.

My lawyer returned to the corner where my parents and I were waiting and explained the plea: court-ordered counseling for three months. If I didn’t violate the restraining order again, the conviction would be expunged from my record. If I came in contact with Subject or failed to meet my counseling obligations, two months in prison.

“You mean I need to see a shrink?” I asked.

“She’ll take the deal,” my dad said.

“Wait a second,” I interrupted, wanting to fully comprehend what I was getting myself into.

“Twelve sessions,” Morty said.

“She’ll take the deal,” my mom said.

“Isn’t it my decision?” I asked.

“Yes,” Morty replied, “but you’re taking the deal.”

My lawyer patted me on the cheek and crept back to the opposing counsel to finalize the offer.

The most unfortunate part of the morning was that I barely noticed my narrow escape from doing real time. All I could think about was Subject and where his dot was at that very moment.

Friday, May 5

As if reading my thoughts, my parents suggested I take a break from all fieldwork. They assigned any job that could be accomplished from my laptop computer inside Henry Stone’s apartment. They further gave me the assignment of finding myself a new apartment, citing the fact that my welcome had long since been overstayed.

Before I fully committed to an all-out apartment hunt, I had one more trick up my sleeve to facilitate Bernie’s removal. I printed out a flier for a party and then made five hundred copies at Kinko’s. I picked up Rae after school and paid her thirty bucks to help me staple the fliers around the San Francisco State, UC Berkeley, and University of San Francisco campuses. We also left stacks of the fliers in an assortment of Mission district cafes.

Friday evening I dropped by Bernie’s place to witness the outcome of my handiwork. Bernie, drinking a beer and holding court with at least forty twenty-somethings, waved at me cheerily when I entered the party zone.

“What’s going on, Bernie?” I asked, although the edge in my voice was hard to conceal.

“Some crazy kid made up fliers for his party, but he got the address wrong.”

Then Bernie guided me over to the refrigerator. “Would you look at all this beer?” he said. “I’m in heaven.”

It was then I realized that my fatal flaw was putting the BYOB
¹
acronym on the flier. That night I accepted defeat. Bernie’s place was mine no more. The next day, I trolled the streets of San Francisco, meeting with landlords and scoping out FOR RENT signs.

O
ther than Bernie Peterson’s place and a brief stint in a dorm before I failed out of college, I had always lived in the attic apartment of my parents’ home. What became unmistakably clear was that, because of my limited earning potential,
¹
I would soon be required to move into a closet. The closet I found was in a five-story walk-up on Larkin Street in the Tenderloin. Three hundred and fifty square feet with a shag rug once a shade of cream, I presume, but now an uneven gray from years of foot traffic and cigarette dust.

I bought a bed and a secondhand dresser and desk (which would double as a kitchen table). My mother invited herself over to help me “unpack” and “decorate.” She took one look at the place and said, “I hope you’ve had all your vaccinations.”

My mother’s version of decorating involved scrubbing the apartment from top to bottom. Sometime between the delousing (her word) of the shower and decontamination of the refrigerator, my mother got off her hands and knees and helped me reposition the bed, to find a setup that would allow the front door to open completely.

“Isabel, I need you to answer a question honestly,” Mom said as we rolled the bed across the rug.

“What?”

“Are you in love with Henry?”

The question was unexpected and so was my answer, which I blurted out minus my usual habit of censorship.

“Uh, yeah.”

“He doesn’t know?” she asked.

I straightened up from my bed adjustment and looked my mother in the eye. “I thought I’d wait two and a half years until he gets Rae off to college. Then I’ll make my move.”

It was really quite simple. Rae needed Henry more than I needed him. My mother got the point in a moment. Her expression softened in an instant. For my money, she looked disturbed. I didn’t like it.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Sorry. I just want to savor the moment,” Mom replied.

“What moment?” I asked.

“You’re in first place,” she said, and then began washing the windows.

I
convinced myself that the terms of my plea bargain only involved me keeping my physical distance from Subject. The fact remained that I believed he was a danger to society and I wanted to catch him in whatever evil act he was guilty of, mostly to protect society, but also to redeem myself.

Each day I kept careful track of Subject’s whereabouts without actually coming in contact with him. He never veered from his usual haunts. I decided that I would only strike when he ventured out of his comfort zone. Meanwhile, there was another part of the investigation that I could follow up on without breaking my probationary confines.

I returned to the Davis residence to check in and see whether there had been any new developments in the disappearance of Jennifer Davis. This time around I tried a different tack. I concluded that Mr. Davis and I, in theory, should have the same agenda.

Mr. Davis recognized me the instant he opened the door.

“Looking for a book club?” he asked dully.

“No,” I replied. “I’m afraid that was a ruse. I’m a private investigator,” I said, taking my card out of my pocket. Not the real card, the one that says
IZZY ELLMANSPAY
, PI and gives the address and phone number of the Philosopher’s Club as the contact info. In general, business cards seem to work like a police officer’s badge. Mr. Davis opened both his door and his home to me. I made a note to myself to suggest he not be so trusting in the future. A business card is as easy to come by as a sandwich.

The house was a mess, the way a house inhabited by a married man whose wife was missing would be a mess. After a brief explanation of my interest in the case (I was investigating a person of interest in his wife’s disappearance) I cut to the salient questions.

“Any word on your wife? Any new developments in the case?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Mr. Davis replied. “The police have checked. There’s no activity on her credit card, nothing from her cell phone, she’s made no contact with any of her friends or family.”

“Did you notice anything different about your wife prior to her disappearance? Did any of her habits change? Did she make any new friends or develop new interests?”

“She was going to this community garden sometimes.”

“Do you know which one?”

“I think it was in the East Bay.”

“Have you ever met a man named John Brown?” I asked.

“Maybe,” Mr. Davis replied. “It’s a common name.”

“I mean recently. Have you met a man named John Brown recently?”

“Not that I can recall. What’s this about?”

“Did you notice any unusual behavior from your wife prior to her disappearance?” I asked.

“Do you know something about my wife’s disappearance?” Mr. Davis asked, becoming justifiably agitated.

“Probably not,” I replied. “But your wife was in contact with a man prior to her disappearance. I’ve been investigating that man.”

“You think she left me for another guy?” Mr. Davis asked.

“Oh, no. Nothing like that,” I said, and then realized I had said way too much. “It’s probably coincidental. She could have been asking for directions. But I like to follow all leads.”

“Who is this man?” Mr. Davis asked more aggressively.

“No one,” I replied, already trying to figure out how to handle the situation. I was so preoccupied with my investigation of Subject that I didn’t consider how a man whose wife had recently vanished would respond to someone offering a potential lead.

“Clearly he’s someone if he was in contact with my wife prior to her disappearance.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

“Why were you investigating him in the first place?”

This is where my quick-on-my-feet adolescence comes into play. Deceit requires a backup plan, a story you can turn to in case of emergency.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Davis, that I’ve done you a disservice. I don’t want to get your hopes up when my investigation may have nothing to do with your wife’s disappearance.”

“If you know anything, you need to tell me now,” Mr. Davis said more forcefully.

“This is what I know,” I said, as I formulated my lie. “I was hired by two men to perform ’round-the-clock surveillance of a man who goes by the name of John Brown.”

“Is ‘John Brown’ an alias?” Mr. Davis asked.

“I believe so, but I can’t be sure. The men who hired me I’ve never met. They communicate with me through mail or e-mail and I’m paid via wire transfer from an account that I cannot seem to trace. My job is very simple: Follow Mr. Brown, document his activities, and provide a cursory investigation of anyone he comes in contact with. That’s all. One day while I was following Mr. Brown he was parked on this street and had a one-minute conversation with your wife. It is my belief that your wife does not know this man, that their brief encounter was simply a coincidence. But, you understand, I needed to follow up.”

“I don’t understand any of this,” Mr. Davis replied.

I stood to leave, deciding that it was time to implement an exit strategy. I handed Mr. Davis my un-card.

“If you think of anything else,” I said.

“Wait,” Mr. Davis said, “I need you to explain to me who this Mr. Brown is.”

“Unfortunately, that’s the problem. I don’t know,” I replied, trying to come across as enigmatic rather than suspicious. This was a mistake, bringing an outsider into my own warped investigation. It was a mistake bringing a man who had no leads a lead that would probably go nowhere, a lead that I was on probation for investigating.

“I’ll be in touch,” I said as I made my way to the door. “I promise I’ll contact you if any new developments arise,” I added, and exited without looking back. I could feel Mr. Davis’s eyes on me as I strode over to my vehicle. I hoped his eyes would not be able to make out the license plate number on my car. I further hoped he would not call the police and provide my license plate number. This whole thing would be hard to explain.