Lisa Lutz Spellman Series E-Book Box Set: The Spellman Files, Curse of the Spellmans, Revenge of the Spellmans, The Spellmans Strike Again (69 page)

1700 hrs

The bar, as usual, was empty except for one “on tab” customer nursing a drink and reading the newspapers in the back. Milo was wiping glasses just for show. It’s not like he has to clean any.

I sat down at the bar and waited for a grumpy welcome.

“What can I get you?” Milo asked, without too much attitude.

“Can you afford seven hundred bucks a month rent?”

“First, last, security?”

“No. Just seven hundred. This month would be prorated.”

“Yeah, I could swing that,” Milo replied.

I pulled the key off the chain and wrote down the address.

“It’s a sublet. The guy, Bernie, is there now. I’ll watch the bar ’til you get back.”

“You sure you can handle it?” Milo asked.

I scanned the empty room and said, “Don’t make me say something rude.”

Milo departed and I pulled my computer from my bag and kept tabs on Subject. I also treated myself to the most expensive scotch in the bar. While I stared at the Dot on the computer screen, which remained parked at 1797 Clay Street, my sister entered the bar.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, although she didn’t seem all that surprised.

“I’m over twenty-one,” I replied, “so the real question is, what are
you
doing here?”

“It’s still my birthday, so I thought I’d take myself out for a drink. Besides, I needed a break from the unit. Where’s Milo?”

“Apartment hunting,” I vaguely replied.

“The usual,” Rae said, pointing at the ginger ale tap.

Since it was indeed her birthday and the bar was mostly empty, I decided to let the rules slide for a day. I poured Rae a shot of her favorite beverage and tried to pump her for information.

“Have you noticed any more unusual behavior from Subject?”

“I overheard him talking with Mr. Freeman. He’s definitely moving, although I couldn’t tell you where. But I think he’s vacating by the end of the month.”

“That’s less than two weeks,” I said, thinking to myself.

“FYI, you better get the tracking device back before he goes. Mom’s been looking for it. She’s onto you.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said.

“What are you going to do?”

“Don’t know,” I replied, although my mind was sorting through some interesting ideas.

“One more for the road?” Rae asked, pointing at her drink.

I squirted another shot of ginger ale and told Rae to drink fast. I wanted her out of the bar before Milo returned. Rae swallowed her shot and put two dollars on the counter, which I slid back to her.

“It’s on me. Happy birthday.”

“Later, Izzy.”

Milo returned an hour later, his sour mood neutralized just a touch.

“You’re a good kid,” Milo said, pinching my cheek. “Deep down,” he continued. “Deep, deep down.”

The following night, upon learning that Petra had indeed returned, I performed what I told myself would be my final act of vandalism in my adult life. I drove by David’s place, found Petra’s car parked in the driveway, and let all the air out of her tires.

I then left a message on her voice mail: “It was me, in case you were wondering.”

I returned to my closet and drank two whiskeys as I watched the John Brown dot on my computer screen. I don’t recall in all my thirty years feeling quite so pathetic.

My mother called later that night as I tried to formulate one final plan to expose Subject for what he really was.

“Isabel, do you have any idea how expensive those GPS tracking devices are?”

“Uh, yes.”
¹

“If you don’t return them
²
within forty-eight hours, I will dock your pay to cover the cost of replacement.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I replied, and hung up the phone.

Clearly there was another covert investigation happening in the family. But I couldn’t concern myself with that. I had the Dot to worry about, and the Dot was moving.

Saturday, May 27
1140 hrs

Subject remained at 1797 Clay Street throughout the morning. I kept an eye on the Dot for signs of movement. If he was going to dump his car, this would be the time to do it. If I was going to continue my hunt, this was the point of no return.

1205 hrs

My phone rang. Milo, having just arrived at the bar, had checked his messages.

“Isabel.”

“Milo.”

“Do you have business cards with the bar’s phone number on them?”

“Maybe a dozen or so.”

“Under the name Izzy Ellmanspay?”

“I almost never give them out.”

“Ellmanspay is pig Latin for Spellman?”

“You are so sharp.”

“That is so juvenile.”

“Got a message for me?”

“A guy named Davis is looking for you.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe I’m nitpicking here, Izzy, but if you’re gonna use the bar as your own personal storefront, how about giving me a heads-up?”

“Sorry, Milo. You know I’m etiquettely challenged.”

“You got some mail here too.”

“I’ll be by later. Thank you, Milo,” I said, more politely than usual.

1230 hrs

Rae called.

“Subject’s on the move,” she said, and hung up the phone. Sometimes my sister enjoys the cryptic communications common in spy films.

The Dot got on the Bay Bridge and took I-80 to 580 east. I concluded the Dot was taking I-5. From I-5 the Dot could go anywhere. I had to follow the Dot now or accept that I would never know the truth, and also I really had to get that tracking device back before the Dot moved out of the state. But the Dot knows my car, and so I decided to solicit help from the one person who had more at stake than I did.

1245 hrs

I arrived at Mr. Davis’s home; he seemed to be expecting me. I explained my intentions quickly, providing just the brushstrokes, so that we could get on the road and make up for lost time. Subject was an hour ahead of us, but he wasn’t shattering the speed limit, so there was time to catch up.

1300 hrs

The interior of Mr. Davis’s four-wheel-drive Range Rover was spotless. I sat in the passenger seat with my computer open, shifting my focus between the Dot on the screen and the SUV’s speedometer. I fought motion sickness by leaning out the window and taking in intermittent gasps of cold, fresh air.

“If you maintain a speed of seventy-five miles an hour, we should be able to catch up within the hour.”

“Now that I’m a captive audience, tell me what you know,” Mr. Davis said. His previously rational tone seemed to have grown more agitated in the last few minutes.

“In the interest of full disclosure, I have to be honest. I think Subject—I mean, Mr. Brown—knows something about your wife’s disappearance, but I have no real evidence and I can’t promise you that we’ll find anything.”

“What makes you think he has anything to do with my wife’s disappearance?”

“It’s a hunch, and that’s all it is. I have to be honest. But he met with her briefly before she disappeared and I know that he has been connected to at least one other missing woman in the last five years. Anyone would tell you my theory is thin, but it’s all we’ve got.”

My cell phone rang.

“Hello.”

“Isabel, it’s Henry.”

“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to sound casual and not guilty.

“Don’t talk. Just listen and answer my questions with simple yes or no answers. Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have your earpiece?”

“Huh?”

“The earpiece for your cell phone. Do you have it with you?”

“Yes.”

“Put it on so I can’t be overheard.”

“Hang on,” I said, and then searched for the earpiece in my purse. I connected the device.

“Is it in?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in Mr. Davis’s Range Rover right now?”

“Uh, how did you know that?”

“What did I just say? Yes or no answers only. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Isabel, I want you to say, ‘Hold on a second, I need to look that up.’”

“Huh?”

“Say it.”

“But that goes against your previous statement.”

“Don’t make me ask you again,” Henry said, in a voice so loaded with irritation that I had to acquiesce.

“Hold on a second. I need to look that up,” I said.

“Is the tracking device up on your computer screen?” Henry asked.

“Yes.”

“Close it and pull up a bill and read me the balance on the bill.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Just follow my instructions. Please, Isabel.”

I followed Henry’s instructions, although I was slowly becoming convinced that his recent incessant contact with the Spellman clan had caused him to lose his mind.

“The balance is fourteen hundred dollars and eleven cents.”

“Leave the bill on the computer screen. Okay?”

“Yes.”

“I need to explain this as briefly as possible so Mr. Davis does not get suspicious. There won’t be time for questions. You just have to trust me. Do you trust me, Isabel?”

“Of course,” I replied.

“Good. The man you’re following. John Brown. He’s not what you think he is.”

“I know that. That’s the point.”

“Yes or no only!”

I decided silence was the best way to go.

“John Brown is good, not evil,” Henry said, and then there was more silence because yes or no would not suffice as a response.

“Did you hear me?” Henry asked.

“Yes.”

“As for Mr. Davis, the man you are currently in the car with…”

“Yes?”

“He’s evil. Not good.”

I turned to my driver and smiled, hoping I hadn’t tipped my hand.

“Annoying client,” I mouthed.

“I’m gonna need more than that,” I said to Henry.

“In time. Right now, you need to redirect Mr. Davis south, back to the city. Pretend you’ve hung up the phone, but leave it on. I’ll explain while you’re driving. You keep me posted on your current coordinates. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Now say ‘good-bye.’ But don’t disconnect.”

“A pleasure, as always, Mr. Peabody,” I said, just to annoy Henry.

In a state of utter bafflement, I followed Henry’s instructions. I kept my sidelong glances to a minimum and focused on the computer screen. I pulled up a map of the city that could stand in for the previous GPS tracking program.

“He’s turning around,” I said to Mr. Davis. “He’s coming back in our direction.”

“Why would he do that?” Mr. Davis asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Let’s keep driving until he’s closed the distance. Then we’ll turn around.”

1400 hrs

Davis was growing suspicious, I suspected. His patience with me was wearing thin.

“So, how was your marriage? Were you having any difficulties?” I asked.

“Don’t ask any questions,” Henry said on the other end of the line.

“We had our troubles just like anybody else, but we were working on them,” Davis replied.

“I just wish I knew what was going on,” I said.

“Me too,” Davis said.

“Why can’t you just do this the easy way?” Henry asked.

“It’s a mystery,” I replied.

Davis probably thought I was rambling like those people who can’t stand long silences do. He ignored me, although I sensed his agitation was growing. What I wanted was for Henry to spill the dirt. I wanted to know who this man was that I was sharing a car with, this man who was apparently evil.

Henry decided to enlighten me: “You left clues about your investigation all along. I won’t go into the details now, but I had enough evidence to look at it with fresh eyes. Rae told me about the GPS device. I figured you were tracking Brown, since surveillance had become too risky. Rae also told me about the man you visited in the Excelsior district. Might I remind you that including a minor in an unsanctioned job involving knocking on the door of a complete stranger is irresponsible and potentially very dangerous?”

I cleared my throat to acknowledge my fault.

“I checked out the case,” Henry continued. “The whole case. Not just the fact that Brown met a woman who later disappeared; I looked into her background, her husband’s background. You wrote down an address of a location Brown visited more than once. You left it on a Post-it in my house. The address looked familiar, so I did some digging. It’s a shelter for battered women. In the last ten years of her life, Mrs. Davis has been hospitalized over a dozen times for brutal assaults. She’s pressed charges against her husband twice, only to drop those charges later. Now you’re probably wondering what John Brown has to do with all of this. Say something casual to Mr. Davis so he doesn’t grow suspicious.”

“I’m getting hungry. Are you?”

Davis eyed me quizzically. It wasn’t my best material, I’ll say that. I realized that my color was probably whitening as I stared at my companion, seeing him in an entirely new light. As my heart started racing, Henry continued his story.

“Here’s what you need to know about John Brown. That is indeed his name, but he’s working under a different social security number, not to hide his past but to protect those who contact him. I’m sure he gave you a phony DOB. What he does is provide new identities to women who are trying to escape abusive relationships. It’s a last resort for some women who can’t find protection under the law. They simply disappear and start a new life someplace else. Brown has cultivated connections with law enforcement and the Social Security Administration so there is no evidence of the woman’s previous life. Jennifer Davis is alive and well and living thousands of miles away. Tell Mr. Davis to take the next exit and head back south. Tell him Brown’s car has just passed you in the other direction.”

“We need to turn around,” I said. “Subject has just passed us in the opposite direction.”

“That was fast,” Davis remarked.

“I think my screen froze for a minute. Sometimes there’s a glitch in the device. He appears to be moving again. We have to turn around.”

“What do you think he’s doing?” Davis asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, as I tried to figure out Henry’s plan.

“This won’t make sense now,” Henry said into my ear, “but you need to mention money. You must somehow bring up that you will be charging him for your services. Tell him your per diem.”

Silence. I wasn’t sure what Henry was getting at.

“Isabel, tell him right now that your investigative services run four hundred dollars a day plus expenses.” Henry sounded pretty adamant, so I obliged.

“Mr. Davis, I hate to bring this up right now, but I feel I should mention that I—um—my investigative services cost four hundred dollars a day, plus expenses. We can, of course, negotiate a payment plan, but I just thought that in the interest of full disclosure I should mention that.”

“If you can get my wife back, I don’t care what it costs.”

“Good,” Henry replied. “Now figure out a casual way to tell me your current location.”

“Subject is currently on 580 westbound, nearing the 680 interchange. We’re approximately three miles behind him,” I said, observing the upcoming exit signs.

“Good,” Henry replied. “The Range Rover is black, right?”

“Yes,” I said. “We’re three miles behind Subject,” I added to avoid suspicion.

“We should be able to catch up with you in about fifteen minutes. You don’t know me,” Henry said. “And I’ll do all the talking. And I mean it this time.”

“Yes. Stay at this speed, Mr. Davis, and we should catch him shortly.”

“I know you’re scared,” Henry said. “But it will be fine. I’m going to hang up now,” Henry said, and the line went dead.

In the intervening ten minutes, my mind raced with the new slant on the facts of the case, facts I had misread or ignored, oversights in an investigation that were unforgivable. It never occurred to me to follow up on the missing woman’s husband. It never occurred to me that Subject’s insistence on privacy was to protect the innocent, not the guilty. My error in judgment left me alone in a car with a man who was probably capable of murder, and I was about to lead him to his next victim. Talk about screwups. I’d never live this one down.

1415 hrs

A siren flashed behind the Range Rover. Davis turned to me and said, “Was I speeding?”

“Everyone is speeding,” I replied. “But you better pull over.”

Davis pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road. The unmarked police vehicle pulled up right behind us. Henry Stone got out of the car and walked over to the passenger side of the vehicle. Davis rolled down the window.