The Last Word (10 page)

“Under no circumstances, Vivien, are you to speak to him again.”

“Got it,” she said.

“See if you can locate any of the other people who have claims against the company
and if they were dealing with a Marcus Lorre or Owen Lukas.”

“I think Rae is already on it,” Viv said.

“Any theories on why the guy is using a fake name?” I asked.

“Rae thinks that if the owner is using an alias it provides another layer of protection.
It’s hard to file a complaint against a man who doesn’t exist.”

“How’s your soap sculpture going?” D asked.

“They must use a different brand of soap in prison,” Vivien said.

Mom and Dad managed to remain completely oblivious to the business meeting happening
right in front of them. Dad reached for another blueberry muffin and Mom smacked his
hand away.

“One is more than enough,” she said.

“Is there anything you guys want to talk about?” I asked.

“The muffins are excellent, D,” Dad said.

“Delicious as always,” Mom said.

“I meant about work,” I said.

“No, dear,” one of them said.

“D, what do you have on Divine Strategies?”

“On paper everything looks great. I looked over the D & B that Mr. Slayter provided
and the financials are solid. No UCC filings or even civil cases on record.”

“That all sounds good. Any problems?”

“More executives have departed in the last ten years than support staff. In the last
two years, they’ve given five percent bonuses across the board. Usually in a company
with this kind of revenue the executives could expect more.”

“Is it possible that a company exists without following the tenets of traditional
corporate American greed?”

“It’s possible,” Mom said, interrupting.

“I asked Olivia to look over the report,” D said.

“Mom, do you have something to add?”

Through a mouthful of blueberry muffin, Mom said, “Something isn’t right there. I
just can’t say what. It’s too perfect. Usually there’s more turnover in the support
staff than on the executive level, but with Divine Strategies it’s turned upside down.
Also, human resources could be remiss in their records, but even for a company that
size, there’s been only one disciplinary report and one firing in the last eight years.”

“That sounds like a good thing to me.”

“Companies are motivated by greed. You have firms that smartened up
after the financial crisis, but Divine Strategies has been like this for years, it
seems. It’s possible they’re a corporation with a conscience, but the cynic in me
says it’s something else.”

“Any ideas?” I asked.

“Track down some of their previous employees and interview them,” Mom said.

“Would that be something you’d consider doing?” I asked with a polite and even tone.

“I might be able to work it into my schedule,” Mom said.

“Thank you. That would be wonderful,” I said.

Viv looked at her watch and said, “I have a paper due in an hour and I haven’t started
it. Mind if I go?”

“No problem.”

D’s cell phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and said, “It’s Maggie. I better take
it.”

After he departed, I looked at my parents, who hadn’t moved from their state of repose.

“Anyone planning on getting out of bed?”

“Maybe later,” said Mom.

“This can’t go on forever,” I said.

“Of course not,” Dad replied. “We’ll die eventually.”

•  •  •

I returned to the office and caught D at the tail end of his phone call.

“Maggie, I would strongly encourage you to read his file in full before we invest
any more time in this case.”

Then he did a lot of listening and saying
uh-huh, uh-huh, I do understand, but—yes, okay. I remember
. Then he hung up the phone and stared out the window for an unusually long time.
There is no view, no matter what anybody tries to tell you.

“Everything okay, D?” I asked.

“Can’t complain.”

“How’s the pro bono case going?” I asked.

“We, I mean I, interviewed Washburn at San Quentin State Prison the other day.”

“How was it being back at the Big Q?” I said.

“Excuse me?” D said.

“San Quentin State Prison. The Big Q. We should use the right lingo, don’t you think?”

D ignored my suggestion and said, “I need to do some follow-up interviews after I
finish transcribing the tapes.”

“Do you want me to help?” I asked.

“With what?”

“With the typing,” I said. “No offense, you’re still using two fingers.”

“Won’t get any faster if you do it for me, right?”

“Right,” I said. Only there was something I was missing. “He’s innocent, right?”

“His alibi was another convict but seems legit. And the witness identification was
certainly suspect.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I don’t like the guy,” D said as he donned his headphones and put his index fingers
to work.

•  •  •

After one of the better workdays I’d had in weeks,
¹
which was subpar for any other workday in the last year, I decided to celebrate by
going to my usual watering hole, which is also below its former standards. I blame
the proprietor, Bernie Peterson. He’s a retired cop who was friendly with my uncle,
if
friendly
to you means having an intimate knowledge of a person’s most gluttonous, avaricious,
or salacious self. In the “good old days,” as Bernie would call them, I had to extract
the men from the grimiest establishments. At times it seemed they were hell-bent on
shrugging off the usual habits of retirees. I think they played golf together once,
more as a drinking
game than any other kind of pastime. One beer per hole.
²
They lasted eight holes, until it took Bernie fourteen shots to sink a ball already
on the green, causing a traffic jam on the links. Security finally removed them after
they climbed into a golf cart and tried to engage the other players in a game of chicken.

Uncle Ray has been gone for years, but I always forgave him because I knew his debauchery
masked his pain. With Bernie I always got the feeling he was having a good time and
couldn’t have cared less if it screwed up anybody else’s good time. Even if their
idea of a good time was playing
golf
.

Now that I’ve mentioned Bernie, you might as well meet him.

I entered the Philosopher’s Club and Bernie shot out from behind the bar and tried
to pin me into a bear hug. This dance usually involves a minor contortion act as I
dodge his embrace. Bernie had to settle for a solid pat on the back. He thinks we’re
like family; I don’t even think we’re like friends.

“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said. He said it because it had been a while
since he’d seen me and that’s the way he talks. Work and all has cut into my drinking.

I sat down on a bar stool.

“What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey and a beer back and not too much chitchat,” I said.

“That kind of day,” Bernie said, not taking the request personally. It was personal.

I picked up a leftover newspaper and held it in front of my face, reading attentively.
Bernie served my drink and started reading the other side of the paper, commenting
aloud.

“It looks like we got some rain coming. Tuesday. Maybe a little drizzle on Friday.
It’s blazing in Arizona. Fifty percent off at Macy’s on Saturday.”

I put the paper down to get him to stop reading.

“There’s that pretty face,” Bernie said.

“How’s Gerty?” I asked since Bernie wasn’t going anywhere. Gerty is
³
Bernie’s girlfriend. She also happens to be the mother of my ex-boyfriend Henry Stone.
When I came to the bar, I had half-hoped to see Gerty. But this wasn’t my day. Neither
was yesterday, come to think of it, or the day before.

I managed snippets of peace and quiet while Bernie tended to the other patrons. I
finished my drink and Bernie served up another beer without my asking.

“On the house,” he said.

Just when I was done with the on-the-house beer, Henry Stone arrived. This was no
coincidence.

Henry took the seat next to mine.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said.

“Why? Because some buffoon told you I was here?”

“I prefer
gentleman
to
buffoon
,” Bernie said.

“So do I,” I said. “I didn’t see you make a phone call.”

Bernie pulled his smart phone out of his breast pocket and flashed it in front of
me. “I text now. And sometimes I sext.”

Henry cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” Bernie said, and then he poured me a whiskey and Henry a light beer.

“I’m not paying for that,” I said to Bernie.

“We’re all family here,” Bernie said, this time more to Henry than me.

Henry swiveled around on the bar stool, leaned over, and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
He smelled like soap. In a good way. I tried to breathe through my mouth.

“How have you been?” he asked.

“Great,” I said. “I think being the boss really suits me. It probably would suit me
more if my employees showed up for work.”

“It’ll get better,” he said.

“When? I’d like an exact date.”

“About our phone call the other day.”

“Hang on,” I said, downing the shot of whiskey and smacking my hand on the bar for
Bernie to pour another.

This time I paid.

“Haven’t slowed down,” Henry said, “have you?”

“Nope.”

“Are you okay?”

“I broke up with
you
, remember?” I said.

“It was unplanned,” he said.

“I’m happy for you. I know that’s what you wanted. I hope she’s nice and can handle
nine months without a drink. God, that sounds unbearable.”

“Maybe you can meet her sometime.”

“Sometime,” I said. “Been busy working and I’m seeing someone.”

“Who?”

“You don’t know him.”

“I didn’t think I did. Who is he?”

“He’s, um, the new chief counsel for Edward.”

“A lawyer? Your mother must be so proud.”

“Yes.”

“We should double-date.”

When a telephone rings at such an opportune moment, it is certainly hard to believe.
But, really, my cell phone rang just then. It was Edward.

“Isabel. Edward.”

“Hello, Edward. What’s up?”

“We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“My brother just lost five grand at an illegal poker game in Oakland.”

“Sounds like your brother has a problem.”

“I need you to take care of it.”

“How?”

“Take the five grand from the safe, drive to Oakland, pay his debt, and bring him
back to my house.”

“I don’t think driving is recommended in my current condition.”

“And that is?”

“Drunk.”

“Then I’ll call my driver and have him pick you up.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense for your driver to pick you up?”

“It would.”

“Then why don’t you get your brother from the game?”

“Because if news gets out that Ethan is related to me, he’ll be invited to every game
in town.”

•  •  •

Henry offered to drive me. And since Slayter wasn’t sure when or from where he might
rouse his driver, it seemed the most expedient solution. First we drove to the Spellman
offices, where I could extract the money from the safe. It was all making sense now.
I saw the flickering light of the television in the living room, and I wanted to avoid
engaging in a lengthy explanation of my evening’s plans and fielding questions such
as:

We had five thousand dollars in our safe?

Are you driving drunk?

Henry’s in the car outside? Invite him in; it’s been ages.

I realize, for you grammar-conscious readers, that last part wasn’t a question. My
point is, entering the house through the front door would have caused more hassle
than necessary. I used the slim jim I keep in my purse to pry open the window, hoisted
myself inside, extracted the money from the safe, and was back in Henry’s car in five
minutes.

“Still door-averse, I see,” he said.

“More parent-averse, these days.”

For the record, I’ve made a drastic reduction in my window entries and exits in the
past year. I’d like to say it was a result of maturity, but really, I’m just too old
for it.

At eleven
P.M
. on a weeknight, the drive to the East Bay was blessedly brief.
⁴
Henry tried to talk about things, like feelings, closure, the passage
of time, and all that bullshit. I interrupted him and told him a story about when
I was in the fifth grade and sent to sleepaway camp, more for my parents’ benefit
than mine. I used to break into the camp director’s office at night and make crank
calls and rearrange his office supplies. I’d study him each day to see how well my
gaslight games were working.

“I used to follow him around with a notebook,” I said. “Kind of like the way anthropologists
study gorillas. If things had gone differently, maybe I would have been an anthropologist.”

“I’m sorry,” Henry said. “I think I’m missing the point.”

“No point. I just wanted you to stop talking.”
⁵

We arrived at the address provided, which was a house on stilts embedded deep in the
Oakland hills up a narrow canyon road. One had to wonder about men filled with drink
traversing this terrain. The two-story rustic home was dim, but I could see lights
beyond the driveway in what appeared to be a guesthouse.

Henry parked.

“Wait here,” I said.

“I’m going in,” he said.

“You can’t. If you see things you shouldn’t see you might be inclined to arrest people,
which could make matters worse for my boss’s brother.”

Henry picked up his phone and pressed number three on speed dial. My phone rang.

“Hello?” I said.

“Leave your phone on,” he said.

I rang the doorbell to the guest bungalow in back. A middle-aged man—and when I say
middle-aged
I always mean at least fifteen years older than I am,
⁶
which would make him about fifty—with dark circles under his eyes and matching sweat
stains opened the door. His work shirt, probably once a nicely pressed pinstripe,
was as wrinkled as his brow and untucked, draping lightly over his protruding belly.
There were five other men in the room, all approximately the same age, some dressed
more casually than
others, some booze soaked, and two aerating the room with dueling cigar smoke.