The Last Word (17 page)

First I took a loop through the park and showed Damien where the bison paddock is
located, and told him a tragic story of how last year one of
the baby bison accidentally killed itself while running away from a little dog that
got into the paddock.
⁵

“Do you give tours of the city often?” Damien asked.

“Nope.”

“That’s obvious.”

As we drove through the windy stretch of Martin Luther King Junior Drive, I didn’t
ruin the surprise of the ocean at the end of the road. I’m not one for nature, but
I’ve always found the sudden break of ocean at the end of the woods a fresh surprise.

“Don’t swim there,” I said. “People die.”
⁶

“Didn’t you mention something about a museum?”

I circled back to JFK Drive and parked near the de Young. We took the elevator to
the tower (which is free!) and took in a view of the park after nightfall.

As we tried to decipher the dim landscapes, I reminisced about the old days: “There
was a Warhol exhibit here when I was in high school. We went on a class trip and the
docent told us that one of the paintings was worth over a million dollars. My best
friend, Petra, and I spent six weeks plotting a way we could steal the painting. We
decided on a small explosion in the men’s bathroom as a diversion and then, of course,
we’d need a counterfeit painting to put in its stead. We even commissioned the best
artist in our school. But it’s not like we went to an arts school. His rendering looked
nothing like the soup cans. And seriously, how hard is it to paint soup cans, if painting
is your thing?”

“I take it the attempted theft never came to be or we wouldn’t be having this chat,”
Damien said.

“The exhibit ended before we could get all our ducks in a row. And that lousy artist
demanded payment. Five hundred bucks. We paid him because he knew what we were up
to and it would have been hard to explain in small-claims court why two teenage girls
who had no interest in fine arts
commissioned a copy of a Warhol when you could buy a poster that looked just like
it at the gift shop for twenty-five bucks.”

“One final question,” Damien said. “Why did you plan the diversion for the men’s restroom?”

“Because then the cops would automatically assume the thieves were male.”

Damien managed to seem amused, horrified, and confused all at once. Of course, I don’t
normally confess to strangers crimes or plans to commit crimes from my past, but I
was hoping to open a dialogue on past misdeeds and see whether I could get Damien
to provide some information I could not acquire through a database search, a surveillance,
or interviewing his known associates (strictly off-limits, according to Slayter).

After the tower view, we went to the Plough and Stars for beer and fish and chips.
I got the feeling the fish and chips were a rare indulgence for the trim lawyer, because
he was enjoying them the way I hear people enjoy a meal at the French Laundry (yeah,
I’ve heard of the place. Never been). Once the lawyer had a beer and a half a pound
of fried goods in him, it was time to see what kind of information I could glean from
Damien Thorp. I turned on my digital recorder to reference later, if necessary.

The transcript reads as follows:

DAMIEN:
These are like the best fish and chips ever.
⁷

ISABEL:
So your first fish and chips. Congratulations. Have you ever committed a misdemeanor?

DAMIEN:
Sure. Who hasn’t?
⁸

ISABEL:
What kind?

DAMIEN:
I don’t know. Several, I suspect.

ISABEL:
Smoked pot?

DAMIEN:
In college.

ISABEL:
Hallucinogens?

DAMIEN:
Maybe once or twice.

ISABEL:
In college?

DAMIEN:
Yes.

ISABEL:
Have you ever stolen money from petty cash?

DAMIEN:
No.

ISABEL:
Cheated on a girlfriend?

DAMIEN:
I guess I did once. But she was very mean.

ISABEL:
Then why didn’t you break up with her?

DAMIEN:
Because I was afraid of her.

ISABEL:
Was she extremely attractive?

DAMIEN:
Yes.

ISABEL:
Why did you apply for this job?

DAMIEN:
Because it was an excellent opportunity and I was looking to move.

ISABEL:
You wanted to move from Boston?

DAMIEN:
Yes.

ISABEL:
Why? I hear good things about Boston.

DAMIEN:
I needed a change.

ISABEL:
Something go wrong at your last job?

DAMIEN:
No.

ISABEL:
Leaving someone behind then?

DAMIEN:
This is beginning to feel like a deposition.

ISABEL:
Okay. I’ll stop.

DAMIEN:
Just like that?

ISABEL:
Sure. A subject on the defensive is useless to me.

I like to think of myself as something of an interrogative savant. However, most lawyers
have mastered that skill set as well. Damien returned the interrogation with one of
his own.

DAMIEN:
Were you a difficult child?

ISABEL:
Extremely.

DAMIEN:
What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?

ISABEL:
Can I get back to you in a few days?

DAMIEN:
How did you and Edward meet?

ISABEL:
At the de Young Museum.

DAMIEN:
You just ran into him at the museum?

ISABEL:
I was surveilling him.

DAMIEN:
Why?

ISABEL:
His wife hired me to surveil him so she could keep track of his whereabouts while
she had an affair with her trainer.

DAMIEN:
That doesn’t explain how you met him.

ISABEL:
I found the wife suspicious, so I surveilled her instead, saw what she was up to,
and ratted her out to Edward.

DAMIEN:
You’re a snitch.

ISABEL:
Ouch. That hurt. I am
not
a snitch, but I don’t work for people who hire me under false pretenses.

DAMIEN:
Are your parents speaking to you again?

ISABEL:
Edward has been a bit more loose-lipped than I thought.

DAMIEN:
We’ve had a few lunches.

ISABEL:
Typical lawyer. Never ask a question if you don’t know the answer.

DAMIEN:
Ever been arrested?

ISABEL:
Yes.

DAMIEN:
How many times?

ISABEL:
Once or twice.
⁹

DAMIEN:
Tell me about your last relationship.

ISABEL:
It was good. He understood me.

DAMIEN:
What went wrong?

ISABEL:
Me. That’s what always goes wrong.

The conversation pretty much died after that. We ordered another round of beers and
then attempted small talk, which neither of us had a particular aptitude for.

“How’s the new job working out?”

“Have you always wanted to be a PI?”

“The apartment to your satisfaction?”

“You have family in the city?”

“So, how long do you get to use the company car?”

“Is it always this foggy?”

Once we started talking about the weather, we knew it was time to go. Damien insisted
on driving because in theory men hold their booze better than women. It had been a
long night and I didn’t feel like launching into an explanation of my supernatural
liquor tolerance. He drove me back to David’s house in mostly silence and parked in
the driveway.

“Sorry,” I said. “That wasn’t so great.”

“The fish and chips were good, and the beer.”

“Both of those things are often good.”

“Are you always like this?”

“With strangers? Yes.”

“I’m still a stranger?”

“I think so.”

“What would make me not a stranger?”

“I’d have to think about it.”

While I was thinking about it, Damien leaned over and kissed me. Since I was staring
at a streetlamp, thinking about what would make him not a stranger, I didn’t see the
kiss coming and turned at the last minute toward the door. So, he actually kissed
my ear.

“Were you aiming for my ear?”

“No.”

“Should we just call it a night?”

“I think that would be best,” he said.

“Good night, stranger.”

“Night, stranger.”

1
. Four, per child. They had vitamins in them or something. And Sydney only ate one
and then asked for Melba toast. She’s permanently damaged.

2
. Because of this phenomenon David doesn’t keep peanut butter in his house anymore,
even though
no one
in his house has a peanut allergy.

3
. No, I’m not going to tell you what kind, because I’m uninterested in providing any
extraneous advertising for luxury vehicles. If any luxury-vehicle manufacturer would
like me to plug their vehicle, I’m open to a quid pro quo situation.

4
. On the coffee side, it’s as good as None-of-Your-Business Bakery. Just the lines
aren’t as outrageous.

5
. I became much less judgmental about people carrying little dogs in purses when I
heard that story.

6
. Riptides. Seriously, don’t swim there.

7
. So not the best fish and chips ever.

8
. Answer: no one.

9
. Actually four to six times. I like to pretend two of them didn’t happen.

MEMO

To All Spellman Employees:

Do what you want. I give up.

Signed,

Isabel

T
he next morning, when I dropped by Edward’s office, I found him huddled on his couch
next to his accountant, Arthur Bly. Charlie was serving them tea with a formal tea
set.

“Hey, Charlie,” I said.

“Isabel, would you like some tea?”

“No thanks. Tea reminds me of my grandmother.”

“One lump or two, Mr. Bly?”

“No lumps,” Arthur said.

I used to think that Arthur had some kind of social phobia, since he rarely made eye
contact and often left the room as soon as I entered. He also mumbled everything he
said to me. But after I saw him having an animated chat with Evelyn, who has the personality
of a ceramic doll, I realized that Arthur just doesn’t like me.

So I overcompensated, by which I mean I gave him a reason not to like me.

“Arthur, it’s so great to see you,” I said as I entered Slayter’s office.

“Isabel,” he said, making eye contact for exactly point four seconds.

“You look great. Have you been working out?”

“No.”

“Have you been to the beach?”

“No.”

“A tanning salon?”

“No. That’s all I can tell you now, Edward,” Arthur said, getting to his feet. “I’ll
put in a request with the bank for information on the offshore account.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” Edward said.

“Great catching up,” I said to Arthur as he was scurrying out the door.

He ignored me.

“Leave the poor man alone,” said Edward.

“Why does he hate me?”

“Because you’re obnoxious. Clearly he hasn’t been out in the sun in over a decade.
Knock it off.”

“Did I hear ‘offshore account’?” I asked with maybe a little too much enthusiasm.

Edward flopped into his swanky, yet ergonomic, desk chair.

“Yes, you did.”

“What’s going on?”

“Over one hundred thousand dollars has been embezzled from the company in the last
month.”

“How was it done?” I asked.

“Wire transfers. Uneven denominations. Three separate occasions.”

“So anyone with access to the company’s routing numbers could accomplish this, correct?”

“Yes,” Slayter said.

“I hate to say this, but in cases of embezzlement, isn’t it always the accountant?”

“It’s not Arthur. Why would he bring it to my attention?”

“It’s the perfect alibi. Or a perfectly mediocre one.”

“I’ve known Arthur for fifteen years. He’s not that kind of man,” Edward said.

“About how much money does Arthur make?”

“I’m not comfortable sharing that information.”

“Does he have any hobbies, like going to the racetrack? Or expensive stamps. I could
see him losing the bank over a stamp collection.”

“It’s not Arthur,” Edward said in that tone that meant he wanted me to stop.

“Who has access to the company financials?”

“There’s an entire accounting office, but the information could be accessed by a hacker,
another member of the staff. It’s hard to say. We need the cooperation of the Cayman
Islands bank to identify the owner of the account the funds were transferred into.
That information could take up to ten days.”

“Maybe you should call the cops.”

“We’d have to get the FBI involved and that would make the company look unstable.”

“Do you want me to look into the financials of your employees?”

“I have over one hundred employees. Where would you begin?”

It wasn’t until I was out the door that the thought crossed my mind. Money had been
embezzled from Slayter’s account and money had mysteriously arrived in my company’s
account. At the time I chalked it up to coincidence. Just one more thing on a laundry
list of things I got wrong.

•  •  •

The assertive approach had done nothing to improve workplace morale. In fact, when
I gave up on my parents, they finally started getting work done. I decided to go with
it. My parents continued to keep their baffling schedule—often absent several hours
out of the day, accomplishing the bare minimum of office maintenance tasks at some
other mysterious hour—and yet in retrospect they were becoming my most productive
employees. Vivien and Rae were keeping their own schedule on a case that was a personal
vendetta and D was devoting most of his time to the Washburn case. Out
of tradition, I named him employee of the month yet again. Who else was I going to
pick? Me?