The Last Word (20 page)

“I have a job for you,” I said when I arrived.

A startling expression of hope took residence on Len’s face.

“Like the Winslow case?” he asked, backing away from the door and silently inviting
me in.

The last time I had offered Len a job, it was as an undercover valet for a rich guy
being swindled by his staff. Method acting doesn’t even begin to describe Len’s devotion
to the assignment. We practically needed an intervention to strip him of his valet
habits.
³

“I’m afraid it’s only voice work and should take no more than five minutes.”

“I see,” Len said, flopping on the couch like a punctured balloon.

“You know what they say; there are no small parts, just small actors.”

“Bullshit,” Len replied.

I sat down in an uncomfortable but very attractive chair adjacent to Len and waited
patiently for the haze of disappointment to abate. Len loved to act. I once saw him
play a purple-fur-coat-wearing pimp in a nonironic stage play written by a Christian
fundamentalist that was genuinely racist. And he even researched the role.

“Okay,” Len sighed. “Who am I?”

“You’re a man who has found an intriguing business card and wants to know more.”

I gave Rae’s “business” card to Len.

“What’s my profession?”

“I’m not sure that it matters.”

“What’s my profession?”

“Let’s say you found the card at a café. Maybe you’re a student?”

“What’s my major?”

Me: sigh.

“Physics?” Len asked.

“Sure, but unless you know anything about physics I wouldn’t bring it up in conversation.”

“I’ll go with English.”

“Great,” I said. “Here’s the number.”

“Where am I from?”

“I don’t care.”

“Can I be a foreign exchange student?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I haven’t wrestled with a southern accent in a while.”

“Light southern accent. Not Paula Deen.”

Len and I then went over his lines and I passed him the burner cell phone I’d just
picked up.
⁴
He pressed the speaker button and dialed.

RAE:
Spellman Investigations.

LEN:
Good afternoon, miss. I found your business card in a café. I’m having some troubles
and I’m wondering if you can help. What exactly is a conflict resolution specialist?

RAE:
It’s a person who specializes in conflict resolution.

LEN:
I see. That’s rather vague. Can you describe some of the services you provide?

RAE:
That could take all day. Maybe you could tell me the kind of services you’re seeking.

LEN:
I’m having trouble with a certain individual.

RAE:
What kind of trouble?

LEN:
The kind of trouble that makes me wish that individual could just kind of vanish,
do you know what I mean?

I grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scribbled as quickly as possible,
Too much improvising!!!

RAE:
Let me be clear up front. We do not kill people or have people beaten up or inflict
bodily harm in any way; we simply help you deal with another individual or help you
constructively deal with your emotions toward that individual.

LEN:
Sounds kind of like therapy.

RAE:
No. Not at all. We can usually solve your problems in less than two weeks, sometimes
two hours. Now, if you would like to tell me about your situation I can make an assessment
and see if we can be of service. I should mention, however, that I now have your phone
number and I would caution you against doing anything drastic toward this individual
who is troubling you so. You won’t get away with it.

LEN:
Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.

RAE:
I look forward to your call.

Len disconnected the call.

“Well, at least we know she’s not killing anyone,” I said.

•  •  •

The next time I dropped by Edward’s office, I caught him having a casual meeting with
Sheldon Meyers and Willard Slavinsky. Edward has a 25 percent share of his company
and Meyers and Slavinsky each have 15, which means the three men have a lock on any
company votes. They’ve known each other since college, Dartmouth men who eventually
found their way to the West Coast. Slavinsky and Meyers came from money, but Edward
just married well to a woman who didn’t demand a prenup. She probably should have,
since she got all of her money from her first husband, who didn’t demand a prenup.
Edward smartened up with his second marriage, which was wise, since it was pretty
much a sham.

Sheldon has always been icy with me. He knows I don’t belong in his country club and
he can’t quite get used to the fact that Edward keeps my company. But Willard is different,
maybe because we’re cut from the same cloth, although Willard’s is cashmere and mine
is a cotton blend. According to Edward, Willard was kicked out of five boarding schools
before he eventually graduated. Three generations of Slavinskys went to Dartmouth
and, despite his weak academic performance, he managed to sneak in. After college,
Willard squandered his inheritance on a number of failed business ventures and one
bad relationship that resulted in a daughter he had out of
wedlock. The family let him go broke until Edward began to look for investors for
Slayter Industries. They gave him one final loan, the investment proved a massive
success, and Willard was no longer the family shame. Although he did have that one
child out of wedlock.

As usual, when I saw the two men, Willard approached with a warm embrace and Sheldon
nodded his head politely.

“Where have you been, my girl?” Willard said. “Have you lost weight?”

“He’s making me jog,” I said.

“Have you reported this to human resources?”

“Technically I’m not a Slayter Industries employee. Willard, Sheldon. You two look
like you keep fit. You know what? You should go jogging with Edward sometime. You
can multitask. Business and exercise.”

“That’s what golf is for,” Willard said.

“I’m a tennis man,” Sheldon said.

“Nice try,” Edward said.

“This has been fun. But I have another board meeting in a half hour,” Willard said
as he made a swift departure.

“Let me walk you out, Sheldon,” I said. “I know where to get your parking validated.”

Since Sheldon was responsible for the Lenore introduction, I had to see what information
I could gather.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked.

It was common knowledge that Sheldon spent a great deal of his free time at Caffe
Trieste, especially since his wife had passed. She was an opera fan, and sometimes
opera was sung at Caffe Trieste. Fortunately, not that day when Sheldon and I had
our awkward cup of coffee.

“Edward thinks the world of you,” Sheldon said, adding an unnecessary question mark
at the end.

“I think the world of him. I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here.”

“Indeed.”

“It’s my understanding that you introduced Mr. Slayter to Lenore. Yes?”

“I did.”

“How did you meet her?”

“My dear friend Glynnis met her at a book club meeting and invited her to the tennis
club.”

“Who invited Lenore to the book club?”

“That I do not know.”

“Would you mind calling Glynnis and finding out? This may seem overly cautious, but
in light of what happened with Edward’s last relationship, I just need to be sure.”

Sheldon obligingly phoned Glynnis and asked. Glynnis told Sheldon that Lenore was
invited by Sheryl’s friend Louise. Sheldon didn’t know Louise and asked Glynnis to
ask Louise how she met Lenore. Glynnis texted him a few minutes later and said that
Louise met Lenore at Rodrigo’s hair salon in Pacific Heights.

•  •  •

It could certainly have been a coincidence. There are only a certain number of high-end
hair salons in the city, but I was struck by the fact that this was also the favorite
salon of the ex–Mrs. Slayter, a fact I discovered when I started surveilling her instead
of her husband. I made an appointment for a haircut, then changed it to a wash and
blow-dry when I heard the prices.

After my meeting with Sheldon, I returned to Edward’s office to give him the update
on Divine Strategies. When I arrived, Evelyn and Arthur were returning from lunch.
Every time Evelyn saw me, I felt like I was crashing a party I was specifically not
invited to. Her face would drift from an animated smile to a cold stare, as if I’d
sucked all the fun out of the room. While I had no direct recollection of starting
this silent battle with Edward’s secretary, it seemed time to stop it.

“Hi, Evelyn, how are you?” I said as nicely as I could.

“Fine,” she said.

“How’s your mom doing?”

Evelyn clearly did not appreciate my interest in her personal life.

“I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said, ignoring the question.

“I like your . . . blouse,” I said.

“Thank you,” she said suspiciously.

I suppose these things take time.

After I debriefed Edward on Divine Strategies, he said, “Drop it. If it takes this
long to vet the company, we can’t recommend the client buy them out.”

“Give me a little more time.”

“No, Isabel. There’s no point. I’m sure you’re curious. But I’m not interested in
the company anymore, and I don’t want you wasting our time on that. I think we have
more pressing matters to deal with, don’t you?”

“Yes. I have news about Lenore.”

“What did you find?”

“I think she might have known your ex-wife.”

•  •  •

Slayter, properly cautioned, dismissed me. I think he’d had enough bad news for one
day. As I was leaving his office, I got a message from D.

What is the CRS
⁵
doing tonight?

I don’t know. Do you?

I passed Damien’s office on the way out and it occurred to me that he might be the
embezzler. If he was, I should keep an eye on him. If he wasn’t, I didn’t mind his
company so much and I didn’t really want to leave things as they were. I knocked on
the glass door to his office.

“Isabel, what are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize.”

“You came all the way over here to apologize?”

“Sure. Sorry about last week. I think I asked about five too many questions.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Maybe we can hang out again without talking.”

That came out wrong.

“I mean,” I said, “maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve talking.”

Wow, still.

“One more time,” I said. “Tonight I’m going on a surveillance. Want to come?”

“Like real detective work?” Damien asked.

“Just like Perry the Platypus.”

People unfamiliar with the chore of sitting in a car for hours on end watching people
do the boring stuff they usually do—watch TV, eat, drive someplace, eat, sit at desk,
eat, go to a movie,
⁶
sleep
⁷
—have no idea how tedious surveillance really is. But they’re always game the first
time around.

“I’m in,” Damien said.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at the office at seven. I think Subject will be on the move
by nightfall.”

When I returned to the office there was a message slip on my desk from Agent Carl
Bledsoe. The message was in D’s handwriting.

“Agent Bledsoe called?” I asked.

“Yes,” D said.

“What did he say?”

“He said to tell you he called.”

“Did he say what it was regarding?”

“No. You in some kind of trouble?” D asked.

“No. I’m helping him with a case.”

“Then why did you ask if he said what it was regarding?”

“I wanted to know whether we were keeping the case under wraps or something.”

“Okay,” D said. D wasn’t buying it, but he returned to work.

I stepped outside and phoned Agent Bledsoe against my attorney and my sister’s advice.

“Isabel Spellman calling for Agent Bledsoe.”

Agent Bledsoe picked up the line. “Ms. Spellman, I’m glad to hear from you.”

“How’s it going?”

“Good. How are you?”

“Fine. Have you made any progress on the case?”

“I can’t really discuss ongoing investigations. Is there anything you’d like to tell
me?”

“No. I can’t really discuss any ongoing investigations either,” I said.

“You shouldn’t be investigating any of this.”

“It’s been good catching up. Talk to you later,” I said, and quickly disconnected
the call. I should probably work on my pleasantries when talking to government officials.

•  •  •

We have tracking devices on all of the family vehicles. Rae’s car is in my dad’s name,
so her Jetta is not excluded from the tradition. She’s tried to remove the device
on several occasions, but the unit now has an alarm to alert them to this fact and
a new one is always attached to a different location. She still hasn’t found the last
one.

I met Damien at his office at seven and asked if we could use his car, which is not
his car. Rae was less likely to spot an unknown vehicle than my beat-up Buick. We
drove to a location two blocks from my sister’s residence and parked. From my phone
I can access GPS data on Rae’s vehicle. Damien had raided the Slayter Industries snack
room and so we had a dry happy hour of Perrier and some fancy nut mixes with a sodium
content I seriously doubt Edward would have approved of.

Within a half hour, the tracking device started beeping and the dot on the screen
alerted me that my sister was on the move.

“Time to go.”

Following a car in nighttime traffic without a tracker can be sticky, but tracker
surveillance is kind of like running a footrace on roller skates. You have the advantage,
is my point, unless you’re really lousy on roller skates. I drove while Damien held
the phone in his hand and provided Rae’s current coordinates.