The Last Word (21 page)

“The dot is on the Bay Bridge,” Damien said.

I headed south on Van Ness and entered the freeway at Duboce, following the signs
to the East Bay.

As we traveled through the Bay Bridge tunnel, we lost the signal and had to wait until
we emerged on the other side. I stayed in the center lane as Damien stared at the
device, waiting for the dot to show up again.

“Hit refresh,” I said.

After a minute, he said, “Eight Eighty South.”

The exit was less than a quarter mile away and I had four lanes to cover. I turned
on my blinkers and slipped into a tiny space between a Range Rover and a Honda Civic.
Then I cut over two more lanes that were clear, amid horns sounding, and made the
exit crossing over the V-shaped white lines where the off-ramp divorces the freeway.

“I don’t want to die tonight,” Damien said.

“You might have mentioned that earlier.”

After we were safely ensconced in the 880 South traffic, Damien said, “We’re gaining
on the dot.”

“Subject,” I said. “We’re gaining on the subject.”

“Why are we tailing the subject?” Damien asked.

“The same reason you surveil anyone. Subject is doing something and you want to know
what it is.”

Subject exited the freeway in San Leandro, near Oyster Bay. Subject drove to a residential
area of single-family homes.

“Subject has stopped,” Damien said.

We were on a low-traffic side street, so I extinguished the lights in our car and
drove down the block until I could see my sister’s Jetta parked outside a residence
on Sausalito Road. I pulled out my binoculars and caught Rae casually walking down
the sidewalk with a large bag slung over her shoulder.

“What’s happening?” Damien asked, certain that an action film was playing through
my binoculars.

“A small woman is walking down the street.”

“What is she up to?”

“I don’t know.”

My cell phone rang. Henry. I picked up because I had a nagging sensation that I was
forgetting something important.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“On a surveillance.”

“So you forgot.”

“I guess so,” I said. “What did I forget?”

“We were supposed to meet for drinks on Friday, which is today.”

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“That it was Friday or that we were having drinks?”

“Which would you prefer?”

“Where are you?”

“On a surveillance.”

“Call me when you’re done.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Talk to you later.”

“Wait. I hate to ask. Did you run that license plate?”

I figured with Henry getting a woman knocked up within six months of my moving out,
I had a lot of leverage.

“Marcus Lorre,” he said.

“I knew it.”

“Good-bye.”

“Who was that?” Damien asked.

“My police contact.”

Through the binoculars I saw Rae scan her immediate surroundings. She swiftly pulled
a spray can out of her bag, approached a Porsche Boxster parked in a carport, and
began writing something in fluffy white letters on the vehicle. The same car from
the photos, owned by none other than Marcus Lorre of Lightning Fast Moving Company.
From a distance, I couldn’t make out the fluffy graffiti. When Rae was done, she pocketed
the can and then jogged back to her car, which she entered on the passenger side.
Driver was not visible. The vehicle made a U-turn and drove back in our direction.

“Duck,” I said.

Damien went into a tuck like a passenger on an airplane waiting for a crash landing.
I peered over his head and saw my sister in the passenger seat, Vivien driving. Once
they passed, I turned over the engine.

“You can sit up now,” I said.

I angled out of the parking space and pulled up alongside the victimized vehicle.
I got out of the car and dipped my finger into the fluffy letters and brought it up
to my nose. Three words adorned the car, spelled out in whipped cream. One on the
hood, one on the windshield, and one on the back window.

Liar

Cheater

Thief

I quickly snapped photos and returned to my car. As we headed back to the freeway,
Damien asked, “Who was that girl?”

“My sister.”

“What was she doing?” he asked.

“Working,” I said.

So this is what a conflict resolution specialist does.

•  •  •

Damien invited me into his shiny apartment for a drink, since detectives always drink
after a long night of surveillance. Our shift was a mere three hours, but I almost
never turn down a drink, as you probably have noticed.

Damien mixed whiskey sours, which isn’t really my thing. I like my drinks untampered
with, out-of-the-bottle, maybe with an ice cube. He opened the blinds to a sparkly
view of the city at night.

Damien sat down on the couch next to me. We drank in silence. Without the running
commentary of a surveillance subject as topic, we avoided conversation lest we end
up in our previous bouts of mini-interrogatives.

This sped up the drinking.

“Another?” Damien asked.

“Sure,” I said. “More whiskey, less sour.”

“So you just want a whiskey?”

“On the rocks, please.”

“Coming right up.”

Drinks were served. Drinks were imbibed. Food was not consumed.

At some point Damien looked at me and said, “What are we doing?”

“We are drinking on empty stomachs. It seems like a good idea now, but we will regret
it in the morning.”

Damien placed his drink on his glass and chrome coffee table and confiscated my drink
as well.

“I wasn’t done with that.”

“I had to go to a sexual harassment seminar last week. I learned about appropriate
and inappropriate touching.”

“I see.”

Damien extended his hand.

“Nice to meet you,” he said.

I played along and shook his hand.

“That is appropriate touching.”

“You sure about that?”

Damien then swept his other hand around my waist and kissed me. It was a nice whiskey-sour
kiss. I would have preferred just a whiskey kiss, but still it was nice and strange,
my first non-Henry kiss; Henry kisses were usually whiskey-free. Sometimes Henry tasted
like milk. He was that kind of guy.

I’m not sure who pulled away first, but it wasn’t so much a rejection as coming up
for air.

“That would be an example of inappropriate touching,” Damien said.

“No kidding.”

“Here’s the thing. I don’t believe we are colleagues, technically. Would you agree?”

“I would agree.”

“So, we can skip filling out the office-romance paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because I don’t have it.”

Damien kissed me again. I could taste the whiskey, no sour, this time. It was strange
feeling different hands fumble with my buttons. It’s kind of like waking up in a hotel
room when you think you’re at home. Part of me wanted to go home, part of me wanted
to stay with Damien, and part of me wanted to kick Damien out and have the swanky
apartment and the bottle of booze to myself.

Damien forgot to close the blinds in the bedroom and I awoke at the crack of dawn
the next morning. I slipped out of bed without Damien noticing and dressed piecemeal,
gathering my clothes like bread crumbs left on a trail throughout the apartment. Once
fully clothed, I began the hunt for my purse. I found it under the couch. My mouth
tasted like sour booze and cotton, and I rifled through my purse for a mint but came
up empty. I saw a tin of Altoids on Damien’s kitchen counter and opened the box. I
stole two mints and spotted a collection of mail in an untidy pile nearby.

According to Emily Post’s
Etiquette
,
⁸
you don’t go through people’s shit,
⁹
but there was something in the pile of mail, not quite on top, but slipped in there,
the corner edged out, just enough to pique my interest. It was a save-the-date card.
I slipped it out of the stack just a smidge and read it.

D
AMIEN
T
HORP AND
K
AREN
M
URPHY

ARE TYING THE KNOT

N
OVEMBER
12
TH
, 2012

D
ETAILS TO FOLLOW

I guess my card hadn’t arrived yet.

I took the entire tin of mints and slipped out the door without ever waking the bridegroom-to-be.
I slept the rest of the weekend.

•  •  •

On Monday morning, I worked another tedious shift at Divine Strategies and then went
straight to the office.

“You’re getting employee of the month again,” I said to D.

“It means nothing to me,” he said.

“It means something to me,” I said.

Vivien told me her computer was totally frozen and even after an hour of remote tech
support from Fred, there were no remedies. Since Finkel had failed, I got a recommendation
from Maggie for a high-end computer consultant. I waited to call, since
high-end
translates to
extremely expensive
. My sister sent me an e-mail informing me that she had refunded fifty percent of
Greenblatt’s check. I phoned her to get the details, but she didn’t pick up. She has
told me repeatedly that she prefers text messages or e-mails. Since I wanted a quick
reply, I texted.

Y R we refunding Greenblatt ck?

Couldn’t finish job.

y not?

It happens.

People keep their desks in various forms of disarray, but it has always been company
policy to put a case file either a) in the file cabinet or b) on the top right corner
of your desk in case another investigator needs to access it. Vivien seemed determined
to camouflage all of the files pertaining to Rae’s cases. I found Greenblatt tucked
away in another drawer under an unruly stash of office supplies and emergency snack
food. The file was exactly the same as when I first found it, only on top of the astrological
chart the words
subject unresponsive
were written in red ink.

The phone rang. D answered and said to me, “A woman. For you. She sounds angry.”

“Hello?”

“Isabel, this is Lenore. If you have questions for me, why don’t you ask me?”

“Because you might lie,” I said. “I find outside sources more reliable.”

“It would behoove you to treat me with some respect.”

“I have never heard anyone use the word
behoove
in conversation. That was awesome. Thank you.”

“Keep your distance, Ms. Spellman, or you might find a restraining order in your future.”

“Lenore, I am very familiar with restraining orders
¹⁰
and I can assure you that by the time you have enough evidence for a TRO, I’ll have
enough evidence against you to sink a ship. Have a great day.”

Lenore Parker was a fool. Before she called, I was suspicious. Now I was sure.

The phones began ringing at an alarming rate. Maggie phoned to remind D that he had
an interview in the East Bay. Vivien left shortly after that for class. At this point
it seemed reasonable to wrangle at least one of my parents out of bed.

I climbed the steps to their bedroom, knocked twice, said, “Everybody decent?” and
then opened the door without waiting for a response. I have been told you’re supposed
to wait for a response.

My mother was alone in bed, obviously woken by my intrusion. Dad’s side of the bed
was still partially made, wrinkled a bit by association. Mom looked alarmed when she
saw me.

“Where’s Dad?”

Mom lifted the covers on Dad’s side and made a show of looking for his absent figure.

“He must have gone out,” she said.

“Does he usually make the bed when you’re still in it?”
¹¹

“We have more time on our hands these days.”

“Mom. Where is Dad?”

“He didn’t come home last night,” Mom said, avoiding eye contact.

“Where is he?”

“He didn’t come home,” Mom repeated.

“Did you have a fight?”

Mom got out of bed and gently shoved me out of her room. “Isabel, what happens between
me and your father is a private matter.”

“Is it? I’m not sure that that’s true.”

“I need to go back to bed,” Mom said, closing the door in my face.

•  •  •

I grabbed my car keys and was about to drive over to David’s house. As I walked down
the front steps, Maggie was pulling into the drive.

She got out of her car, slammed the door, and said, “Where is he?”

“He didn’t come home last night,” I said, sounding extremely alarmed. “I can’t get
any information from Mom.”

“He doesn’t live here,” Maggie said. “He has his own apartment.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked.

“D,” Maggie said. “Who are you talking about?”

“My dad didn’t come home last night,” I said.

Maggie’s expression softened with the new bit of intelligence. She slumped slightly
and gripped the railing on the staircase.

“Come in,” I said. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

Maggie demanded a shot of bourbon in her brew, which was entirely out of character.
At least her daytime character.

“So where is Albert?” Maggie asked.

“Mom won’t say. I was on my way to your house to tell David. Why are you here?”

“I came to see D. I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but he’s pawning off his work
onto Rae.”

“Why would he do that?”

“That’s why I came hunting for him. I was hoping for an explanation. As far as I can
tell, all the interviews at San Quentin were conducted by Rae.”

“We’re calling it the Big Q now,” I said. “Like the inmates.”

“What?”

“Forget it.”

“Do you know where the recordings are?” Maggie asked.

“They’re on the server. Let me look for them.”

I left Maggie in the kitchen with some crack mix
¹²
and her spiked coffee. Of course, the second I logged on to my computer, it froze.
I returned to the kitchen.