The Last Word (22 page)

“I’ll have to get back to you on that,” I said. “Are you sure Rae is doing the interviews?”

Maggie laid out copies of the transcripts in front of me and read some samples aloud.

“D has a certain interview style,” she said. “ ‘Question: “You said that you had an
alibi for the night of the murder. Ivan Grist was his name.” Answer: “Yeah. We called
him Snake.” Question: “Why did you call him Snake?” Answer: “He had a skin condition.”
Question: “Why didn’t Snake testify on your behalf?” Answer: “Cops had him by the
balls. Excuse me. Drug charges. So he testified that he didn’t see me.” Question:
“Sounds like a tool.” ’ ”

Maggie looked up from her reading material. “Convict to ex-con doesn’t need to say
‘excuse me’ for using the phrase
by the balls
and I’ve never heard Demetrius call anyone a ‘tool’ in my life. Unless you want to
confess to being the substitute interviewer, I’m going to assume it was Rae.”

“What is the problem, Maggie? Because Rae is still a good interviewer.”

“There are two kinds of people in this world, Isabel. Prosecutors and defense attorneys.
Rae is a prosecutor. You don’t want a prosecutor working on the defense’s side.”

“She did free Schmidt.”
¹³

“That was a mere dalliance. She’s just as interested in putting people away as setting
them free.”

“Are you sure Washburn is innocent?”

“He is innocent of the crime he was convicted of. That is all that matters.”

“I probably should have mentioned this earlier. There was a pickup truck with a sketchy
man outside your house not too long ago. I think he was threatening you regarding
the Washburn case.”

“And you’re mentioning this now?”

“If it makes you feel any better, he thinks I’m you. Do you want me to file a report
at the police station?”

“Shaved head, tattoo of a woman on his neck, arms the size of tree trunks?”

“Sounds about right.”

“I talked to him the other day,” Maggie said. “He dropped by my office. He’s harmless.
Mostly. People pay him a few bucks and he sends verbal telegrams from prison inmates,
but that’s it.”

My phone rang. It was Charlie Black.

“One minute,” I said to Maggie. “Hi, Charlie. What’s up?”

“I seem to have lost Mr. Slayter.”

I left Maggie in a rush and drove straight to Slayter’s office, where Charlie was
waiting for me.

As I got out of the car, I got another text from D.

Why does your sister have twelve cans of tear gas in her car?

1
. Of my hand.

2
. I write that only to emphasize the amount, not because you’re incapable of doing
basic math.

3
. For more information, see document #4 (especially if you like butler action).

4
. I wouldn’t have put it past Rae to do a reverse number check.

5
. Conflict resolution specialist.

6
. That’s a good day. Also when Subject goes to a crowded bar.

7
. Sleeping is the worst!

8
. And I know this because Grammy made me study that tome like it was a science textbook
as some punishment during my adolescence.

9
. If etiquette is your thing, you’re in luck. I’ve shared my wisdom in my own short
primer,
Isabel Spellman’s Etiquette
.

10
. See document #2.

11
. My ex Henry Stone used to do that, but I’ve never heard of that habit otherwise.

12
. A snack mix that D came up with. You do
not
want the recipe. It’s
that
good.

13
. For details, see document #4. T-shirts are still available.

H
e was here,” Charlie said, pointing at the couch in Slayter’s office. “I went to use
the restroom and when I returned he was not here.”

“Did you ask anyone if they saw him leave?”

“Evelyn said he left.”

“Did you ask her where he went?”

“She didn’t know,” Charlie said.

It was important that my powwow with Charlie seem ordinary, as if I’d dropped by to
visit my boss and he wasn’t around. Charlie and I had to sort this out on our own.
I looked on Edward’s desk to see if he had any appointments in his calendar.

“You called Sam, the driver, right?”

“Yes. He’s at the car wash.”

“And you’ve tried Edward’s cell?”

“No answer. I think it’s turned off.”

I picked up Edward’s desk phone and looked at his call history. The most recent outgoing
call was from Edward to Ethan earlier in the day.

I approached Evelyn and asked for the address where Ethan was staying.

“I’m not sure I can give out this information.”

“I think you can,” I said. “There’s a matter I need to discuss with Mr. Jones.”

Evelyn pretended to search her desk for the information and came up short.

“I’m afraid I can’t find it right now.”

I returned to Edward’s office, jotted down Ethan’s number, and passed the slip of
paper to Charlie.

“Listen to me carefully, Charlie.”

“I always do.”

“Call Ethan’s number and say, ‘Put Edward on the phone.’ ”

“Should I say
please
?”

“Why not?”

Charlie put his cell phone on speaker and called Ethan’s number.

“Hello,” Ethan said.

“This is Charlie Black, Edward Slayter’s valet. Please put Edward on the phone.”

“My brother isn’t here. Have you tried his cell?”

I didn’t give Charlie the rest of the script, so he panicked.

“Okay, good-bye,” he said, and hung up.

“You should have asked him if he’d seen him.”

I checked Edward’s call history again from the company line and saw an incoming call
from an unknown number with a San Francisco area code. I called the number and it
rang ten times until someone picked up.

“Hello,” a deep male voice said.

“Hello,” I said. “Someone from this number called recently. Can I ask who I’m speaking
to?”

“This is Bill.”

“Bill, do you know an Edward Slayter?”

“Yep.”

“You do?”

“This is a pay phone, lady.”

“They still exist? Where are you?”

“The Nite Cap. You need the address?”

“Nope.
¹
I got it. Is he there now?”

“Been here since ten,” Bill said.

Charlie and I rushed over to the bar located at O’Farrell and Hyde. Even with the
overcast skies, the bar was so dim it took our eyes some time to adjust. We found
Edward sitting at the bar with a middle-aged man in a gray turtleneck and sports jacket.
The unknown male had slicked black hair, a gut that could have held a basketball,
and fingers adorned with rings that could have doubled as weapons. One might say that
he looked connected, but it does seem indecent to accuse every middle-aged man who
uses pomade of being in the mob. Plus, I don’t want you to get excited thinking this
story is going to take some organized-crime angle. That’s so 1990s.

I slipped onto the stool next to my boss, who was slumped over a whiskey and mumbling
incomprehensibly.

“Hi, I’m Isabel. Edward’s niece. This is Charlie, Edward’s valet. Who the hell are
you?”

“I’m an old friend of your . . . uncle’s. Now that he’s got someone to take care of
him, I’ll be on my way,” the man said, staggering up from his stool.

“Uncle Ed, is this a friend of yours?”

Slayter turned to me and slurred, “I don’t know who my friends are anymore.”

“How much has he had to drink?” I asked.

“Just one,” the man said. “I think something else is wrong with him.”

“Why did you ask to meet him here?”

“We had some private matters to discuss,” the man said. Then he made a show of checking
his watch. “Would you look at the time? Excuse me, I’ve got an appointment.”

The bartender, an older gentleman in shirtsleeves with thinning gray hair, stole a
glance at Edward. I looked at my boss and for a brief moment,
his eyes shot to life and he shook his head in the negative. The bartender picked
up a glass and began drying it.

“Nice to meet you, Isabel and Charlie,” the man said.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“I didn’t give it,” the man replied as he walked out the door.

When the man was out the door, Slayter’s back straightened and he turned to me with
lucid eyes.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“That man tried to roofie me.”

Slayter received a phone call from a man named Tony who said he had information about
Ethan and that they needed to meet privately. Slayter chose the Nite Cap because he
knew his friend Bill worked the early shift. He took a cab to the empty bar and met
with Tony, the turtlenecked gentleman. They ordered drinks. Tony passed Slayter a
slip of paper with a number on it and told him to call a man named Elmer on the pay
phone. The phone call was a ruse so Tony could slip something into Ed’s drink. Bill
witnessed the attempted drugging and sent Edward a text telling him what transpired.
Bill had another drink at the ready, and when Tony got distracted by the entrance
of another patron, Bill swapped out the drinks. Edward drank his unadulterated scotch
and feigned being under the influence of more than just booze. That’s when Charlie
and I showed up. According to Slayter, the only thing Tony said about Ethan was that
Edward should keep an eye on him.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” I said. “A guy you don’t know invites you to a bar
to talk about your brother and all he does is try to drug you. What’s going on?”

“It was a trap,” Slayter said. “That’s all. It wasn’t about Ethan or anything. Someone
wanted to publicly incapacitate me.”

“Why?”

“Someone is trying to prove that I’m incompetent because he knows
that very soon I will be. This sheds new light on your embezzlement problem. It’s
beginning to seem like a well-laid plan.”

Bill the bartender poured the tainted scotch into an old Perrier bottle and put the
glass Tony used into a plastic baggy.

“Evidence,” Bill said.

1
. It’s a local dive bar. Of course I don’t need the address.

B
y Wednesday morning, I found my father back at the house. He was in the kitchen staring
at a bowl of half-eaten oatmeal. He looked like he’d just returned from a two-day
bender. I gave him a kiss on the cheek to sniff for booze, but I only detected a slight
antiseptic odor. Still, he had dark circles under his eyes, his hands had a slight
tremor, and what hair he had left was rebelling against a comb job.

“You look like shit,” I said.

“You don’t look so great yourself, sweetie,” Dad said, messing up my hair. Although
I doubt you could have seen a difference in any before-and-after pictures.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re being nice to me.”

Direct communication, nonviolent physical contact, a mild insult. Nice.

Something was up.

“You can’t hold on to a grudge forever,” Dad said.

“Since when?” I asked.

“I’m going to bed,” Dad said, nodding in the vague direction of his bedroom.

“Long night?”

Dad made some noise in his throat that was noncommittal.

“Where’s Mom?”

“Out somewhere,” Dad said. I don’t think he even knew. There was definitely something
wrong with their marriage, and it was time to come clean with my siblings. “After
my nap,” Dad said, “I’ll see if I can deal with some of the Zylor background stuff.”

“You mean, you’re considering doing work?”

“I’m considering it,” Dad said.

“That would be great,” I said. But this was classic divorced-parent behavior. Divide
the children with kindness.

•  •  •

I turned on the answering machine and drove straight to David and Maggie’s.

It was only noon, and I found my brother and Max sitting on the couch drinking beer
and watching soccer. Their daughters were on the floor re-dressing Barbie dolls in
evening gowns—the fresh boxes that once imprisoned the freakish representations of
the female form rested guiltily by their sides.

“You two have quite a sweet life,” I said to the man. “It’s great that you found each
other. Hello, Max.”

“Nice to see you, Izzy,” Max said.

“Don’t you have a job, Max?”

“I do. I just happen to make my own hours.”

“Parenting is a full-time job,” David said.

“I’m hungry,” Sydney said.

“There are Goldfish right in front of you,” David said.

“No Izzy food.”

“If this phase lasts, you won’t have to worry about her raiding the liquor cabinet,”
I said.

David looked at the clock. “In a half hour, I will make you a sandwich. Keep playing.”

I picked up the packaging for Brain Surgeon Barbie (Claire’s doll) and Princess Barbie
(Sydney’s bribe) and waved the incriminating evidence at David.

“Maggie know about this?”

David paused the soccer game, leaving the goalie frozen and contorted in midair. He
rushed over to me and tossed the cardboard Barbie coffins in the trash.

“For the life of me, I can’t figure out why. But it’s the only thing that takes complete
hold over them,” David said in a pleading voice.

“Some people might say the same thing about heroin,” I said.

“I didn’t buy the dolls,” Max said, as if he were explaining his presence at a strip
club. Clearly the wife and ex-wife had admonished both males against the brain-altering
objects.

“I get it,” I said. “You just wanted a break. You could have given them each a shot
of beer or something.”

“Please don’t tell Maggie,” David said.

“I don’t need to tell Maggie anything. Princess Banana will sing like a canary.”

“No Izzy,” Banana sang on cue.

“Please stop saying that, Sydney. This is your aunt Isabel. She’s family. You are
supposed to be nice to family.”

“Good-bye, Izzy,” Banana said. An improvement? You decide.

“I don’t care about the Barbie,” I said. “Let me just say this. If at some point you
notice that Sydney is dismembering her dolls, do not automatically assume she needs
a shrink. She might just be looking for a hiding place for her marijuana stash. I
am here on an unrelated matter.”