The Last Word (24 page)

“It makes sense,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to draw too much attention to myself.”

“But if you’re smart enough to embezzle over one hundred thousand into an offshore
account, why would you then deposit money from that account back into your company’s
checking account? Wouldn’t it make more sense to set up a DBA that wasn’t so obviously
connected to you?”

“Do you think I should call Agent Bledsoe and point that out to him? This case is
a slam dunk. No self-respecting criminal would ever embezzle money in this fashion.”

“Yes, why don’t you phone the FBI and tell them how you
would
embezzle money. That sounds like a brilliant plan, Isabel. And if for some maddening
reason my sarcasm was lost on you, please listen clearly.
Do. Not. Call. Agent Bledsoe. Under. Any. Circumstances. Whatsoever. Do you understand
me?”

“Yes,” I said, catching my breath. “So where did Lenore get that purse? You know they
cost as much as your average used car.”

Edward slowed to a brisk walk.

“You’re walking,” I said. “Why are you walking?”

“There are a few matters we need to discuss.”

“There is a God,” I said as I caught my breath. Running is bad enough. Being expected
to run and talk is inhumane.

“I’d like you to quit with your side investigation of Lenore. Got it? I like her and
I trust her and I’m not going to disrespect her by allowing you to dig around in her
personal life the way you do. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” I said. There was a hint of anger in his voice that I’d never heard before.

“And, Isabel, I heard from the temp office this morning. Even after I told you I wasn’t
interested in Divine Strategies you returned to work there?” Slayter said.

“I just wanted to know what was going on.”

“It doesn’t matter, Isabel. It’s not our problem. And since we have problems, big
problems, don’t you think we should be focusing on those?”

“Yes, sir.”

“At least now I know you can’t return to work there. I won’t ask about the incident
the other night.”

“Thanks.”

“Let’s focus on this pesky embezzlement business. Who are our obvious suspects?”

“People with access to the routing numbers, so the accounting department and people
who don’t like me. Arthur and Arthur.”

“For a detective, you can be extremely shortsighted.”

“Heard it before. I’m sure I’ll hear it again.”

Charlie rode up on his bike and said, “It’s nine fifteen, Mr. Slayter,” and then he
handed him a towel. The towel thing was new.

“I have a meeting,” Edward said.

“Words.”

“Let’s see. Turtle. Clock. Radiator.”

“See you Friday,” I said.

Slayter jogged off to his car. Charlie circled me on his bicycle.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Charlie asked.

“He got
clock
right,” I said.

T
ear gas. That’s what I was forgetting. D had texted me asking about the twelve cans
of tear gas in my sister’s trunk and I had failed to investigate. Tear gas isn’t something
you should forget about, but between embezzling money, watching my parents’ marriage
deteriorate, trying to keep a failing business afloat, and my part-time job as receptionist,
there was little time left to harness my sister’s activities.

A few days later I sent D a text.

Is the tear gas still in the trunk?

don’t know.

There was only one way to find out. I phoned Rae.

“Can we swap cars this evening? I need to surveil someone who is familiar with my
vehicle.”

“But my car is better than your car,” Rae said.

“True, but both cars can take you from point A to point B.”

“I believe some compensation for the imbalance would be appropriate.”

“Seriously?”

“Your car only has a cassette player,” Rae said.

“We’re talking six hours tops. It’s quite possible that you wouldn’t even use your
car in that time frame.”

“And it’s quite possible I would.”

“Give me a number.”

“Fifty.”

“Twenty.”

“Thirty.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about my sister over the years, it’s her bottom
line.

“Twenty-five. Final offer.”

“Deal.”

I had been hanging on to the Perrier bottle with the possibly tainted whiskey for
a few days, trying to decide whether I should contact my usual source for lab work.
Henry. But I knew Rae had a great chemist contact in her sticky blackmail network,
so I brought the evidence to her apartment that night when I came to pick up the car.

“Not thirsty, but thank you,” she said.

“It’s evidence. I need to get it tested and I don’t want to go to Henry.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Of course. Nothing with you is free,” I said as I gave her the twenty-five-dollar
payment for the car swap.

“Tank is empty,” Rae said as she tossed me the keys.

I found the car parked around the corner, her usual spot, and immediately tried to
open the trunk, only to realize that my sister had given me the valet key, which makes
it impossible to open the trunk. I remembered that my parents, being the pink-slip
owners of the vehicle (a calculated point of leverage), had an extra key at the house
and drove home. I didn’t see either of their cars in the driveway, so it was safe
to assume that both of my parents were out. I knocked on the door to be safe, waited
a moment, and then used my key.

I called out for my parents and found the house unresponsive. Then I decided to search
their bedroom. I won’t bother offering an excuse, only an explanation: It was there,
and I didn’t know when else I’d find the opportunity.

The bed was made with the same fatigue that has informed my own
housekeeping. Covers pulled over pillows, but nothing tucked or smoothed. Clothes
were strewn on the chair; paperwork sat atop the dresser. I was about to look through
the paperwork when I heard the front door slam shut.

“Rae?” my mother called out. Rae’s car was in the driveway, blocking the garage. The
obvious assumption.

“It’s me,” I said, hurrying out of the bedroom and down the stairs. “I had some last-minute
work.”

“The office is that way,” Mom said, nodding her head toward the first floor door.

“I was looking for you.”

“I’m right here.”

“I can see that,” I said.

“Why do you have Rae’s car?”

“Surveillance. But she gave me the valet key. I need access to the trunk.”

My mother plucked the key from its hook and handed it to me. Her face was ruddy from
crying.

“Here you go.”

Dad lowered himself onto the couch and clicked on the remote. I approached Subject
cautiously and sat down in the adjacent chair. I gave him a thorough looking over,
which included breathing in the overly cologned aroma wafting in the vicinity. My
direct observations did not go unnoticed and likely unnerved Dad.

“What’s that delightful scent you’re wearing?”

“It’s called Charisma,” Dad said.

“I think you’ve got enough of it,” I said.

Then I just sat there staring at him, because something looked different.

“Don’t you have someplace to be?” Dad asked.

“Sadly, no,” I replied. “You’ve lost weight.”

“A little, maybe. I’ve been watching what I eat.”

He was also wearing a new shirt and a bulky cable-knit sweater.

I’ve seen my parents tired, sick, plain worn out, angry, but at this moment I caught
them in a state utterly unfamiliar. They looked stunned. And they wanted me out of
there as soon as possible.

“Time to go, Isabel,” Mom said, adding, “chop chop,” to the end of the sentence. I’m
not sure she’s ever used
chop chop
before.

She tugged on the back of my sweater, which left me with the option of leaving or
allowing my mother to damage my one good sweater.

“See you tomorrow, sweetie,” Mom said as she practically shoved me out the door.

I would have to consult with my siblings before we could put a plan in action. Because
my parents were not getting a divorce. Ever.

I dealt with the matter in front of me and popped the trunk to Rae’s car.

There must have been a special that day. Rae had twelve cans of tear gas in her trunk.
I found the receipt in the open box that contained them. There was an address for
the store in the South Bay. I’d check it out tomorrow during business hours. I got
in the car and headed home. As I was driving, I decided to call Henry. His cell phone
voice mail picked up on the first ring. I left a message.

“Hi, it’s me. Isabel. I, uh, I’m wondering if it’s safe to drive around in a car with,
say, a dozen cans of tear gas in the trunk. Not that I have tear gas in the trunk.
This is purely hypothetical. Call me back.”

I found a parking space three blocks from David’s house and decided to leave the contraband
in the trunk. I didn’t feel like being alone, so I knocked on their front door.

•  •  •

After David served me a drink and a bowl of Goldfish and removed his shoes and socks
and put on an indoor T-shirt (Free Schmidt!) to reassure me that he wouldn’t ditch
me with Princess Banana (Maggie was working late), I voiced my suspicions about Mom
and Dad.

“Something is wrong with the unit. I’m not saying that Dad is having an affair, but
according to
Me
²
”
¹
—
Me Squared
is how you say it, a women’s relationship/fashion magazine—“if he did, he got caught
based on their behavior tonight.”

“That’s impossible,” David said. “If either of them were going to have an affair,
it would be Mom.”

“That’s just because the odds are in Mom’s favor. More people are likely to want to
have an affair with her. But sometimes affairs are about insecurity and so then Dad
would be the likely candidate.”

“I’m not buying it,” David said. “What’s your evidence?”

“He’s spent at least two nights away from home. He’s lost weight and he’s wearing
cologne.”

“He could have been working an overnight job,” David said. “He stinks after a night
in a car.”

“I’m the boss,” I said. “I think I’d know if he was working a case.”

“Maybe they’re taking jobs on the side and pocketing the money.”

“Maybe,” I said, realizing that I could hardly theorize about the unit’s behavior
since they’d barely spoken more than a handful of complete sentences to me in the
past six months. “But will you talk to him?” I said.

“Sure,” David said. He took a healthy slug of his drink.

“Long day?”

“You have no idea. It’s been six months. How long can this go on?”

“At least thirty years. You know about Comic-Con, right?”

“Your mob phase lasted only like three weeks,” David said.

“That’s because my bookmaking business didn’t take off.”

David was referring to the time when I was eleven and had managed to watch
The Godfather
parts 1 and 2 without my parents’ knowledge. I decided that when I grew up I was
going to join the mob. I got a conversational Italian book from the library and began
taking bets at school. Some sports-related, but mostly random wagers on statistics
of certain faculty members’ behavior. For instance, the over/under on how many times
Mrs. Weinert would say, “One day you’ll thank me.” Or whether Mr. Thomas would wear
his lucky shirt three or four times that week. My odds-making was on point, but I
was only eleven and knew nothing about the vig.
²
I did, however, excel at shaking down preteens delinquent in their payments.

“Maggie and I thought the princess phase would be long gone by now. This is worse
than the banana experiment by miles. Six months later, Sydney won’t go anywhere without
her tiara. The color pink has started to give me a headache. If you try to put a pair
of pants on her, she goes ballistic. Except for those pink shorts. It’s almost impossible
to get a playdate because she orders the other children around as if they’re in her
court. Max wants Claire to be more assertive, so he’s willing to throw her into the
lion’s den.

“I knew I shouldn’t have let Grammy give her the dress. So, after a month of debating,
Maggie and I removed the dress and the tiara from Sydney’s room late last night. Maggie
actually put the dress in the fireplace. A thrilling moment, I will admit, but a joy
I have paid for dearly. The wailing started first thing in the morning and didn’t
let up until about two hours ago when Sydney was completely spent. Maggie went straight
to work. Notice how she’s not home yet? I should feel relieved that my daughter is
finally asleep, but I know she’s just resting up for another day of battle. You can
see a child’s personality form at such an early age, and I was so relieved when I
saw how different Sydney was from you and Rae. Now I almost wish that she got some
of that Montgomery DNA.”

“Rae has twelve cans of tear gas in the trunk of her car,” I said, “if that makes
you feel any better.”

•  •  •

I left David an hour later so I could rest up for my own battle the next day. Within
moments of putting my head on the pillow, I was out cold. And then I was awake.

There was a steady knock on the back door, slightly slower than the rhythm of a woodpecker.
My heart raced from being shocked out of REM sleep. I looked at the clock: 2:13
A.M.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed over to the door. There’s no peephole, since it’s
not a real apartment and most people don’t know about this entrance. I put my ear
to the door to see if I could recognize the breathing pattern, which sounds silly
now that I say it.

“Isabel,” a familiar voice whispered. “It’s me.”

I opened the door.

“What are you doing here, Henry?”

Henry walked into the apartment without an invitation.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he said, slurring his words together.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little,” he said.