The Last Word (30 page)

“Without any other information, I’m going to go with Morgan Freeman.”

“No. Agent Bledsoe with the FBI.”

“I’m familiar with his work. I think Morgan Freeman
¹
makes a better FBI agent.”

“Agent Bledsoe has suggested I keep my distance from you,” Slayter said.

“I think that’s good advice for anyone.”

“Nonsense,” Edward said, pulling me into a warm embrace. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I said, shrugging him off. I wasn’t used to affection from my boss. “Tell
me what Bledsoe had to say, other than disparaging my character.”

“The account that was compromised has been frozen,” said Edward. “But the receiving
account is now closed. All we know about that account is that it was a Delaware corporation,
GLD Inc., and the bank finally gave us a name associated with the account. Clayton
Knight. Apparently they have a passport number for him, but it appears he might be
deceased.”

“So someone used a dead guy’s identity to open up a Delaware corporation, used that
corporation to open an offshore account and transferred funds from your company into
the offshore account, transferred that money into another offshore account, and then
closed it out. So now you follow the money into the next offshore account. Right?”

“That’s the gist.”

I wanted to ask if Lenore was smart enough to open and close a bunch of offshore accounts,
but I heeded his warning about Lenore and kept the question to myself.

“I’ll keep looking into it,” I said.

“How’s your father doing?”

“He’s making the best of a difficult situation. Translation: He’s not squandering
the opportunity to have his entire family at his beck and call. Who knows when he’ll
get this sick again?”

“It must be nice to have family. On the outside,” Edward said wistfully.

“Ethan finally talked to you, I take it.”

“Yes. Some people never change,” Edward said.

“He wanted to see you before he went away. That’s a good thing,” I said.

We left the other part unsaid. Ethan’s second Ponzi scheme, like his first, was a
desperate attempt to emulate his brother’s success. He could have avoided the plea
deal if he had gone to his brother for help. But, after years of turning to Edward
only for cash, Ethan couldn’t bear to repeat the same mistake. And this mistake would
likely keep the brothers apart for the rest of their lives.

All I said was, “I’m sorry. I hear Lompoc is nice in spring.”

“Thanks, Isabel. Now go home and take care of your father.”

“See you Wednesday, at nine?” I asked.

“You can take the morning off. I think Lenore will join me.”

I was startled by being dismissed so suddenly. It couldn’t have been that I actually
wanted to go jogging.

I passed Damien’s office on the way out. It was empty, and in light of the fact that
I’d caught him in one significant lie I didn’t think another would be entirely off
base, so I thought I’d give his office a cursory search.

I opened desk drawers and file cabinets and found office supplies and files, nothing
that would help me incriminate him. Not that I was convinced Damien was the person
behind the funds transfers, but until he started working for Slayter, no one had embezzled
money from the man and tried to frame me.

“What are you looking for?” Damien asked from the doorway.

“A mint.”

“In my file cabinet?”

“That’s where I keep them. I was also looking for paper. I was going to write you
a note.”

“What was the note going to say?”

“ ‘Where do you keep your mints?’ ”

“Hey, I had a good time the other night,” Damien said.

“The other night?” I said, gazing upward and to my left, which is where you look when
you’re recalling a visual memory. “Oh yeah. Now I remember.”

“You didn’t return my call.”

“I didn’t, did I?”

“Maybe we can hang out again sometime.”

“Oh no, I’m late,” I said, looking at my wrist. “I’ll catch you later.”

The exit would have been better had I been wearing a watch.

As I was heading out of the office, Charlie sent me a text and told me to meet him
at the elevator bank.

“I have this app on my phone so that I can track Mr. Slayter. Well, it can track Mr.
Slayter’s phone. It doesn’t work if he doesn’t have his phone on him, as we discovered
that one time. Remember?”

“Yes, Charlie.”

“Then I was thinking it would probably be good for me to have his friends’ numbers
in my phone so I could track them too, in case Mr. Slayter forgot his phone but I
knew he was with his brother or Lenore or Willard.”

“That’s a good idea, Charlie.”

“I asked Mr. Slayter if that was all right, and he jotted down a few numbers for me
and I put them into my phone,” Charlie said.

“Are you going somewhere with this, Charlie?”

“Are Willard and Lenore really good friends?”

“I’m not sure they’ve even met.”

“They’ve definitely met.”

“How do you know that?”

“Her phone has been at his house all morning.”

•  •  •

I camped out in front of Willard’s three-story house on Jones Street in Russian Hill.
It was the family home that he inherited by virtue of being the only living Slavinsky.
He once told me that his parents considered donating their entire estate to charity
but thought again when he found his success with Slayter Industries. They had hoped
that someone would carry on the family name, never believing that their son would
remain a devout bachelor well into his sixties.

I had to wait two hours for the evidence against Lenore that I knew I would find,
but there it was. She and Willard, locking lips outside his front door. I took the
photo, waited until she got into her car and left, and knocked on Willard’s door.
He was still in his bathrobe and had to make some decency adjustments when he saw
me.

“Isabel, what a lovely surprise. I would have at least worn boxer shorts had I known
you were coming.”

“I think this is a conversation that requires at least boxers, maybe even pants.”

Willard told me to make myself at home and made a quick change in his bedroom. When
he returned, he was wearing a velour sweat suit.

“Tony Soprano wants his wardrobe back.”

“It’s very comfortable. And you should be the last person to mock anyone’s fashion
sense.”

“Fair enough.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Willard asked amiably.

“Are you seeing someone new?”

“Why, are you jealous? I’ve always told you, Isabel—”

“I’m being serious, Willard. It’s about Lenore.”

“Who is Lenore?”

“The woman who just left your house.”

“You mean Nora.”

“Well, Edward calls her Lenore. Has he spoken to you about her?”

“The woman he’s been seeing?” Willard asked, the gist of our conversation finally
sinking in.

“Yes. Lenore and Nora are the same woman.”

“Impossible,” Willard said, outraged.

“It’s the same woman. She drives a navy blue 2002 BMW. She gets spray-tanned every
two weeks. French manicure once a week on Polk Street. She doesn’t eat carbs at all.
At all
. Not even fruit. Does that sound familiar?”

“Yes.”

“How do you not eat fruit?”

“I don’t know,” Willard said, slumping into his chair.

I guess he liked her. I should have been more sympathetic.

“I’m sorry. It’s true. And you need to tell Edward, because he made me promise that
I wouldn’t investigate his girlfriend, and here I am. Can you take care of this for
me?”

“Yes, yes. Of course, Isabel.”

Willard walked me to the door. “Oh, and I’m very sorry about your father. Edward told
me. If there’s anything I can do—that’s a silly thing to say, isn’t it? I can’t cure
cancer, can I?”

“Thank you, Willard. You’re a good man. Now dump that bitch. You weren’t in love with
her, were you?”

“Of course not, Isabel. I can’t afford love.”

•  •  •

Edward phoned me later that night from a bar. He and Willard were drowning their sorrows
together.

“I’m sorry I doubted you,” he said, slurring his words.

“I’m sorry I was right,” I said.

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry you have bad taste in women.”

“If it’s any consolation, I think Willard is taking it worse than I am.”

“Really?” I said. “The man does have a good poker face.”

“Always has.”

“You know, Edward, there are women out there who are not grifters.”

“I’m sorry, Isabel. I just don’t think we’re compatible.”

“Good night, Edward.”

“Good night, Isabel.”

1
. If you like Morgan Freeman references, please see previous document.

A
few days later as I was trying to work from home, I was interrupted again by an overhead
playdate. I use the term “playdate” loosely. David was swilling beer while trying
to reason with his daughter, who had become hysterical after watching the animated
Disney version of
Cinderella
. She immediately wanted to watch it again and David was trying to explain to his
daughter that one should have some breathing time after watching a film, to let it
settle into one’s subconscious and to have some time to sort through the experience.

Max
¹
and Claire gawked at the moronic father-daughter duo with the appropriate shade of
concern and alarm. I stayed in the foyer because children become downright terrifying
when it comes to anything on a flat-screen TV, and parents do irrational things like
leaving said children with irresponsible aunts when their wits are at their end.

“Hey, Max,” I shouted over the guttural wailing and my brother’s stern appeals.

Max turned to me.

“Can you get me a beer?” I asked.

Max appeared happy to have any reason to leave the room. He grabbed a beer and two
juice boxes for himself and Claire.

“Step into my office,” I said, leading Max and Claire onto the front stoop. I closed
the door, which quieted the chaos inside, and took a long swig of the pale ale.

“Did you like the movie?” I asked Claire.

Claire nodded noncommittally as she tried to stab the straw into the juice box. Max
took the box and handled the fine motor skill while he coaxed a more expansive answer
out of her.

“What do you think of the mice?” Max asked.

“I love the mice.”

“What do you think of the stepsisters?”

“They’re like Sydney.”

“You’re an insightful young girl, Claire,” I said.

“So,” Max said, “your brother has been telling me about some of your legal problems.”

“I’m innocent. What legal problems are you referring to?”
²

“He said someone was embezzling money from your employer’s account and framing you.”

“David’s got a big mouth.”

“I think he’s just happy to discuss anything other than your father’s illness and
the princess’s kingdom.”

“Fair enough. I should have this thing sorted out soon. I think I’ve got the suspects
narrowed down. There are only a couple dozen people who would be able to access the
account information.”

“You are assuming that this is someone who works for the company?”

“Or is closely connected to my boss.”

“It could also be a cybercrime. Have you thought of that?”

“A hacker?” I said, mulling it over. And then I stopped mulling when I realized what
a complete imbecile I’d been. Gruber could have been behind all of this.

“Excuse me,” I said, placing my beer on the stoop. “There’s someone I need to see.”

•  •  •

The old me would have gone in with my metaphorical guns drawn. But I knew who I was
dealing with, and nothing short of an Oscar-worthy performance of submissive contrition
and conciliation would do. First I had to purchase provisions. Aside from the mix-and-match
pack of varietal savory snack foods, a stolen stash of crack mix, and a cheesecake
with a personal message (
I’m sorry, I’m an awful person
) written in red letters on top, there were the more embarrassing purchases. These
acquisitions required some limited educational surveys, which included me asking strange
men questions like,
Is there some kind of new fetish I should know about? Is
Jugs
magazine passé or retro-hip?
I assembled all of the items in a large basket that I found in my parents’ garage,
left over from the Frank Scharfenberger
³
days, and wrapped it all up in a giant ribbon, which had faux cutouts of a pin-up
girl in the style of truck mudguards. The basket was topped off with a glitter-coated
Hallmark card adorned with flowers and carrying a rhyming message of friendship.

I got into my car and was about to have a face-to-face meeting with the man responsible
for many of my recent troubles when I got the phone call.

“Isabel, it’s Edward.”

“What’s up? I have a really important meeting that might be the answer to most of
our problems.”

“That’s great. Um, I need you to bail me out of jail.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

“I was arrested. You need to post bail.”

“Arrested for what?”

“Indecent exposure.”

1
. Claire wasn’t the kind of child who drove you to drink.

2
. “Deny everything” is my policy.

3
. To date, our worst client ever. His relatives would often send us apologetic gift
baskets.

I
’ve never posted bail for anyone before; it’s always been the other way around. I
will freely admit I relished this opportunity to walk into a police station without
a bull’s-eye on my back. My inappropriately perky mood shifted into deep concern when
I caught a glimpse of Edward as he was escorted out of the holding area. They had
given him a pair of light gray sweats in size extra-large. His face was pale and drawn
and his eyelids so hooded, he appeared to be sleepwalking. When I found him at the
mental hospital, he had been on guard, in fight mode. His expression and composure
now hinted at helplessness, and I suddenly felt the same way.