The Last Word (34 page)

I dropped the file folder on her coffee table.

“Another copy is on its way to the FBI right now.”

Evelyn went to her bar and poured herself a drink out of a crystal decanter. She looked
to me and silently asked if I wanted one.

“How do I know you won’t roofie me?”

This time the poker face was even better.

“You don’t,” she said.

“Whatever. Yeah, I’ll have a drink.”

What? I was thirsty.

Evelyn poured us both a drink from the same bottle and sat back down.

“Why did you do it?” I asked.

“Because I’m forty-five years old and I answer phones for a living and now I have
a mother with a broken hip, and one day I will be sixty-five years old and answering
phones for a living and maybe then I’ll fall down and break a hip, but there won’t
be anyone to take care of me and I’ll be counting cans of tuna fish until the next
Social Security check and spending my Sundays cutting coupons and scraping by while
I fantasize about the life I never had. I’ve already disappointed myself enough. I
don’t want to compound that by being desperate. It’s just enough to make the rest
of my life bearable. It’s not like they’d even miss it.”

That was true, in the scheme of things, in this greedy world we live in. It wasn’t
that much money, and I would have genuinely felt something for Evelyn if she hadn’t
tried to frame me and my boss.

“And what was the point of transferring funds into my account?”

“My boyfriend said we needed a fall guy. He asked me to pick someone. You pissed me
off that day with your stupid parking-validation scam. And you always had Edward in
the palm of your hand.”

“Did it ever occur to you that using a private investigator as your patsy wasn’t the
smartest move?”

“Later, it did.”

“Edward trusted you. If you had talked to him, asked for a raise, maybe he would have
helped.”

“And maybe he wouldn’t have. There’s always someone younger and prettier who knows
more.”

“Twenty years ago this plan might have worked,” I said.

“Twenty years ago, I would have married the boring engineer I was dating.”

“Worth millions now, I take it?”

“What happens next?” Evelyn asked.

“First you need to tell me who you’re working with, aside from that genius boyfriend
of yours. Arthur, I assume. And how you arranged Edward’s public indignities.”

Evelyn finished her drink and gazed at me like a cat in repose.

“What are you talking about?”

“You are one of the best liars I’ve ever met.”

“All I did was trick Arthur into giving me the bank routing numbers. And steal a little
money. I had nothing to do with Edward’s recent difficulties.”

“Now would be the time to come clean,” I said as a warning.

“I swear, Isabel. I thought Edward had a drinking problem.”

I pressed Evelyn again, but she held firm. Knowing that she’d have the full weight
of an FBI investigation on her, it seemed unlikely she’d hang on to this final lie.
I left her apartment with the heavy knowledge that my work wasn’t done.

I remember a time when my mind wouldn’t have been able to shut down, the cases churning
so relentlessly that I could barely see the person standing right in front of me.
I remember when it had to be me who solved the case, who figured out the riddle. Now
I didn’t care who did it, how it came about, just as long as it was over. I’m tired
of seeing all the rotten things one person does to another person. Don’t get me wrong,
I’m not going to open a flower shop. But this is my dream: One day, I leave my job
at the office and it doesn’t follow me home and haunt in me in my sleep. Another dream:
I don’t live in my brother’s basement apartment. After everything I’ve seen and done
and mused about endlessly, I’m convinced of one thing: There’s more to life than this,
and sometimes when I picture more, it looks like something so simple, like so much
less.

After my meeting with Evelyn, I drove home to my basement apartment and called the
hospital to check on Dad. The nurse said he was asleep. Mom was camped out on the
chair by his bed. I took two aspirins and went straight to bed. And I didn’t care
if I woke up the next morning with any of the answers.

Well, maybe I cared a little.

I
didn’t have the answers, but other people did, and for once, I didn’t mind. I dropped
by the hospital first thing in the morning. My father looked like someone who’d had
his guts turned inside out and then just tucked them back in. He was out cold. Mom,
however, had clearly been up all night. When she wasn’t tending to Dad, she was working.
Her laptop, a messy stack of folders, and several Styrofoam cups sat on the windowsill.

“You’ve been busy,” I said.

“Couldn’t sleep,” said Mom.

“Coffee probably didn’t help.”

“There was nothing to read so I started looking over some of the open cases. Are you
still working on Divine Strategies for Mr. Slayter?” Mom asked.

“Not exactly,” I said. “He advised his clients not to invest and told me to let the
case go. I kept looking into it, but I’m going to stop now.”

“Good idea,” Mom said, rubbing sleep out of her eyes.

“But you know something, don’t you?” Dropping the case is one thing, but if the answer
is sitting right in front of me, I’m going to ask.

“I don’t
know
anything. I have a hunch. I gave you the wrong lead with the sexual harassment suit.
There’s a one-year statute of limitations on
sexual harassment. There’s no way a single woman could hold that kind of leverage
for more than ten years.”

“What are you thinking?”

“One-year statute of limitations on sexual harassment. No statute of limitations on
rape.”

Maureen Stevens’s maiden name was Maureen Clyde. She had one sister. Naomi Clyde.
Naomi hadn’t held a full-time job since 2004, when she worked at Divine Strategies
in its infancy, with Brad Gillman and Bryan Lincoln. She had a few employment markers
on her report up until 2005, when she virtually dropped off the face of the credit
world. There’s one credit card to her name and the address listed for her is Maureen’s.

Something happened in 2004, and it probably involved the police. What people don’t
know is that police files are not public record; only court files are. For the sake
of argument, let’s say you know a police officer intimately, one who might feel guilty
about getting a certain woman pregnant and planning a wedding not six months after
you broke up. You’d have a good shot at looking at a case file.

I called to make sure Henry was in and drove to his office at 850 Bryant Street. They
know me there, so I didn’t have to sweet-talk anyone at the front desk. I was buzzed
into the back room and worked my way through the maze of desks until I found Henry’s.
I probably should have called him first, because he looked like I was a thug in a
ski mask accosting him with a knife in a back alley.

“Hi,” I said to ease the tension. Surely there are better ways to ease the tension.

“You are the last person I expected to see,” he said.

“Not Morgan Freeman?”

I took a seat on the edge of his desk.

“How are you?” he asked.

“Okay.”

Henry gave me a suspect’s study. “You’re not okay. You’re lying.”

“I need a favor. I think there might be an old police file under the name
Clyde. Either Naomi or Maureen. Sexual assault, I think. Can you find it for me?”

“Is someone sick?” Henry asked.

I have no idea when Henry turned into Carnac the Magnificent. I attempted the Avoidance
Method™.

“I wouldn’t be here unless I had no other option.”

“Write down the name and any other information you might have. I’ll look into it.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Finally
the Avoidance Method™ was working. Clearly a training video and book deal were the
next order of business.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Henry said.

“You remember that?”

“Vaguely.”

“How’s . . . ?”

“She’s good.”

“You’re still . . . ?”

“Yes.”

“Let me know when you have the file.”

“I remember what I said.”

“Yeah?” I said, trying to figure out if I could leave right then. There was an unobstructed
path to the exit. I could just make a run for it.

“I didn’t mean it.”

“People say all kinds of things when they’re drunk.”
¹

•  •  •

Dad had now been in the hospital two weeks out of what would be close to a monthlong
stretch. He had lost twenty pounds; his eyebrows were all but gone; he required regular
blood transfusions, antibiotics, and antifungals; and only Mom was allowed to touch
him, after she scrubbed her arms like
she was going into surgery. The chemo had hopefully killed all the bad stuff, but
it had killed his immune system as well. This was all part of the induction chemotherapy
and everything was going according to plan, but he looked like he was dying.

Dad smiled for show, but he didn’t like to talk that much since he had sores in his
mouth and a pounding headache most of the time. I had this uneasy feeling that he
was never going to completely bounce back. Tralina was good at reading body language
and managed to know when Dad was or wasn’t in the mood for visitors. The Spellmans
were so ubiquitous in the hospital, you could tell we were kind of wearing on the
staff. Maggie brought cookies to win them over; Rae brought bags of candy; I gave
Tralina the spa gift certificate that I’d gotten from Edward last Christmas. Clearly
it was a good move, based on the force behind the hug she gave me and the way she
got all teary-eyed afterward.

Mostly we were trying to compensate for Grammy Spellman’s presence. Being Grammy,
she didn’t seem to grasp the difference between a nurse and a diner waitress.

“Dear, could I trouble you for a glass of water? And maybe some carrot sticks.”

Thing was, the water and the carrot sticks were for Grammy.

Mom slipped the rest of the nursing staff gift cards and all the complicated coffee
beverages they could drink and other bribes to keep Grammy Spellman under containment.
Since Grammy Spellman’s likability quotient was on par with Rush Limbaugh’s, the bribes
may have been extraneous.

One morning when my mom and I were in the room with Dad, Mr. Slayter dropped by unannounced.
Tralina let the two-visitors-at-a-time rule slide for Slayter. He’s the kind of man
people make exceptions for. I had no idea he was planning to visit. He arrived bearing
a small gift, the size of a thick magazine, wrapped tastefully in red wrapping paper.

“I thought it was time we finally met, Mr. Spellman. I’m Ed.”

“Hi, Ed. I’m Al and this is my wife, Olivia.”

The two men nodded at each other in lieu of a handshake and Edward looked at my mother
and father and said, “I can see the resemblance.”

“Unfortunately,” I said, because it’s Dad’s side that dominates.

“Have a seat,” my mother said, clearing off a chair. The one I was sitting on.

Edward took a seat and I hopped on the window ledge.

“You raised a very unusual daughter.”

“Tell me about it,” Dad said.

“We didn’t read any of those parenting books,” Mom said, as if she had to explain
herself.

“Obviously,” Edward lightly replied.

On cue, Maggie arrived, lugging a car seat and Sydney, who was in a sparkling new
pink taffeta dress with not only a tiara as an accessory but also a chopstick doubling
as a wand.

She was ranting something about how she was princess of all the kingdoms. Sydney was,
not Maggie.

Maggie scooped up her daughter so she couldn’t stab anyone with the chopstick and
tried to contain that
Diary of a Mad Housewife
look that I’d only seen a handful of times.

“Hello,” Maggie said to the room. Then she saw Edward and said hello again.

Edward turned to Sydney and said, “Are you a princess?”

“Yes,” Sydney said. “A magic princess.”

“No, she’s not,” Maggie said. “She’s a little girl without any special powers.”

“Do you need a cookie, Maggie?” my mom asked.

Mom gave Maggie a couple of cookies from one of Dad’s gift baskets, which Maggie stuffed
in her pocket.

“I want a cookie,” Sydney said.

Sydney scanned the room, not sure who to turn to. Eventually it became obvious that
no one was going to give her a cookie or their kingdom.

“You need to take her,” Maggie said directly to me. It wasn’t a request. It was a
direct order. Still, I needed more data to acquiesce.

“Step into my office,” I said as we slipped into the hallway. “What’s going on?”

“Louis Washburn’s DNA tests came back,” Maggie said.

“Good news?”

“I’ve got good news, bad news, good news. What do you want first?” Maggie said.

“Surprise me.”

“His DNA was
not
found at the scene of the crime for which he was charged.”

“Awesome. Between that and the witness recanting her statement—”

“However, his DNA is a match to a rape/murder that happened two years before he went
in.”

“Shit. What’s the second good news?”

“The victim’s boyfriend was convicted of that crime. Since Washburn has some history
of sexual assault and was not a known associate of the vic, we assume he’s the killer.”

“So the boyfriend will go free?”

“Yes. David is in court today with his one case. He’s helping our elderly neighbor
stay in her apartment. I have to get to work.”

I picked Sydney up and the car seat and said, “Sydney, let’s go find you some serfs
you can abuse.”

“No Izzy,” Sydney said.

Maggie lowered the chopstick wand in her daughter’s hand, looked Sydney dead in the
eye, and said, “That is your aunt Izzy and you are stuck with her whether you like
it or not.”

“Thanks,” I said. “She’s going to need like five therapy sessions for that.”

Sydney and I walked Maggie down the hospital corridor. We caught Grammy on her way
in.