Trail of the Spellmans (27 page)

I took sixty dollars from my wallet and gave Charlie my burner phone, with my number on speed dial. Charlie wasn’t familiar with cell phones, which I found shocking but worthy of respect. I took a few minutes to explain the basics to him. Then I made a very simple request. “See if you can play a game of chess with Mr. Slayter. Learn what you can about him. Call me when he leaves.”

I sat for the next few hours at Specialty’s Café near the Montgomery BART station. I texted Margaret Slayter and informed her that her husband was, as she suspected, not at his poker game, but at the Mechanics’ Institute playing chess. She seemed completely uninterested in his deception but made it clear that I should inform her when he left. I then phoned the house to see if the Tortoise was around. D said he was out and offered no further information.

Then I phoned my father on his cell. “Hi, Dad.”

“Happy Halloween,” he replied. “Are you going as yourself again?”

“Yes. You’d never recognize me. Where are you?”

“At an undisclosed location,” he replied.

“Me too,” I said, ending the call.

I think it was safe to assume that my dad was on his own surveillance of Margaret Slayter.

Three hours later (people who like chess will play it for a very long period of time), I got a call on my cell phone from my burner.

Charlie said “hello” three times and disconnected the call.

I watched Mr. Slayter’s driver pull up in front of the Post Street building
and Mr. Slayter enter the vehicle. I was hoofing it, so I merely warned Mrs. Slayter that Mr. Slayter was likely on his way home. Her text reply was Thx. Still more polite than Rae, but equally suspicious.

I phoned Charlie to see whether he had more success answering calls than making them. He picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hello. Hello. Hello.”

“Charlie, it’s Isabel, formerly known as Jane. Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“I’m down the block at Specialty’s Café. Can you meet me here and I’ll buy you a warm beverage and as many cookies as you can eat?”
³

“Okay.”

Charlie showed up five minutes later, at which point I showed him how to answer and end phone calls. I made him order something and so he got a hot chocolate and a pumpkin cookie.

“Good luck sleeping tonight,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t sleep,” Charlie casually replied.

We sat down at the table and after Charlie took a few sips and a few bites, I began my inquiry. “How’d it go?”

Charlie then pulled out a notebook with algebraic notation and began to provide a truly mind-numbing narrative of the first game he played with Mr. Slayter.

I interrupted: “Charlie, I’m not all that interested in the game. Did you learn anything about Mr. Slayter while you were playing chess?”

“He favors his queen, seriously. She won’t come out until the endgame. He couldn’t care less about his knights. He treats them like pawns. But he has some good technique. He just seems rusty or something.”

“Did he tell you anything personal about himself?”

“He said he hadn’t played for years.”

“Anything else?”

“He told me his name. Ed.”

“That’s a start. And?”

“He said he needed to stay sharp.”

“And?”

“That’s about it. He was a good sport. He congratulated me when I won.”

“Congratulations,” I said.

A CHINK IN THE ARMOR

I
had to give my dad props for his ambitious Chinese wall. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in old Albert’s stringent efforts to derail my various lines of attack. He knew me well, he considered me a viable threat, and he took unforeseen measures to lord over his cases. Dad never slipped and he kept close watch on my extracurricular activities. On one point I had to concede defeat. Dad’s computer couldn’t be cracked, but Robbie could.

As far as I knew, Robbie never left his house.

However, he did own a 1992 Toyota, which would lead me to believe that sometimes he went somewhere. I put a tracking device on his car. One evening at seven
P.M
., it alerted me that Robbie was on the move.

A few days later, when I had some time to kill, I tracked his car to an apartment building in Daly City. His Toyota was parked in front of a three-unit stucco building with a trio of carports. I checked the mailboxes—first initials and last names only. I took a chance and called his cell. He didn’t pick up. I called again and firmly suggested he call me back. I phoned the office and had Demetrius run a reverse address check on the building.

Sally Shore, the only female under the age of sixty who resided in the building, lived in apartment #3 and she had a landline. I formulated a plan
on the spot. I’ve known Robbie almost eight years. He doesn’t make house calls—he manages virtually all of his technical support and verbal abuse remotely. His relationship with Sally was personal. And Robbie wasn’t the kind of guy who had a way with the ladies. He had an un-way. It was cruel, but this was my only opportunity to get what I needed from Gruber.

I phoned Sally’s number.

She picked up.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “Is Robbie there?”

“Um . . . yes,” she said.

“Can I speak to him?”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“He’ll know,” I said.

In the background I heard whispering until Robbie took the phone.

There was a nervous edge in his voice. “Hello?”

“Guess who?” I said.

“Oh, right. Um . . . I forgot I gave you this number in case of emergency,” Robbie said, trying to cover.

“That was pretty good,” I said. “You must like this girl.”

“What can I do for you?” Robbie asked.

“I think you know,” I said.

“The password?”

“Yes.”

“And if I don’t?”

“I’m right outside. I have a cheap wedding ring I leave in my glove compartment. I also have this mousy brown wig that makes me look extremely unattractive, which means potentially gettable for you. Sally probably isn’t into dating married men, is she?”

“You’ve crossed a line,” Robbie said.

“It’s kind of my thing.”

“Isabel,” Robbie said.

“What?”

“‘Isabel.’ That’s the password.”

My mother phoned while I was heading back to the office.

“We have a problem,” she said.

“I know,” I replied.

I was speaking generally. My mother was speaking specifically.

“You know what I’m talking about?” she asked.

“No.”

Sigh.

“What’s up, Mom?”

“Guess where Demetrius and Ruth are at this moment?”

“I don’t know, Mom.”

“They’re at the movies.”

“Again?”

“Again.”

“Together,” Mom said emphatically.

“I assumed as much.”

“This can’t go on,” she said.

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “I mean, how many Morgan Freeman films can be playing at one time?”

“He’s doing the voice-over for some nature flick.”

“What’s it called? Maybe I’ll see it.”

“This is not a laughing matter,” she said.

“I understand where you’re coming from. But isn’t it nice to have her out of the house?”

“You’re missing the point.”

“It happens sometimes,” I replied.

“I used to like him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Morgan Freeman.”

“Everybody likes Morgan Freeman.”

“I don’t. Not anymore.”

“Don’t blame Morgan Freeman. You’re going to have to figure out another way to smoke her out of the house. The old living-with-an-ex-con trick didn’t work.”

“This was entirely unexpected,” my mother said dramatically.

“I’m sure it was. What are you going to do now?”

“Cook dinner.”

“I like the way you think,” I said. “If you start cooking all the time, she might decide she’s had enough.”

“It wasn’t part of a plan, Isabel. I was just telling you that I was cooking dinner.”

“Oh . . . sorry.”

“One more thing, Isabel. I got a message from the Blakes. They want the Sparrow surveilled tonight. She mentioned something in an e-mail about Vivien saying she was going to a party.”

“Who throws a party on a Wednesday night?” I asked.

“College students who don’t have to wake up until noon. You really should have gone, dear,” Mom said as she hung up the phone.

I dropped by the Spellman offices to pick up the surveillance equipment, check on my mother’s mental status, and see whether the coast was clear to hack into my dad’s computer. I found my mother in the kitchen, devouring the last of D’s Crack Mix (the bit that was left in the safe).

“How are you doing, Mom?” I gently asked.

“I’ve got some ideas.”

“Where’s the Tortoise?” I asked.

“Out,” my mother replied.

“Grammy and D?”

“Still at the movies.”

“The Weasel?”

“I have no idea.”

“Why don’t you take a bath, Mom? You need to relax,” I said.

My mother looked at the roast and the open cookbook on the kitchen counter.

“I can put the roast in,” I said.

“Four hundred and twenty-five degrees,” Mom said. “Ignore the recipe.”

“Got it,” I replied.

Mom climbed the stairs and I entered the office. The Weasel could be anywhere, and I couldn’t risk having her walk in on me, so I sent her a text to get her coordinates. Five minutes later, no response.

Then I texted Fred.

Is Rae with you?

I haven’t seen her in months.

Huh. I’m impressed you’re making it work with all that time apart.
¹

??

Define: ??

We broke up. Didn’t she tell U?

As a matter of fact, she did not. This new development would require further investigation, but at that moment I had other matters to attend to. Without having a tracking device on every Spellman capable of entering the office, I had to take the risk. I locked the door,
²
sat down behind Dad’s computer, typed my name, and the next thing I knew I was copying files onto a data storage device that fit on my key ring.

I put the roast in the oven and checked the recipe. It called for three hundred and eighty degrees. Mom said four twenty-five; I jacked up the temperature to four fifty. I figured my mother had plausible deniability. She could blame me.

Then I picked up the surveillance camera, drove to the Mission, and double-parked in front of Vivien Blake’s residence.

SURVEILLANCE REPORT: VIVIEN BLAKE

November 2
2330 hrs

F
emale subject, 5’5”, 125 lbs, dark brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a gray hooded sweatshirt over a dark green military jacket, exits a San Francisco apartment building at Twenty-sixth and Noe. She walks east down the street, scanning the parked cars. She presses a remote key and looks for a flash of taillights. A BMW winks in the distance. Female subject spins in a circle, checking her perimeter; approaches car; gets inside; and starts the engine. She drives east down to South Van Ness Avenue and makes a left turn, stopping on the corner of Seventeenth and South Van Ness at the establishment of Oscar’s Auto. Subject drives vehicle into covered garage. Unable to establish a visual on subject for fifteen minutes.

2345 hrs

Subject and an unknown male (midforties, heavyset, wearing blue mechanic’s jumpsuit with the Oscar’s Auto logo embroidered on the breast pocket) exit the office of establishment. They approach a tow truck with the same logo painted on the side. Subject slips an unidentifiable object into
her pocket and jumps into a truck with unknown male. Investigator follows subject vehicle to a liquor store. Unknown male enters the store and leaves three minutes later with a large brown bag (about the size of a six-pack of beer).

The tow truck returns subject to the residence on Twenty-sixth Street where she was previously seen exiting. Subject rings the buzzer. (Could not establish unit number.) Female subject then enters the building and all visual contact is lost.

Like I said before: My father called, we got into an argument about the family nicknames, Dad asked me what Vivien was up to, and I lied. I lied because I didn’t know what she was up to, but I believe that sometimes young people should be allowed to get up to something without their parents finding out.

I also needed to get a handle on the situation before I disseminated any information. You could argue that what I was doing was as ethically dubious as my sister’s doctored reports. But there was a difference. I wasn’t swindling a client; I was protecting a subject. And I’m a firm believer that withholding information is not in the category of lying.

I think you know how the rest of this goes. I waited outside unknown male’s apartment and watched female subject defenestrate herself through a second-story window and walk back to her apartment. Then I arrived at Spellman central, where the Eagle was on the tarmac.

The smell of cremated roast lingered in the air.

My mother asked me about the Sparrow and then we sat in silence watching television. Breaking news on the tree sitters. Negotiations stalled. The newscaster reported the latest developments and the camera panned up the tree. My mother picked up the telephone and dialed.

“Rae. This is your mother calling. Get the hell out of that tree right now!”

Part III

RUINS

(November/December)

THE TREE INCIDENT

A
ll of the Spellmans, sans David, are notorious for getting up to no good, but Rae’s treetop triumph was the finest “no good” achievement in Spellman history. And that’s quite an achievement.

Within five minutes of the news broadcast, Mom and Dad had left for the scene of the high crime. With the television blaring in the background, I picked up the phone and said to my brother, “You will not believe this.” I might have said that phrase before, but I think it was the first time I really meant it. David’s television was also blaring in the background. A different program—one involving grown men singing to children.