Trail of the Spellmans (8 page)

I was looking forward to a few more hours of quality time with Gerty, drinking and getting more of the inside scoop on Ex #13. I was not surprised to learn that Henry played the trombone in the marching band and tried to start a Young Republicans club when he was ten. Gerty grounded him for a week, after which he saw the error of his ways. I asked if Henry resembled his father since he clearly did not take after Gerty, and she confirmed that he was the spitting image—in both appearance and character—of William Stone. I had an army of questions on the tip of my tongue, but Gerty fired back and twisted the conversation in the direction I’d been sidestepping all night.

“Let’s be serious for a moment, Isabel.”

Serious is seriously not my thing, but I was being polite for the guest and didn’t mention that.

“Sure. Okay.”

And then Gerty asked me the questions that she had been asking Henry during my interrupted reconnaissance mission. As you might expect, I didn’t have the answers. I looked at my watch and announced that it was past my bedtime.

“Next time, just tell me to mind my own business,” Gerty said.

“Would that have worked?”

“Sleep tight.”

Easy for her to say. My conscience hasn’t been clear for thirty years.
⁴

I slipped into bed as stealthily as possible. Apparently not stealthily enough. The moment I rested my head on the pillow, Henry stirred and then mumbled.

“How long are you going to play this game?” he asked.

THE WEEKLY SUMMIT

W
e originally called it a company meeting, but my father thought the tone wasn’t quite professional enough and redubbed our Friday-afternoon powwows as the Weekly Summit in the futile hope that these hour-long gatherings would stop tumbling into low-rent group therapy sessions. During the weekly summits we discuss new cases, handle any in-house disputes (which can be quite numerous for an organization that pays only three full-time employees and one part-timer), and organize the workload for the week ahead.

I’ve never attended a summit in which at least one party didn’t have a private agenda, and this week was no exception. Once the family nicknames were doled out (and protested) and the code-phrase clinical trial voted in,
¹
I took the floor with what I believed was a valid argument that would undoubtedly be persuasive.

After a full review of the Vivien Blake case, I wanted it disappeared. I believe in privacy even though it is my job to invade it. While I have on occasion breached my own code of ethics for my work, the Vivien Blake case gave me pause more than any other. If she were to learn of her parents’
betrayal—and no matter how you cloak it, a betrayal it was—that relationship could be destroyed forever. There is a sharp distinction between being under direct scrutiny by your parents and being scrutinized by an agent of your parents. One is a family matter; the other is harassment.

Since I had lost the vote when the original discussion took place, it was only at the summit that I learned that Rae was to become the primary operative on the case. Aside from the case being at odds with the whole keeping-Rae-focused-on-her-schoolwork agenda, the method of the investigation struck me as ethically dubious. This wasn’t a simple surveillance job; we were planting an undercover operative in Vivien Blake’s world. With Rae, the perfect collegiate mole, Vivien would never know that she was being watched. That’s always the goal, of course. But usually, subjects at least have a fighting chance of figuring out they’re under investigation. Vivien had been a minor only six months ago. I believe in the folly of youth. I believe in rebellion and questioning authority and I even believe it’s okay to commit a few misdemeanors now and again. “Try to steer clear of felonies” is my motto.
²
But Vivien wasn’t being given the chance to sow her wild oats. Speaking from a point of authority, it’s best to get that shit out of the way when you’re young.

I just assumed I’d have an ally in my sister on this subject. I was shocked when she studied the file and agreed to the case without even a moment of doubt.

“Rae, don’t you have a problem with this?” I asked.

“No,” Rae flatly replied.

“Why not?”

“Because surveillance is part of the job,” Rae replied.

“She’s only eighteen,” I said.

“And instead of moving into a dormitory like your average freshman, she chooses to rent an apartment in San Francisco. That’s a lot of responsibility for a girl that age,” Mom said.

“It’s still not a valid reason to take the case.”

“This isn’t a time to turn down work,” Dad said.

“It’s not all about money,” I said.

At this point Rae turned to Demetrius and said, “Ignore her. It’s almost always about money.”

Demetrius then made a show of looking at his watch. “Time for my lunch break,” he said, escaping the final scraps of the meeting.

I turned to my sister, trying to find a way to reach her. “What would you do if Mom and Dad hired someone to follow you?”

“I’d shake him and get on with my day,” she replied.

“You
really
don’t have a problem with this?” I asked again.

“Nope.”

It was then that I finally accepted that Vivien Blake wasn’t going anywhere, or more specifically, wherever Vivien Blake was going, we were going to know about it.

In a weak retaliation against my sister’s alignment with the unit, I tried to burrow down to the core of the David/Rae mystery dispute.

“Rae, why don’t you tell Mom and Dad about the prostitution ring you were running out of David’s house?” I said.

“They know why I was kicked out,” Rae replied.

“Oh yeah? Why?” I asked.

No answer. I cleared my throat.

“Anyone planning on answering my question?” I asked.

“I thought everyone knew,” Dad replied.

“No, not everyone,” I said.

“She was dipping into his liquor supply,” Dad replied, trying to look appropriately concerned, but since dipping into the liquor supply is the equivalent of littering in the alternate universe of Spellman crimes, his expression belied the intended sentiment. Rae was getting a tap on the wrist and it was for a crime she did not commit.

“Is that what David told you?” I asked.

“I thought the punishment was a bit harsh,” Dad said. “But his home, his rules.”

“Huh,” I said, watching my sister aimlessly shuffle papers on her desk to avoid my gaze.

I sent my sister a quick text message.

I’m onto you.

Get a life.

In the last five minutes of the summit we split the office work and delegated the surveillance cases. Mom and Dad took the case of the Man in the Library; I took the Lady in the Navy-Blue Suit; Rae, as predetermined, studied the file of the Girl with the Rap Sheet; and per my agreement with Mom, Walter Perkins was all mine. As for Demetrius, he steered clear of all surveillance assignments. “Call me crazy,” he once said, “but following white people around doesn’t sound like the wisest pastime for an ex-con.” I told him he didn’t know what he was missing. He argued that he did, since he used to case joints when he was a TV thief. To each his own. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of excitement over the broad scope of our new casework; aside from the break in monotony, it provided me with some excellent quality time away from the office, and hence, my family.

However, other people’s families were a different story. As I drove home from work, I found that I was almost looking forward to another evening with Gertrude Stone.

She was out cold (or napping as some people call it) on the living room couch but woke as soon as I arrived home (through the front door, no less). The moment she saw me, she rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, got to her feet, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“What have you got in mind?” I asked.

“A friend of yours called and invited us to the grand reopening of the Philosopher’s Club.”

“What friend?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t catch his name.”

“Did he have an Irish accent?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I dated a mick once; I know what they sound like.”

Automatically assuming that Milo was back in town, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden shift in my personal weather. Was it possible that Ex-boyfriend #12 (Connor O’Sullivan) had skipped town and returned the bar to its rightful owner, which meant that I could become a rightful patron once again?

“Let’s go,” I said, calling a cab. I had a feeling that neither of us would be in any condition to drive after we knocked back a few.

“I’ll leave a note for Henry,” Gertrude said.

The note read:
Isabel and I are not here. Love, Mom.

Twenty minutes later, feeling a surprisingly pleasant buzz of anticipation at the prospect of seeing my old friend Milo, Gerty and I entered the dim cave of the Philosopher’s Club. The familiar scent of hops and dishrags brought back comforting memories. I looked to the end of the bar, and whatever hint of a smile had begun to surface faded quickly. The bartender, on the other hand, was all aglow when he saw me. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he said.

“You’re back,” was my only reply.

“You betcha,” he said. “Bernie’s back for good.”

The next thing I knew, I was trapped in a bear hug and I couldn’t get out.

EDWARD SLAYTER

M
onday morning at eight
A.M.
, I began my surveillance of subject Edward Slayter. I sipped coffee and sat in my car three doors down from his home and waited for him to depart for the day. According to Mrs. Slayter, he had a board meeting at nine
A.M.
His driver would pick him up somewhere around eight thirty. At eight twenty-five, a black Town Car drove up to the Slayter residence in Pacific Heights. A male driver in a black suit and tie left the car double-parked, idling in the middle of the street.
¹
Since the Slayters have a fat driveway, especially for San Francisco, I found this behavior particularly irksome. However, the Town Car was not left idling for long. Not quite forty-five seconds after subject’s driver rang the Slayters’ doorbell, Mr. Slayter strode down his driveway and got into the backseat of the car.

Edward Slayter was described by his spouse as a handsome, fifty-five-year-old male, with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, with an athletic but not overly muscular build. The clinical nature of her description struck me as a bit odd. Spouses usually add humanizing details—he has a scar on his chin from when he fell out of a tree as a child; there’s a mole above his
eyebrow that he talks about having removed every now and then; he has an ever-so-slightly receding hairline, which he monitors religiously. But Mrs. Slayter added no personal flourish to the portrait of her husband. The only unnecessary detail she added was that his walk was always brisk, as though he were in a perpetual rush. Since Mr. Slayter was a busy man with many fiscal responsibilities, this detail seemed extraneous.

My instructions were simple, too simple: Monitor subject’s activities. If they strayed from his reported schedule I was to promptly notify Mrs. Slayter via text message. Typically, further documentation is requested—photographs, videos, and written reports. I asked Mrs. Slayter if she was interested in any of that and after a brief, reflective pause, she said, “I don’t believe that will be necessary at this time.”

The driver zigzagged across side streets to South Van Ness Avenue, one of the primary veins that run through the city, and turned south. The dense morning traffic forced me to keep a close tail, which is always problematic if you’re following a subject who is expecting a tail. As far as I could tell, neither the driver nor the subject took much notice of the navy-blue Buick that was never farther than two cars behind them.

As expected, the Town Car pulled up in front of 111 Market Street. Mr. Slayter did not wait for the driver to open his door. He was one of that rare breed of rich folk who still know how to open and close car doors all on their own. Subject leaned into the car again and spoke briefly to the driver. Subject closed the door and the Town Car pulled back onto Market Street and disappeared into the distance. Subject then entered the building, but not without first holding the door for a few other pedestrians.

Street parking in downtown San Francisco requires good karma or ESP, as far as I’m concerned, so I never even consider it an option. I found a ridiculously pricey garage nearby and gave the attendant an exorbitant tip to keep my car near the exit. Then I sat on a stoop outside the building and opened a book to kill time. It was a slow death. The next time I checked my watch, only an hour had passed. I returned to my reading until I felt a shadow above me.

“Do you like chess?” a middle-aged man in a shabby wool sweater that smelled of body odor and, I think, one of those pine-tree air fresheners you get at the car wash asked with a wide grin on his face. He was missing a tooth, which as far as I could tell was better off than the ones that remained.

“Excuse me?” I said, trying to breathe through my mouth.

“Do you like chess?”

“No,” I flatly replied.

“That’s funny,” he said, smiling.

“Why is it funny?”

“Because you’re reading a book on chess.”

“Oh, I get it.”

“See, it’s funny.”

“I don’t find it as funny as you do,” I replied.

“Would you like to play?”

“Play what?”

“Chess.”

“I just told you I don’t like the game. Why would I want to play?”

“If you don’t like chess why are you carrying a chess book around?”

“Because my boyfriend wants me to like it.”

“But you don’t.”

“I don’t.”

“Have you told him?”

“He thinks we should have some common activities.”

“That makes sense. Can’t you pick something else?” he asked.

“That’s the problem. There really isn’t anything else.”