Authors: Lisa Lutz
As I returned to those pages, I felt a certain comfort in knowing that I was holding an unmutilated book, one that wouldn’t deprive me of resolution. I was lost in the last pages of “The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle,” in which Holmes searches for the origin of a goose that was sold containing a valuable stone in its craw. (There’s obviously more to the plot, but I don’t want to ruin it for you.) I always thought of it as a Christmas story for curmudgeons. Nothing too feel-good about, but I liked how Holmes didn’t turn the perp in at the end. Maybe that’s the crux of my affection for the fictional detective: his sense of justice wasn’t absolute, his codes were flexible, and while that flexibility wouldn’t work within police forces in the real world, I tended to agree with Holmes’s moral judgments. He made sense to me, that’s all. Although even
I
think he took way too many drugs.
I shelved the book and dinner was served. Now it was time to get what I came for.
“I’ve been patient enough,” I said. “What have you got on Harkey?”
“He has a lot of insurance clients. Did you know that?”
“You better start singing some real songs or I’m taking this pizza to go.”
“Do you know how he gets them?” Henry asked.
“I know! I know!” Rae said, raising her hand as if we were in English class.
I turned to my sister.
“You
tell me. Your answer sounds more interesting.”
“Schmoozing,”
Rae said, giving the word more length and significance than I thought it had.
“That’s how we get a lot of our clients, too,” I said.
“No, we don’t,”
Rae replied defensively.
“Yes, we do.”
“No, we don’t.”
“What do you think ‘schmoozing’ means?” I asked.
“Don’t you know?” Rae said, lowering her volume and staring at me like I needed a special ed class.
Henry, also closely following the conversation, appeared confused as well.
“Define ‘schmoozing,’” Henry said.
Rae rolled her eyes and replied, “‘To chat informally or be ingratiating toward somebody.’ But it’s code for taking clients to strip clubs and buying them hookers.”
“Huh?” Henry and I said in unison.
“Dad told me all about how Harkey got his insurance clients when I was asking Dad why we didn’t have more insurance clients.”
1
Henry and I didn’t argue the semantics; I was more troubled by the fact that Henry thought this code-word “schmoozing” was the kind of legitimate information that was worthy of my time.
I turned to Henry, growing annoyed. “That’s all you got for me? Schmoozing?”
“Why can’t Dad just go to a strip club if it means more high-paying clients?” Rae asked. “Or Mom, for that matter?”
“Shut up, Ms. Work-for-Free,” I replied.
While I was waiting for Henry’s response, Rae extracted the broccoli from her pizza with medical precision.
“Put it back on and eat it,” Henry said like a drill sergeant.
“I’m here for information, not pizza and conversation,” I interrupted.
“If I weren’t sitting at the ADD table, you would have the information already.”
“You have the floor,” I said. Then I turned to my own slice of pizza and stripped it of all vegetation. The act was less in protest of broccoli and more for the guilty pleasure of irking Stone. And based on his sharp gaze away from my plate, the irking was happening.
I had a sinking feeling that Stone was going to provide me with knowledge that was already on my radar. A large portion of Harkey’s business is insurance investigation. That I know. I also know that insurance cases are easily corruptible from almost any angle you look at them. First there’s the individual filing the claim, then the investigator investigating the claim and also the physician or insurance adjuster involved in assessing the damage, and last but not least, the lawyer taking the case. Each part of the system can find a way to rig it to his or her advantage. However, it would take hours of off-the-books surveillance for me to prove that Harkey was faking surveillance reports (which would be how a PI could corrupt the system). This was the kind of case that needed an inside man.
Unfortunately, I blew that chance last year when I went to work for Harkey part-time to access information on another case. It was then that I got evidence of Harkey’s corruptibility—recording conversations, a violation of California Penal Code §631(a). However, since I stole the recordings from his office, I was hardly in a position to mete out any form of justice. Now I had to find another way. Hence my two-hour wait for Henry’s shred of information.
“Harkey does worker’s comp investigations,” Henry began.
I interrupted: “Don’t tell me I sat through an hour of SAT prep and a garden pizza for that.”
“Zip it. There’s more,” he said, at his wit’s end. “Harkey’s brother-in-law Darren Hurtt is a worker’s comp physician who has been investigated for fraud, but nothing could be proven. He and Harkey are never seen in public together, but they could have a deal going on. If you could show the link, show Harkey’s team surveilling a claimant, and then show that same claimant entering Darren Hurtt’s office, you might have something there. Although, I do think I should mention that any investigation on Harkey would be extremely time-consuming and maybe unwise. But if you’re looking for an angle, it’s better than just sitting outside his office all day waiting for one to turn up.”
“I did that once, Henry. Just once.”
A horn honked outside. Rae cleared her plate from the table, scraped it in the sink, and stuck it in the dishwasher. Henry had apparently taught her well. She turned to her BFF and said, “That’s my ride.”
As Rae left, she punched Henry in the arm, thanked him for dinner, and said she would see him soon.
Henry replied, “Give me at least forty-eight hours.”
“We’ll see,” Rae said as she slipped through the door. “Bye, Izzy.”
After Rae departed, I quickly got to my feet, didn’t bother clearing my own plate, and took my coat from the rack.
“Where are you going?” Henry asked.
“I’m outta here,” I said. “The only reason I stayed this long was I thought she’d need a ride home.”
“That’s the only reason you stayed? I thought we were friends now.”
“That’s your opinion, not mine,” I said, making my way to the front door.
“There’s only one logical reason why you would be unable to remain my friend,” Henry said while blocking my exit through the front door.
“What’s that?” I smugly replied.
“You’re in love with me and can’t bear the thought that I don’t reciprocate your feelings.”
“I would smack you right now if I didn’t think the act would confirm your delusional diagnosis.”
“Thank you for not hitting me.”
“You’re welcome. Please step away from the door.”
“Unless you still have feelings for me, logically it follows that we are still friends.”
Tossing in the word “logically” must have confused me, or at least slid a confused expression on my face, since Henry elaborated on his logical theory.
“We were friends before. Do you deny that?”
“No,” I quietly conceded.
“Did I do something wrong? Did I betray you in any way?” he asked.
“No.”
“Is there anything else I did that was so awful that it would prevent our remaining friends?”
There was that unreturned kiss that torched my ego, but of course I didn’t mention that. “No.”
“Then we’re friends,” Henry said in an authoritarian tone. “Got it?”
“Got it,” I replied. But Henry was still blocking the door. “Friends let friends leave when they want to,” I explained.
Henry moved from the door. I was halfway out when I realized that Henry had another piece of information I could use.
“Since we’re friends,” I said, “and friends give up dirt on other friends, who honked the horn that sent Rae running?”
“Rae’s got a new boyfriend. Logan Engle.”
“Blech. I hate that name,” I said.
“So do I,” Henry replied.
And then I finally made my escape.
B
ack at headquarters, two weeks after the unfortunate camping trip, my mother watched me as I seconded Rae’s veto of Dad’s “family book club” rule (Rule #25).
“I’d use discretion with those, if I were you,” said Mom. “You only have five total and you’re already three down.”
“There’s no way I’m getting trapped in mandatory yoga [Rule #23—vetoed], lunchtime power walks [Rule #24—vetoed], and now a family book club. I’d rather just take out the trash every week.”
“Can you do me a personal favor and agree to something your dad suggests? He’s starting to get miffed that everyone’s nixing his ideas.”
“If he comes up with something reasonable, I’ll consider it,” I replied.
“Thank you,” she said.
Then, as if to provide a punitive incentive for future agreeability, my mother planted another rule on the board.
Rule #26—Isabel wears a dress to work once a week
“Huh?” I said, squinting at the board. Then I got to my feet and vetoed the rule.
My mom turned to me and smiled smugly.
“Remember,” she said. “You need two vetoes. The odds of finding someone to waste a veto on a rule that only affects you are slim.”
“I’d scale back on the bullying, Mom. One day, it might come back to haunt you.”
“Are you threatening me?” Mom asked, bemused.
“Whatever you want to call it,” I replied.
“How adorable.”
Work silence followed (we do indeed do some work along with the interpersonal war games). Mom returned to her billing input and I ran a series of background checks on employee applicants for our main corporate employer, Zylor Corp.
Then the phone rang. My mother looked at the clock and said, “It’s for you.”
I eyed her suspiciously but picked up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Isabel, It’s Gerard … Mitchell.”
“Oh, hi.”
Gerard was the client who saw me in my underwear the other day. Remember? Well, I do. He’s a lawyer with McClatchy and Spring. My dad has done work with their firm for years now and has always been their primary liaison.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Can you meet me for a drink later this week?”
“I guess so. Do you want my dad to come?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Is everything all right?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, normally you meet with my dad.”
“Oh, right.”
Silence.
“This isn’t that kind of drink,” Gerard said.
“What kind of drink is it?”
“The more social kind.”
“Huh,” I replied.
“It’s my understanding you have a quota to fill. You already know me and I’m fairly harmless. What do you say?”
Long, awkward silence followed while I glared at my mother and she smiled back with cheery delight.
“Isabel, are you there?” Gerard said.
“Yes,” I said, responding only to the most recent question but inadvertently agreeing to the date.
“Great. Thursday. Eight
P.M.
Top of the Mark.”
“How about a more low-key place?”
Gerard cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he replied. “The site has been predetermined.”
“Unbelievable,” I said. “I hope she’s giving you a hell of a discount.”
“She is.”
Knowing I had no other options, I reluctantly replied, “See you Thursday.”
I turned to my mother to engage her in some kind of bitter stare-off, but she refused to meet my gaze.
“We had an understanding,” she said, staring at her computer screen. “I’m merely facilitating.”
“I get it. But why does it feel like you’re always facilitating more with me than with your other children?” I asked.
Then my mother looked up and smiled wickedly.
“Not true. There’s a big blonde whom I saw leaving your brother’s house last Wednesday at four
P.M
. sharp. I’d love to know who she is, and based on my track record of accusing your brother of certain things,
1
I’m uncomfortable looking into this matter on my own. Can I interest you in a reciprocal negotiation?”
“What’s your offer?” I asked.
“In the future, you can choose half of the lawyer dates on your own—all the even-numbered ones. In fact, any professional will do. I’m feeling generous. Of course I will need some evidence that the date has taken place, but I’m sure we can work something out.”
“And what exactly do you want from me?”
“Just tell me who that big blonde is. And if she’s cause for concern, take care of the situation, if you know what I mean.
2
I like Maggie. I want her sticking around.”
“Don’t we all?”
H
enry’s information practically begged me to take a closer look at Dr. Darren Hurtt, brother-in-law of Rick Harkey. For three hours the following Monday morning, I sat in the foyer of a three-story office building, which also housed a dentist, a lawyer, a gastroenterologist, some kind of low-rent advertising company, and one general practitioner—Hurtt. I mentally tagged any individual who pressed the elevator button to the third floor and when that same person departed fifteen to twenty minutes later, I phoned my accomplice.
ME
: Subject is exiting the building now.
ACCOMPLICE
: He sure doesn’t look injured.
ME
: There’s also an advertising agency and a charitable operation on the third floor. His health might be impeccable.
ACCOMPLICE
: Can’t you park yourself on the third floor?
ME
: No. There’s no place to sit.
ACCOMPLICE
: Can’t you pretend you’re lost?
ME
: I can’t pretend to be lost for three hours in a twenty-foot-long hallway without being made.
ACCOMPLICE
: How are we spending quality time together if I’m in the car and you’re a hundred yards away?
ME
: It’s a shared activity.
ACCOMPLICE
: A boring activity at that.
ME
: I told you that surveillance is mostly sitting around waiting for people to do something. How did you think that would be exciting?