Authors: Lisa Lutz
R
ick Harkey, director of RH Investigations, has been an acquaintance of my father’s since long before I was an ill-considered idea in anyone’s head. Harkey and my dad shared similar paths—both ex-cops turned PIs—but their similarities end there. To begin with, Harkey and my dad are physical opposites. Harkey is tall, lean, and handsome in an aged-movie-star kind of way. His crowning achievement is his full head of silver hair. There’s something not quite right about older gentlemen who struggle to hold on to their looks—they become even vainer than their high school counterparts, always boasting of their flatlining weight and regular haircuts. My study of this phenomenon is limited, but allow me to apply this one truth at least to Harkey: The man is madly in love with himself. In contrast, the only person my dad is madly in love with is my mom.
Harkey and my dad have history. The kind of history a kid figures out from listening in on conversations, observing odd parental behavior at parties said child wished she did not have to attend, and from flat-out questioning her mother years later. On the job, their personalities clashed. My father’s affable manner and ease with both friends and foes got under Harkey’s skin. Dad was well liked; Harkey was, at best, feared. Years later, when both men joined the PI community, they found themselves together at social gatherings more often than they’d have liked. It was at one of
these PI parties, well before I was born, that Harkey met my mother. He just couldn’t believe my big lug of a dad could get a woman so attractive and charming, and he made his disbelief well known. A few years later, at another one of those PI holiday parties—magnifying-glass key chains as party favors—Harkey commented once again on my father’s extreme good fortune. Dad took all this ribbing with an ounce or two of humor, but he knew Harkey’s heart was in the wrong place.
It wasn’t until a few years later at yet another holiday event that Harkey crossed the line: He made a play for my mom. All Dad saw from the other end of the room was my mother throwing a drink in Harkey’s face (I know, she’s right out of a black-and-white movie), but when Dad got the inside scoop, which surely was my mother’s watered-down version, the simmering tension turned to a boil. The two men could no longer be in the same room together.
As far as big cities go, San Francisco isn’t so big, and neither is the PI community. Harkey knew who I was. We’d met on a few occasions and I’m sure that just as I knew him by reputation, he knew me. I was fairly certain I could use this bad blood to my benefit. I think you will be most impressed to see how much I had improved between my first and second job interviews.
I arrived at Harkey’s office unannounced but knew that he would receive me with a warm welcome.
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
HARKEY:
My-my, Isabel. What a pleasure to see you.
ISABEL:
Sorry I didn’t make an appointment.
HARKEY:
You are a tall glass o’ water.
ISABEL:
Thanks for noticing.
HARKEY:
You’ve certainly filled out since I saw you last. Must be five or six years.
ISABEL:
Are you saying I’ve gotten fat?
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HARKEY:
No, no, no. You look lovely, Isabel. I’m honored by your presence.
[Note: I’m about to retch at this point but decide to push through.]
ISABEL:
You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here.
HARKEY:
It did cross my mind.
ISABEL:
I’m looking for a job.
HARKEY:
Excuse me?
ISABEL:
I’m sure you’ve heard about some of the troubles I’ve had recently. Everything is fine; my license is still intact, but the Parental Unit is holding a grudge. They won’t give me any work. I’ve been bartending for the last five months. The money’s fine but I’m itching to get back in the game. Know what I mean?
HARKEY:
Your parents won’t give you work?
ISABEL:
Nope.
HARKEY:
Really?
ISABEL:
I’m serious. Can you help me out?
HARKEY:
Right now I’ve got all the full-time employees I can keep in business.
ISABEL:
How about part-time? I heard you were looking for some help around the office.
HARKEY:
You’re overqualified for the job I have available.
ISABEL:
I just want to get my feet wet again. You understand, don’t you? Besides, I can’t work for my parents the rest of my life.
And that is how I began working for RH Investigations.
T
he next morning when I arose after yet another night of no sleep, I discovered that I was all out of coffee. I cried
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for about five minutes until I realized that David would have a fresh pot brewing and I could pretend I was in the neighborhood. I didn’t even bother getting dressed. I threw on a jacket and sneakers, checked my computer camera, and made my escape. I stood on the sidewalk, scoped the neighborhood for any prying eyes, and then casually walked up the front steps to David’s residence.
“Isabel,” David said, and then he stared for a long while at my ensemble. “What are you wearing?”
“Pajamas,” I replied. It’s best to be honest.
“Is everything alright?”
“I’m out of coffee and I was in the neighborhood. Please tell me you have some brewing,” I said, sounding maybe a little desperate.
David backed away from the door and allowed my entrance. He returned to his kitchen, where the
New York Times
was spread out across the table.
“Help yourself,” David said, almost pleasantly. Then he added, “You know there are a number of coffee shops in your neighborhood.”
“I know,” I replied. But none this close.
I stood in front of David’s coffeepot for a long while trying to figure out what was missing. There was something I was supposed to do next and I couldn’t for the life of me figure it out.
“You need a cup,” David said.
“Right,” I replied, and then darted my eyes around the kitchen aimlessly.
David got up, opened the cabinet, and handed me a mug. I poured the coffee, but my grip and coordination were shaky. David watched carefully, cleaned up a spill, and put the pot back in place.
“You okay?” David asked.
“I’ve been better,” I replied. Come to think of it, that statement was a little too true. I was sleepless, jobless, living in a basement apartment on the sly, in court-ordered therapy, and trying to solve one simple case to prove to myself that there was something, just one thing, that I could do right. Yeah, I’d been better.
I sat down at the kitchen table and pretended to read the paper while I drank the coffee like it was medicine. Then I drank another cup and then David made another pot. I looked at the clock: 8:45
A
.
M
.
“Don’t you have to go to work?” I asked.
“Taking the day off,” David replied.
Now that the coffee had kicked in and my eyes and brain were working at about 40 percent, I could see that David’s health was much improved since his return, which got me thinking again about where he was and why it was a secret. I decided that I needed the answer to this mystery as well. The thing is, people usually make sense. When they don’t, I have to make sense of it to feel right. I’m not sure why, but it’s always been that way.
“Why would you say you were in Europe when you were camping
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probably not too far from here?” I asked.
“Because I want to live my life without someone else providing a running commentary,” David replied.
Hmmm, he had a point. Besides, I was feeling just a bit guilty or indebted about living in his apartment without him knowing, so I thought I should try to play it cool and give him some space. I did, however, need to obtain a few more particulars.
“The elaborate lie about a European vacation was just so we wouldn’t know what you were really doing?” I asked.
“In a nutshell.”
“Could you provide me with a few more details and then, I promise, not another word out of me on the subject?”
“Under one condition,” David replied.
“What?”
“Tell me which booze bottles you tampered with so that I don’t have to taste every single one.”
“Deal,” I replied.
For the next ten minutes, David, in honest, no-defenses mode (uncommon among the Spellman children), explained to me that in the year after his divorce he felt aimless and unsatisfied with his work and his personal life and was experiencing some kind of pre-MILFO.
3
At some point in the midst of this angst, David was leafing through a magazine at his accountant’s office and saw an ad for a “life-changing” wilderness program. He tore the page from the magazine and spent the evening perusing the program’s website.
The program offered a three-week excursion, the prospect of which both thrilled and terrified my brother. For five days you were instructed on how to survive in the great outdoors. Then you were dropped by helicopter in the middle of nowhere (namely Yosemite) and were expected to fend for yourself alone for the next two weeks. Equipped with a tent, a sleeping bag, canned goods, a guide to edible vegetation, one change of clothes, a kerosene lamp, a few fishhooks, and a couple other things I don’t remember but I suppose I would if I were ever caught in a similar situation, David
was left to his lonesome. He described the first few days as utter agony. But then peace took over. Within a week of his abandonment he had figured out a daily routine and the hours passed effortlessly. A few days after that, he found some kind of inner peace or whatever. Then he broke his arm slipping on a bluff during a hike for food, which probably really tested that aforementioned inner peace. He made a sling out of his extra shirt and somehow managed to survive until he was “rescued.”
My immediate response to this tale was,
Are you a complete moron?
But I’ve learned that my first response is often the one I should keep to myself.
“Were you scared?” I asked instead.
David seemed relieved that these were the first words to exit my mouth when he finished his tale.
“The whole time,” he replied.
While I was sorting through the liquor cabinet, meeting my end of the bargain, David said, “We should go camping sometime. I think it would be fun.”
That time I forgot and responded with the first thing that came to mind.
“Are you a complete moron?”
A
ll I wanted to do after my morning coffee was go back to bed, but since sleep wouldn’t come to me in the middle of the night, I could assume I wouldn’t find it in the middle of the day. Since the David mystery was solved, I decided to work on my other secondary case.
I had only the license plate number of the gray Mercury Grand Marquis that had pursued Maggie. I didn’t want my parents to know I was investigating this matter, so I couldn’t use their source for this research. Reverse license plate searches are a tricky deal. Often you can’t get the vehicle owner’s address, and the information is closely monitored. However, if you happen to be friends with a cop, that’s another story.
It had been approximately six months since I last called in a favor with Sheriff Larson (Ex-boyfriend #10). I decided he was my best bet. Our relationship was brief and there was little attempt at friendship afterward, but he always managed to track down a criminal record or a vehicle registration for me, so I knew he’d come through.
Meanwhile, I hunted for the location I’d left my car the previous night. I had taken a shower and washed off the ink, but I distinctly remembered writing down Green Street and Taylor Street on my arm. However, in the vicinity of Green and Taylor, my car was not to be found. Just as I was beginning to panic about my own mental well-being, Larson called and distracted me.
“That was fast,” I said.
“Your Grand Marquis belongs to a retired cop,” Larson replied. “Tell me you’re not investigating him.”
“I’m not investigating him.”
“You telling me the truth?”
“I swear. Do you have a name?”
“Pete Harrington. He lives at the Marina. You need his dock number?”
“No, thanks,” I replied. “I know where he lives.”
After a few more minutes of car hunting, I abandoned my search and hopped on the bus. I napped for an hour and missed my stop. I exited the bus, got on another bus going in the same direction, and set the alarm on my cell phone clock for forty-five minutes later. Miraculously, I got in another nap as my head bobbed against the grimy window. I almost felt refreshed by the time I exited the bus at the Marina.
Pete Harrington was a retired cop who lived on a houseboat. A long time ago he took me and David sailing. I’m not sure why, but I think he lost a poker game to my dad, who, hoping to educate, inform, or at least broaden my horizons, suggested that some of Pete’s losses could be recouped by a day of sailing and, more importantly, babysitting. Pete owned the boat outright and his pension was solid, so he didn’t need or want too much extra work, but every once in a while he’d do a job for one of the many PI firms in the Bay Area. Pete had no loyalty to any one firm, so I decided not to make any assumptions.
As I traveled down the dock, I spotted Pete, tanning his leathery skin in the unusually bright but still chilly San Francisco sun. It looked like he was sipping iced tea, but knowing Pete it was spiked with something, even though it was well before noon.
Pete didn’t mind the interruption. He got to his feet, gave me a bear hug, and insisted that I stay for a cocktail. Pete served his cocktails in tumblers, so it took a while to finish. We caught up, enjoying the conversation, the sun, and the water, and I pretended very briefly that I hadn’t a care in the world. As for the reason I paid a visit to Pete, well, I finally got around
to asking about that when it was time to leave. I didn’t want Pete to think this was anything but a social call.
“Pete, why did my mom hire you to follow that brown-haired woman who drives the dark green Subaru?”
“She never told me and I never asked,” Pete replied.
The morning drink with Harrington and the bus ride prompted another lengthy nap. This time I rode the full route of the 49 bus (starting on Van Ness Avenue and North Point Street, all the way to City College and back to the lower Nob Hill neighborhood) and found myself, two hours later, approaching my parents’ house. I purchased a cup of coffee at the corner shop and by the time I reached the Spellman residence, I think I could have passed a basic math test.
“Mom,” I said, trying to invoke the tone of disappointment so often used against me, “why are you investigating Maggie Mason?”
“I’m not investigating her anymore. It’s over,” my mother replied, sounding more annoyed or frustrated than guilty.
“Why were you following her in the first place?”
“Looking for dirt. Why else?” Mom replied.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t play dumb.”
I had an inkling, but I wasn’t committed to it. “Explain yourself, Mom.”
“I found nothing,” Mom said, taking a sip of her coffee and then spitting it back in the cup. “Yuck. I think that was from yesterday.”
“Why are you disappointed?”
“Because she’s great. I mean,
great.
She’s smart, she’s thoughtful, she’s a bit of a nut in a good way. Completely addicted to Diet Coke. If you look in the back of her car, there are at least a dozen dead cans. She volunteers for Project Literacy and a soup kitchen and nobody knows about it. A
homeless man lives in the foyer of her building. I asked him about her—his name’s Jack—he said he’s her doorman and she makes him peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches.”
“Gross,” I said.
“That’s his favorite,” Mom continued. “And she tips well, he said. She always has food in her pocket; I don’t know why that amuses me. And she’s figured out how to make friends with Rae, which is no easy feat when Rae’s set on taking you down. I don’t know. There’s something special about Maggie.”
“Are you going to leave her alone now?” I asked.
“I have no choice,” my mom replied. “There’s
nothing
I can do for you here, Isabel. She’s perfect. If I were Henry, I’d pick her, too. She’s got a better job and she’s less emotionally stunted.”
“It might have been better for both of us if you never admitted your motivation.”
“I agree,” my mother replied.
“What am I going to tell her?” I asked. “I arranged to look into this matter for her.”
“Since you’re so willing to look into matters for people, why don’t you just come back to work?”
“I’m not ready,” I replied. “Now, what am I supposed to tell Maggie?”
“You don’t have to tell her anything. I’ll talk with her. Say something about how I needed to investigate her since she was spending so much time with my teenage daughter.”
“You think she’ll buy that?” I asked.
“If I sell it,” Mom replied, and I knew she was right.
I got to my feet. I couldn’t spend another second in that house. I did, however, have to get in my last words: “And you people wonder why I’m in therapy?”
By early evening, I was ready to return to David’s and my house and get a good night’s rest for my first day on the job at RH Investigations. There was one pressing matter, however, that I had to take care of first: find my car.
I toyed with the idea that it had been stolen, but stealing a ten-year-old Buick with three dents, a missing hubcap, and a duct-taped fender doesn’t seem like the best use of one’s time.
I searched for an hour, and just when I was about to give up, I found my car parked on Leavenworth at Green. I even had a ticket for parking during street cleaning. I wondered how this kind of mistake could be made. “Leavenworth” looks nothing like “Taylor,” even if it’s written on your arm. Since I found the car and it was safe to park in that spot until morning, I left it and returned to my house. Once again, I scouted the vicinity before scaling the perimeter fence and entered through the back door.
I slept a full three hours
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until I woke up in a panic, hearing sounds by the exit that sounded almost like someone turning a key in a lock. I sat for fifteen minutes in a crouch with my ear to the door, preparing to jolt into hiding should I see the knob actually turn. You’ll be happy to know that it was a false alarm. An hour later, after checking the video feed on my computer and practicing some deep-breathing exercises, I was back in bed, simulating sleep.