Authors: Lisa Lutz
O
n my way “home,” I phoned Petra and provided her with a newspaper-worthy bio on Gabe. She, in turn, provided the details of their budding romance, which had reached the stage of dating more than one night in a row but hadn’t yet gone in the his-and-hers-tattoos direction. When Petra finished relaying every single detail of her previous night’s rendezvous (and thanking me profusely), I solicited her services in the Harkey investigation. As usual, Petra was game for anything.
Petra arrived at the offices of RH Investigations at a quarter past twelve the following day. Dressed like a femme fatale from a 1940s film noir—red suit, hat, stilettos—she opened up her clutch purse and reapplied her lipstick.
“I have an appointment with Mr. Harkey. Please tell him Agatha Shveldenberger is here,” she said.
“Shevelden—?” I tried to say.
“Shveldengerber,” she said differently the second time around.
“Don’t overplay it,” I mumbled.
“I’m here for my appointment,” Petra said loud enough for Harkey’s ears.
“I need fifteen minutes,” I said as quietly as possible, then, “Take a seat,” at full volume.
I informed Harkey of his appointment through the intercom. A few minutes later, he led Petra into his office and shut the door. I quickly switched screens on the computer, followed Robbie’s instructions, and after a couple of seconds, the XYZ drive appeared. I cross-checked the folders and began hunting for audio files with the number associated with the Bancroft case. There was no time to listen to the recordings, so I backed them up on a key-chain USB drive, closed all screens, and got back to work transcribing a recorded interview as quickly as I could. Petra and Harkey exited his office almost fifteen minutes to the second from when they entered.
Harkey walked Petra to the door and said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you, Ms.—”
“A pleasure meeting you, Rick,” Petra said, departing with the same dramatic flair that marked her entrance.
“Why is it that all the good-looking girls are crazy?” Harkey said after Petra was safely in the distance. “Present company excepted,” he said with a disgusting wink.
“What’s her story?” I asked.
“She believes her husband has been abducted by aliens.
1
I would have taken the job if she had any money. I
love
alien abduction cases. Anyway, she’s broke. I told her I couldn’t help her but suggested she contact Spellman Investigations.”
Harkey returned to his office, enjoying his little joke. I spent the rest of the afternoon contemplating how I’d get myself fired.
After work I took the bus (I love the bus—have I mentioned that?) back to the general vicinity of my new home and hunted for my car, remembering that I had to move it for street cleaning. I walked to the corner of Green and Leavenworth, where my car was last seen, although, if you recall, I never remembered parking it there to begin with. After a twenty-minute hunt, I found it on Jackson near Leavenworth. I’d made certain to carefully
document my car’s coordinates (on a piece of paper). The car was most certainly moved, and not by me. The good news: I wouldn’t have to move the car for another four days. The bad news: Someone was playing games with me.
As I strolled over to my parents’ house, I debated which piece of equipment I would pinch to further my investigation on the phantom who was relocating my car. I decided a hidden camera was the way to go and I pulled a small device (about the size of a quarter) that I could conceal in a seam of fabric over the driver’s seat. I could hide the camera’s receiver in the trunk. I put the equipment into my backpack and was about to exit through the window when I overheard voices in the next room. I couldn’t resist listening in on what seemed like a slightly tense conversation:
DAD:
So how do you think you did?
RAE:
We’ll find out soon enough.
MOM:
You must have some idea.
RAE:
I really think we should just wait and see the results.
DAD:
I’m sure you did great.
RAE:
There’s nothing wrong with thinking positive.
MOM:
Why do I get the feeling you’re laying the groundwork for bad news?
RAE:
It was harder than the last time.
DAD:
How much harder could it be?
RAE:
All I’m saying is to be prepared for anything.
At this point I heard footsteps approaching the office door. I really didn’t want to make contact with my parents until they fully digested my apology letter, so I slipped out the same window I came in.
I returned to David’s house, scouted the perimeter for signs of my brother, and slipped into the apartment. That night, I listened to the recordings I acquired from Harkey’s office, which totaled over four hours. The conversations clearly originated from two bugs—one in Linda’s car and one in Sharon’s. Most of the recordings were nonnoteworthy. The
women were typically alone and would occasionally sing along with the radio. The one-sided cell phone calls provided most of the content, but even they, for the most part, told me nothing. Sharon called her husband’s assistant to make dinner reservations;
2
Linda called her husband and told him not to have meat loaf for lunch since that’s what she was cooking for dinner. Sharon also phoned her decorator, trainer, and dog walker.
I suppose what was noteworthy about these recordings was that neither Sharon nor Linda knew that they were being recorded, and there was no logical reason why either of these women would plant a bug in her own car. Mostly they drove alone. My point: If Harkey made these recordings, he was breaking the law.
After listening to most of the audio files, I began fast-forwarding through them until I finally came upon something of interest:
LINDA:
What are you afraid of, that I’m going to talk? I can’t figure it out. I feel like I’m being paid off.
I reversed the recording to where the cell phone conversation began and transcribed the contents of the call. On a hunch, I checked Sharon’s corresponding recordings to see whether a corollary conversation took place. I found something with the same date that sounded like a possible match. I transcribed that recording and merged the two transcriptions. What I got was enlightening, but not necessarily educational.
[The transcript reads as follows:]
LINDA:
Hello?
SHARON:
It’s me. Did you get it?
LINDA:
Yes, but I don’t want it.
SHARON:
Why not?
LINDA:
I just don’t. I don’t need those things. You don’t need those things.
How would I explain it to Ernie?
SHARON:
Tell him it’s a knockoff. He won’t know the difference.
LINDA:
Honestly, the idea of a purse costing two thousand dollars offends me.
SHARON:
Do you know how hard it was for me to get it?
LINDA:
What are you afraid of, that I’m going to talk? I can’t figure it out. I feel like I’m being paid off.
SHARON:
It was just a gift.
LINDA:
It’s not just a gift. I’m tired of the gifts. I’m tired of having things around I can’t explain to Ernie. I’m tired of your guilt.
SHARON:
You should have what I have. That’s all.
LINDA:
But why?
SHARON:
You know why.
LINDA:
What happened, what we did, took place a long time ago. I’m over it.
You should be, too.
SHARON:
We didn’t do it. I did.
LINDA:
Doesn’t he get suspicious? All these gifts to your low-rent friend.
SHARON:
Stop it.
LINDA:
Well, doesn’t he?
SHARON:
He’s asking questions. I don’t know what he’s thinking because he barely speaks to me.
LINDA:
He thinks that I’m blackmailing you—that’s what he’s thinking.
SHARON:
Well, he’s always been paranoid. Sometimes I wish I left him years ago.
LINDA:
You still can.
SHARON:
No, it’s too late. He’d find out for sure. And I’d lose everything.
LINDA:
You don’t need his money.
SHARON:
That’s my other line. I have to go.
My conscience wasn’t clear about how I acquired this information, but the call confirmed that my suspicions were justified. Now I only had to figure out what I was suspicious of. Oh, and take down Rick Harkey for his
violation of California Penal Code § 631(a) (eavesdropping), which makes illegal the taping of a private communication unless all parties consent. To be perfectly honest, the Harkey-takedown angle excited me more than whatever secrets Linda and Sharon were hiding. But that was just my bonus prize. I was still going to uncover their secrets.
S
aturday morning at ten
A
.
M
., I had to make a dangerous escape from David’s house. My brother, like clockwork, goes for a nine
A
.
M
. Saturday run (five miles). I had just assumed he had departed when at approximately nine forty-five I exited our residence
1
and circled the perimeter, just as David was leaving through the front door. I quickly backed into some shrubbery and managed to go unnoticed, but it was an extremely close call, which sent my adrenaline surging.
On the way to my parents’ house, I theorized about David’s new un-clockwork-like schedule. Then it occurred to me that David might have actually quit his job. Or, even worse, gotten fired. Then I began theorizing about why he got fired. I had some interesting theories, but they seemed a bit too sensational to entertain.
2
Fortunately, hard labor quieted my mind.
After arriving at 1799 Clay Street, I filled a bucket with water and dish soap and began scrubbing my father’s midnight blue Audi. Halfway through my lathering-up of the vehicle, Rae exited the house looking both curious and suspicious.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” I replied.
“Washing Dad’s car with the window still open. He’s gonna kill you.”
“Shit. Where are the keys?”
Rae pulled the keys from her pocket and tossed them at me. I opened the door, cleaned up the mess as best I could, turned on the engine so I could start the heater to dry the seat, closed the window, and continued my assigned task.
My sister studied me suspiciously.
“How much is he paying you?” she asked, as if no amount of money could get her to do the same.
I almost replied
Nine hundred dollars a month
but remembered my rule of silence.
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“It was dirty,” I replied. The tone of my sister’s inquiry indicated to me with almost complete certainty that she was not my blackmailer. The next logical choice was Dad. Therefore, when my father exited the house and questioned my activity, I played it like the knowing victim.
“Isabel, what are you doing?”
“Washing your car,” I said, stating the obvious.
“Why?”
“You know.”
Dad pretended like he didn’t and said, “We got your note.”
“I got
your
note,” I said.
“What note?”
“Fine. If that’s how you want to play it…”
“Excuse me?” said Dad.
“Can I assume you’re speaking to me now?” I asked.
“Yes, I’m speaking to you.”
“When I’m done with the car, I need to talk to you about something.”
“I’ll take you to lunch.”
“What is it with you and lunch?” I asked.
“Don’t forget the hubcaps,” Dad said. “I like to see them sparkle.”
My mom insisted that Dad and I have lunch alone, so we decided to go to a crepe place on Polk Street where she once claimed to have gotten food poisoning. My father made a big show of ordering the Greek salad. While my dad searched for all the nonvegetable items in his lunch, I told him about my discovery at Harkey’s office. This was serious information: I caught his mortal enemy breaking the law. I half expected my dad to hoot and holler when I passed on this groundbreaking news.
Instead, Dad sat in contemplative silence, deconstructing cubes of feta cheese.
“This case you’re working on,” Dad said. “Are you going to be able to let it go?”
“Once I figure out what’s going on,” I said.
“Curiosity is a good characteristic for this job, but you need to strike a balance. Maybe you should get a hobby.”
“Like what?”
“I have an idea. Why don’t you come with me to one of my yoga classes? I find it very relaxing.”
“Change the subject now, before I lose my entire lunch,” I said.
“Sheesh. It was just a suggestion.”
“Say something quickly to clear that image from my head.”
My father rolled his eyes and consulted the ceiling: “Have you gotten everything you need from Harkey?”
Come to think of it, I had. I think. As far as I could tell.
“Yes, I think so,” I replied.
“Give notice Tuesday,” my dad said. He wasn’t asking, he was telling. “But stay on good terms with Harkey.”
“Why?” I asked, only hours into my plan of creating havoc with his files.
“I have my reasons,” Dad replied cagily.
“Would you like to share?” I asked.
“No.”
What followed was more awkward silence, which I’m sure I handled
better than my father because A) I’ve been getting a lot of experience lately, and B) Dad was stabbing his salad with a little too much enthusiasm during the extended lull in conversation. Since I had a few more things to iron out, I spoke first.
“Are you going to stop blackmailing me now?” I asked.
“Whatever are you talking about, Isabel?”
Me:
sigh.
“Really, is it going to be like that?” I asked.
Dad looked me dead in the eye.
“Listen to me carefully. I’m not blackmailing you in any way. If you are being blackmailed, however, that leads me to believe that you’re doing something you shouldn’t be doing. I would really like to know what it is.”
“You’re really not blackmailing me?”
“No!”
“No need to shout,” I said. “But if you ask me to wash your car again, I’ll know it was you.”
My dad then started chuckling to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“I bet it’s your mother. She’s been nagging me to get the car washed for weeks.”
With my blackmailer mystery solved and my brief, soon-to-be-ending employment with Rick Harkey out in the open, I began to feel my spirits lift. I even was able to picture myself getting a full night’s rest. As I watched Dad try to catch a cube of feta with his fork, I made a short list of my current goals:
If you’ve read either of the first two documents, for me, this is nothing. In fact, I almost felt like I had not a care in the world.
But then my dad threw his napkin on his plate and said, “One more thing.”
“What?”
“You have one month to decide if you want to come back to work or not. If not, your mother and I are going to look into selling the business.”
“What?” I asked.
“One month,” my father replied. And that was the end of the conversation.