Authors: Lisa Lutz
I
drove by David’s house on a reconnaissance mission. I didn’t want to bother parking unless I was certain I could find safe passage into my apartment. I saw Maggie’s car in the driveway. I assumed that Rae had insisted on a drop-off at my brother’s house and then further insisted that Maggie come in for coffee, tea, or s’mores. Who knows?
I had time to kill and was at a loss for how to use it. At the moment I wasn’t sure where to take the investigation. I’m not the kind of person who makes to-do lists, but if I was, going to the museum would have been on the list. According to the literature included with my ransom note, SFMOMA stayed open late on Thursday. It was Thursday. I phoned Henry.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.”
“Good. So you’re not busy,” I said.
“That’s one way to look at it.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
“Where are we going?”
“SFMOMA.”
Forty-five minutes and twenty-four dollars later,
1
Henry and I strolled among the permanent collection. Henry liked to stop and stare for a long time at each piece. Me, I liked to grab all the free pamphlets I could get my hands on and attempt to memorize as many artists’ works as I could, just in case my blackmailer decided that a quiz was in order.
I can’t say that I was 100 percent bored, but Henry’s extended viewing started to get on my nerves.
“Okay, let’s move this show along,” I said after I timed him staring at a Jackson Pollock
2
piece for thirty-four seconds.
An hour and a half later, Henry and I exited the building on Third Street and found a diner a few blocks away. Over a grilled chicken salad (for Henry) and a burger and fries (for me), we did what I suppose most people do after taking in some culture. I considered this practice overly time consuming: Look at art and then talk about art. I don’t see why people can’t look and talk at the same time.
“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Henry asked.
“It was okay,” I replied. “These fries, however, are amazing. Are you sure you don’t want to try one?”
Henry shook his head disappointedly. “Seriously, Isabel. Wasn’t there one piece of artwork that you liked?”
“I guess I kind of dug that Rauschenberg guy.”
“Which piece?”
“The one where he erases the other guy’s drawing,” I said.
“
Erased de Kooning Drawing
?”
3
Henry clarified.
“That’s the one,” I said. “I probably would have liked it even more if I knew that de Kooning guy.”
The remainder of our dinner conversation revolved around more familiar territory. Henry informed me that french fries don’t count as a vegetable and I accused him of eating like a girl on a diet. Then we decided to stop arguing about food and I told him about Morty and Milo leaving me for warmer climates. Henry said that this sort of thing wouldn’t happen if I made friends my own age. I ignored him for three minutes after that comment until he mentioned that we needed to review our plans for the sting operation.
The evening ended a few hours later when I dropped Henry off at his door. In case you’re wondering (and I know you are), there was no goodnight kiss or confession of undying love. Okay?
(REVISITED)
[Partial transcript reads as follows:]
DR. RUSH:
Two weeks ago you mentioned that you were being blackmailed.
ISABEL:
Did I?
DR. RUSH:
Yes.
ISABEL:
Must have slipped my mind.
DR. RUSH:
Would you like to talk about it?
ISABEL:
Nah.
DR. RUSH:
Well, I’d like to talk about it.
ISABEL:
It’s really not that big a deal.
DR. RUSH:
Do you know your blackmailer?
ISABEL:
I’m in the process of narrowing down the list of suspects.
DR. RUSH:
How does your blackmailer communicate with you?
ISABEL:
Anonymous notes.
DR. RUSH:
What do they say?
ISABEL:
I
really
don’t want to talk about it.
DR. RUSH:
If these sessions went according to your plan, you’d sit here in silence for an hour eating your lunch.
ISABEL:
One time
I asked you if I could eat lunch.
One time.
DR. RUSH:
Tell me what the gist of the notes is and then we can move on.
ISABEL:
“I know your secret. If you want to keep it you will meet my demands.”
DR. RUSH:
So, what’s your secret?
ISABEL:
I thought we were moving on.
DR. RUSH:
We are. To what your secret is.
ISABEL:
[sigh] My blackmailer knows where I live. At least I think that’s the secret he or she is referring to.
DR. RUSH:
Where do you live?
ISABEL:
I don’t want to lie to you, Dr. Rush.
DR. RUSH:
I’m flattered.
ISABEL:
I don’t want to tell you the truth, either.
DR. RUSH:
Are you being serious, Isabel?
ISABEL:
I sense judgment in your tone, Doctor.
DR. RUSH:
Right now I’m just confused. The judgment part will come later.
ISABEL:
You’re funnier than Dr. Ira.
DR. RUSH:
My couch is funnier than Dr. Ira.
ISABEL:
See?
DR. RUSH:
You really aren’t going to tell me where you live?
ISABEL:
If it makes you feel any better, most people don’t know where I live.
DR. RUSH:
My feelings don’t come into play here.
ISABEL:
It’s nice to have one person I don’t have to worry about.
DR. RUSH:
Are you getting enough sleep?
ISABEL:
No. But I drink a lot of coffee and take the bus, so things even out.
DR. RUSH:
Why can’t you sleep?
ISABEL:
I’ve got a lot on my mind.
DR. RUSH:
[impatiently] For instance? [Long pause.]
ISABEL:
Something strange is going on with my brother.
DR. RUSH:
We’re not talking about your brother.
ISABEL:
It’s my therapy. I thought I got to choose the topics.
DR. RUSH:
Let me ask you a question: Have you been hired to investigate your brother?
ISABEL:
He’s family. You don’t need a paycheck to investigate family.
DR. RUSH:
I’d like to return to the topic of blackmail.
ISABEL:
Why?
DR. RUSH:
Because it’s a clearly defined stressor in your life.
ISABEL:
It’s not that stressful. Can we
please
talk about something else?
DR. RUSH:
If you can come up with a topic as good as blackmail, I’m game. [Long pause while I pretend to think of a worthy subject.]
DR. RUSH:
I’m onto you and your long pauses.
1
ISABEL:
Okay. I’m being bribed by a political consultant.
DR. RUSH:
Seriously?
ISABEL:
Yes.
DR. RUSH:
Why?
ISABEL:
Because he thinks I know something. But I don’t know anything…yet.
DR. RUSH:
What does he think you know?
ISABEL:
If I knew that, then I’d know.
DR. RUSH:
[sigh] Is this bribe incident connected to the blackmail?
ISABEL:
Absolutely not.
DR. RUSH:
What makes you so sure?
ISABEL:
The bribe is serious. The blackmail is child’s play.
DR. RUSH:
I need you to be more specific.
ISABEL:
My blackmailer is making me wash cars and go to the zoo.
DR. RUSH:
Go to the zoo?
ISABEL:
It was supposed to be SFMOMA, but I thought I could go to the zoo instead. My mistake. My point is they are entirely unconnected. [Long, long pause.]
DR. RUSH:
[sigh] Bizarre forms of blackmail, bribery, secret residences. The odds of all of this happening to one person, Isabel—
ISABEL:
It sounds worse than it is.
DR. RUSH:
Let’s look at this from a different perspective. Your imagination has gotten you into trouble in the past. That’s why you’re in therapy. You can’t deny that you tend to put a paranoid slant on most things you observe.
ISABEL:
That was the old me.
DR. RUSH:
Are you sure?
ISABEL:
I’ve made progress, Dr. Rush. Lots of progress.
[Long, long pause.]
ISABEL:
Haven’t I?
O
n my way home from therapy, I was followed. Since I usually park my car within several blocks of David’s residence, and only the blackmailer knows where I live (presumably), I had to assume that someone—probably Harkey or one of his goons—had put a tracking device on my vehicle. To throw my pursuer off, I parked my car west of Van Ness near Broadway. This would put me in a different neighborhood than my usual and would confuse my tailer, until I could lose the tracking device. In case anyone was following me on foot, I didn’t return “home” straightaway; I crossed Van Ness and entered a café on Polk Street.
If I know Harkey’s logic like I think I do, he put a tail on me to derail my investigation. Either through intimidation or interference, he figured he could get me off the case. However, the tail confirmed that there really was something to investigate—so it had the opposite of its intended effect. Dr. Rush might argue that this was a perfect example of taking my job to extremes, but some truths have to be uncovered. I may have made some wrong turns in the past, but so far on this case I had no regrets. What I knew for sure was that I had to get to the truth before Harkey did.
I could only assume that the core of the Truesdale/Bancroft mystery rested in their distant past, mostly because I couldn’t find any recent dirt on either of them. I’d had trouble locating any bank records on Linda, and
tax returns are impossible to access. I had a feeling that Linda had money in her own personal account, but unless I could get a look inside that PO box, I’d never know. I needed to dig deeper. The only information I had from Ernie was where the women attended high school. Like so many other things in modern society, that information is protected by strict privacy laws. I couldn’t get my hands on anything unless I bribed a school administrator, and I was keeping this investigation clean. Well, mostly.
I looked up both women on classmates.com,
1
and neither had registered under Benjamin Franklin High School. I searched the listings for the year Linda graduated and zeroed in on the person with the most recent activity. Her screen name was fairydust611,
2
which led me to the conclusion that she was either a unicorn-loving lunatic or a drug dealer, but I figured a drug dealer had better things to do than reconnect with her high school classmates. Lunatics are often far more forthright with their information than the sane, so this boded well for my investigation. I e-mailed fairydust611 and asked her whether she had been in touch with Linda Truesdale since high school. I explained that I was an old friend who lost her contact information in a fire (I figured fairydust611 would appreciate the sense of drama).
After I sent the e-mail, I ordered a coffee and scoped out the café, looking for signs of trouble. But all the patrons looked legitimate for this area of town, this time of day, and this sort of establishment. One of the problems with Harkey’s business is that his surveillance guys look like surveillance guys. You can spot them from a mile away. Hidden in a car, they can slip past your periphery, stay on your tail, and maybe go unnoticed for hours. But on foot, they stand out like sore thumbs. This was one reason Spellman Investigations had a leg up on the surveillance business in the city. Sure, we often hired retired cops or security guys, but we also employed college students, part-time porn shop clerks,
3
and three women of varying ages and sizes (if you count me).
While I waited for fairydust611’s reply, I checked my e-mail:
To: Izzy Ellmanspay [[email protected]]
From: Henry Stone
Re: Rae
Message:
Isabel, please tell Rae to stop calling me. One message a night is more than enough. And, I should add, not ONE of those messages was an admission of guilt. In fact, she’s never offered a sincere apology for changing my locks or anything else she’s ever done. Tell her “I’m sorry you’re angry” is NOT an apology. Also, don’t tell me to use call block, because she just borrows her friends’ phones.
Thank you for handling this matter.
Henry
I e-mailed Rae, relaying the message, but I had a feeling it would fall on deaf ears or blind eyes. Henry was mistaken in thinking I’d have any more sway than he would, but I admired his hard stand against communicating with Rae. One of these days I would have to try it myself. Sometime during my e-mail game of “telephone,” fairydust611 replied.
To: Izzy Ellmanspay [[email protected]]
From: Fairy Dust [[email protected]]
Re: Linda Truesdale
Message:
Howdy, Ms. Ellmanspay. I don’t remember any Linda Truesdale at B.F. High. Are you sure Truesdale is her maiden name?
Cheers,
Betty
I was happy to learn that fairydust611 had a real name and was quick to reply. I shot her another e-mail straightaway.
To: Fairy Dust
From: Izzy Ellmanspay
Re: Re: Linda Truesdale
Message:
Betty,
Thank you for your quick reply. Do you remember a Sharon Meade?
She would have been two or three years behind you.
Thanks,
Izzy E.
I waited five minutes for another speedy reply but maybe fairydust611 had to cook meat loaf or dust off her unicorn statues. I slipped my computer into my bag, slung my backpack over my shoulder, and exited the café, scanning the pedestrians on every adjacent street corner to note whether I had a tail.
I crossed Van Ness Avenue, checking over my shoulder a few more times. As I approached my car, I could see no signs of a tail, so I decided it was time to reposition the GPS that was planted. I sat down on the curb, pretending to tie my shoe, and then I lay down on the cement and checked under the curb side of my vehicle. Rae’s GPS was inside the back rear fender. The new one was just under the front right fender. After I removed it, I looked it over and found a small label:
RH
. Putting your initials on a tracking device you’re using covertly? Behold the unique blend of arrogance and stupidity that is Rick Harkey. I was amused that he thought so little of me that I wouldn’t figure out his method. But Harkey is famous for believing women are good for just a few things. I scanned the area one more time and placed the device on the cleanest car in the vicinity, figuring that was the one that got driven the most. Then I felt a short surge of elation as I imagined the inconvenience Harkey and his men would suffer at my hand. Then I started letting my mind wander, dreaming of further revenge, but I stopped myself. I had a few other worries that took precedence.
Fifteen minutes later, as I approached David’s and my house, I saw a new car—specifically, a new Toyota Prius—in his driveway and decided to investigate. I knocked on his door.
“Why are you always in the neighborhood?” David asked when he saw me.
“I live here, didn’t you know that?” I replied.
I know,
I’m becoming reckless. I blame exhaustion.
“I suppose you want to come in,” David said, not seeming all that broken up about the idea. He was wearing something strange. Loose-fitting clothing in a fabric that looked all-natural or breathable or whatever. Ew. (Sartorial U-turns are always a sign of something—why shouldn’t I be curious?) I refrained from commenting, which took most of the strength I had left, because I wanted to find out about the car first.
“Not if you have company,” I said, nodding my head at the unknown vehicle.
“Something wrong with your neck?” David asked.
“Whose car?”
“Mine,” he replied casually. It was an effort, the casualness. As if he were trying to convince me that the whole topic was casual and I shouldn’t think twice about it.
“That’s not your car,” I said.
“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Are you coming in or not?”
I followed David into his house. I was distracted by the car and the meaning behind the car and whether my brother was turning into someone new. I honestly didn’t have any valid complaints about the new David—at least what I knew of him. Well, I could complain about the skipping-work part because it cramped my coming-and-going style, but that didn’t seem fair. Still, there were motivations to uncover.
“Where’s the BMW?”
“I traded it in.”
“And why did you get a new car?” I asked, trying to maintain the casual air.
“I wanted to reduce my carbon footprint,” David replied.
It was a reasonable response, but nothing is that simple with David—switching from a luxury sedan to a Prius signals more than just a whim of ecological conscience.
“Are you having a MILFO?” I asked.
“Why do you insist on reducing complex issues to simple terms? Sometimes people change without some sensational backstory to explain it. Sometimes people need to change and they’re not even sure why.”
Was it possible that my brother’s mystery was no mystery at all, just some kind of vague life change prompted by divorce, age, and the Discovery Channel?
“My therapist would love you,” was all I said.
“So, how is that going?” David asked, casually twisting the conversation over to me. Don’t worry, I can’t be twisted.
“Nineteen sessions
4
down; five to go.”
“Have you discovered anything new about yourself?”
“Of course, but I’m prohibited by professional ethics from discussing what happens in therapy.”
“No,” David said, both sighing and rolling his eyes, “your therapist is prohibited from discussing your sessions. You are free to talk about them.”
“Well, I’ll have to research that and get back to you.”
Long pause.
“Why is it that you dropped by again?” David said, sounding tired.
“Oh yes. I remember,” I said, remembering. “Why did you have some woman call Maggie and ask her survey questions?”
David turned to pour himself a drink so that I couldn’t read his expression.
“I didn’t,” he said, sounding believable. But he is a Spellman; he knows how to lie and he
was
lying.
“I might believe you if it weren’t for that embarrassing question about the Monkees.
5
Fortunately, she wasn’t sure whether you were referring to the band or the primate.”
David paused briefly, debating whether he felt like fessing up. He did.
“I could never date a woman who had a crush on Davy Jones. I just couldn’t. Everyone has their standards,” David said, repeating something I had heard at least a dozen times before.
“I certainly wouldn’t date a man with a crush on him,” I replied.
David turned to me. He had a serious question on his mind. I wanted him to ask, so I planted an expression on my face that I’ve learned comes off as friendly and nonjudgmental.
“I
really
like her,” David said as if it were a deep, dark secret. He wore his guilt like a Christmas sweater.
“Dude, I figured that out already,” I replied.
“What do I do?” he asked.
My response suddenly seemed really important to me. I don’t remember David ever asking me for advice. And when I say ever, I mean, like, never. I felt a sense of responsibility to get it right. My first reaction, oddly enough, was that it would be kind of fun to have Maggie around more often. But then I had to look at the big picture. Was there any inherent conflict in David dating Henry’s ex-girlfriend? I thought about it—quickly, because David wasn’t going to wait all day for me to mull it over—and came up with something that I have to believe was a sensible response.
“Nothing just yet,” I replied. “You let Rae continue whatever bizarre matchmaking schemes she’s got planned, and in a few weeks you can ask Maggie out.”
“What about Henry?”
“Don’t worry about Henry. I caught him on a date the other night.”
“You don’t see a problem?” David asked.
“Nope,” I replied with great conviction.
The only thing that mattered in this picture was that Henry and Maggie were no longer together and from all accounts were going to stay that way.
“Let me just give you a piece of advice,” I said. “If you and Maggie start going out, don’t check her pockets, even if you think you’re going to find candy in there.”
“Huh?”
“Just remember those words,” I said.
My work at David’s was done. I just needed to decide whether I would risk a quick dart around the house and into my apartment or if I’d kill time elsewhere until I had a safer entry.
“Any plans tonight?” I asked.
“No, I’m just staying in reading my book about blah, blah, blah.”
Sorry, I should really pay more attention when people talk, but I had the information I needed six words into the sentence.
“Sounds like a fun night,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”
Once again I took a huge risk: I strode down David’s front steps, scoped the area for nosy neighbors, and circled his residence, stealthily entering through the back door.
When I checked my e-mail later that evening, fairydust611 had kindly replied.
To: Izzy Ellmanspay [[email protected]]
From: Fairy Dust [[email protected]]
Re: Re: Re: Linda Truesdale
Message:
Hi Izzy,
I remember Sharon Meade. She was a sweet girl. Two classes behind me, I think. You should e-mail some of the alumni from 1983. They might have her contact information.
I sent a quick thank-you e-mail to fairydust611 and then hunted for the most active profile from the Benjamin Franklin alumni from 1983. Lavae Aldrich ([email protected]) was my most promising informant. She also had a MySpace page and a blog.
6
I sent her an e-mail and went to bed.
My phone rang in the middle of the night. It was jarring, but not as much as it would have been if I’d been asleep. My habit was to keep my phone on vibrate, but I was getting sloppy, as you’ve undoubtedly noticed. I dashed toward my jacket pocket, removed the phone, and inadvertently opened it instead of silencing the ringer. Remember, I was tired. The call was connected and when my eyes were able to focus on the caller ID, I saw that it was my mother. So I figured I should take the call. Besides, even on her worst day, my mom is more interesting than David’s ceiling.