The Spellman Files (24 page)

A
few days after Mrs. Snow called me, as I was leaving the house (through the front door), my mother asked me if I was going to see the dentist. Since I had given her no evidence that the dentist was back in my life, my suspicion turned in the obvious direction.

I waited in Rae’s bedroom for her to return from school. I opted against snooping and simply flopped down on her bed and picked up her worn-out copy of
The Catcher in the Rye.
I wondered for how many years that novel would remain a staple of adolescent bedrooms and wondered why Rae’s teenage malaise had not yet kicked in. Then my eye caught a camera case by her desk and I unzipped the charcoal-gray canvas bag and studied the brand-new digital still camera that rested inside.

A moment later, Rae entered her room.

“How did you get in here?” she asked.

“You’re not the only one who can pick locks,” I said as I zipped up the bag.

“You have other business here?”

“Just a few questions.”

“Let’s have ’em.”

“Have you been following me, Rae?”

“I stopped that a long time ago.”

“Does Mom know that you went to see Daniel?”

“Don’t tell her. She won’t like it.”

“Does she know I’ve been seeing him again?”

“A week ago I heard her tell Dad that she was sure it was over.”

“Who is David’s new girlfriend?” I asked quickly, hoping to throw her off and get an unfiltered response.

“I’m not falling for that,” Rae said as she kicked off her shoes.

“How much did that camera and the equipment cost you?”

“I’d have to look up the receipts and do some calculations.”

“Give me a rough estimate.”

“Five hundred dollars—give or take.”

“Give or take what?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“Were you raised by La Cosa Nostra?”

“I don’t know. Were you?”

“It’s blackmail, Rae. Blackmail is bad. Why don’t you get that?”

“I’m glad this case is over.”

“Who says it’s over?”

“Mom says. The missing boy’s mother called and told you to stop.”

“Did she?”

“You know she did.”

“How do you know?”

“I got ears.”

I grabbed Rae by the collar, twisted it three hundred and sixty degrees, and shoved her against the wall.

“If you are lying to me and I find out, I will make your life a living hell.”

“You already are!” she shouted.

“HOW DO YOU KNOW HIS MOTHER CALLED ME?! ARE YOU SPYING ON ME?! WERE YOU LISTENING AT MY DOOR?! WHAT WERE YOU DOING?!”

“I overheard Dad tell Mom that the guy’s mother called you and ended it.”

“Dad said this?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What time?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Try.”

“At night.”

“You sure?”

“I wouldn’t testify under oath—”

I tightened my grip and said, “Are you pretty sure?”

“Yes. I’d like you to leave now.”

She didn’t need to tell me, I was already out the door.

I returned to my apartment and looked for the bug. In all my twenty-eight years, I never thought my parents capable of sinking this low. Even when I was Old Isabel, they refrained from breaching basic laws of privacy. In California it is illegal to record someone without at least one party’s consent. I began wishing I had dated those lawyers my mother set me up with, so I could use one of them to help me file a complaint against her. It seemed almost inevitable that one day we would see this poetic caption:
Spellman v. Spellman.

The original conversation that my parents appeared to have knowledge of had occured on my cell phone. They don’t have the technology to tap a cell line. However, I do recall mentioning, at a later date, my conversation with Mrs. Snow to Petra, on my land line. Tapping a regular phone is a piece of cake. Even though phone taps are illegal, they are not a recreational drug, and therefore I am not an expert on them. But to pull apart a room inch by inch, you just need patience, not expertise, which I have when I know for a fact that I will find something to incriminate my parents. I followed the phone line to the jack and tracked the same line along the wall and outside. I climbed out the window and crawled down the fire escape, visually tracing the trail to the base of the house. Simple telephone monitoring devices can be attached at any point on the phone line and, when used in a conjunction with a voice-activated recorder, prove to be an excellent choice for monitoring a single phone line. I concluded, based on the information Rae presented to me, that my father had overheard my phone conversation and that is how he was privy to that information. However, reaching back, it appeared possible that he simply overheard one side of the conversation. Mine.

When I couldn’t find any device attached to the phone line, I began looking for a bug somewhere in my apartment. At seven hundred and fifty square feet, wall-to-wall furniture, and seven years of accumulated clutter, finding a device that might fit inside your nostril wasn’t easy.

I needed help. I needed the help of a neutral party. I thought about calling Daniel, but I couldn’t imagine in what universe “Wanna come over to my apartment and help me look for a bug?” would sound normal and I was working really hard at trying to be normal with him. I called Petra, but she wasn’t home. The only person who was home was Uncle Ray. He was always home, unless he was at a poker game or a bar. I asked Ray if he wanted to help me look for an audio surveillance device. Uncle Ray asked me if I had any beer. I did. It is rare that my universe presents me with such perfect symbiosis.

Since Uncle Ray lives with my parents, I often forget that he has a beautiful sense of detachment. Unless the fight turns him into one of the warring parties, he stays out of it. Usually one potato-chip-munching line like “I’m watching the game here” says it all. Petty disputes between individuals mean nothing when teams of men have decade-long scores to settle. The only thing Uncle Ray knew was that he was looking for a bug. It never would have occurred to him that his brother had planted it.

I tore apart the apartment in an unfocused, unsystematic search. Uncle Ray sat on my bed and drank three beers. Then he walked over to an outlet next to my bed, unplugged a lamp, then an alarm clock, pulled a three-way adapter out of the socket, and handed it to me.

“Thanks for the beer,” he said and left the room.

My instinct was to rage, to contact attorneys—maybe the ACLU—but my intellect told me to play it cool, to calculate my response. As it turns out, neither my instinct nor my intellect is really all that reliable. I took the adapter and relocated it to the file room. They’d figure it out eventually, but it bought me some time. I needed to get out of the house to clear my head. I needed to be in non-Spellman territory. I got in the car and drove to Petra’s.

Petra met me at the door, wearing a strapless black satin evening gown with a lace shawl. Her hair was tied up conservatively and several of her extraneous piercings had been removed.

She was taken aback by my presence. “What are you doing here?”

“I just found an audio surveillance device in my room. Are you going to the opera?”

“No. Just a function.”

“With whom?”

“Oh, this guy I met recently.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s a…doctor.”

“Really?”

“Well, I haven’t verified it with the AMA, but I’m assuming he’s told me the truth.”

“What’s his name?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

“Usually you mention when you’re seeing someone new.”

“Don Sternberg.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s his name.”

“If you insist.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No. I’m good. Have fun with the lawyer.”

“Doctor,” Petra corrected me.

“Doctors, lawyers. They’re really all the same, aren’t they?”

“Not if you’re in the emergency room.”

The conversation was going nowhere, at least nowhere near the truth. I looked at her arm and noticed another void where a tattoo used to reside. I believe it was the gravesite with “Jimi Hendrix, RIP” written on the tombstone.

“Why’d you get rid of Jimi?”

“People change.”

“They do? I had no idea.”

I left Petra’s apartment and drove to the one place where I knew I could get answers. I didn’t have to knock on his door. I didn’t have to ask any questions. All I had to do was wait outside David’s home and see if he left wearing a tuxedo and then I would know for sure: My brother was not only dating my best friend, he was buying the silence of a fourteen-year-old girl and catering to the whims of his fifty-four-year-old mother just to keep this one fact from me.

I felt a surge of self-righteousness, a powerful need to prove that the measures they took against or because of me were wrong—or at least unnecessary. As I predicted, David exited his home in formal wear. I drove away before he could spot me. I would deal with the two of them later.

Staged Dental Appointment #3

My parents and I agreed on a temporary reprieve. The warring had taken its toll on both sides. However, the reprieve didn’t include Rae. After convincing my mother, I broke the news to my sister.

“You have three cavities. Daniel will see you tomorrow at four o’clock sharp. Don’t be late.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” she asked.

“You make that appointment or you will be very sorry.”

Later that night, I walked into the living room and caught Rae and Uncle Ray watching television together. On the screen Laurence Olivier washed his hands in the sink and asked Dustin Hoffman, who was tied to the chair, “Is it safe?”

I stepped behind the couch and stared at the screen.

“Is it safe?” Olivier asked again as he unrolled a collection of dental tools.

I turned to Uncle Ray, betrayed. “Do you think this is helpful? Watching
Marathon Man
the night before her dental appointment?”

My sister shushed me and stared attentively at the television. Uncle Ray played innocent.

“What?” he said. “It’s a good movie.”

“Is it safe?” Olivier asked one more time, as I made my exit.

The following afternoon, Rae sat in examination room #2, nervously awaiting Daniel. She could hear him saying his good-byes to Mrs. Sanchez, who was done for the day, and remembered at the last second to turn on her tape recorder. He was still a dentist, wasn’t he? Months later, I would discover the following transcripts with Rae’s visual commentary:

[Daniel enters the room.]

RAE
: Dr. Castillo?

DANIEL
: I told you, it’s Daniel, please.

RAE
: Are you positive I have three cavities?

DANIEL
: Positive. In fact, I’ve never been this sure of anything.
[Daniel washes his hands.]

RAE
: Could I see the X-rays?
[Daniel stares at Rae for an uncomfortably long time.]

DANIEL
: Don’t you trust me, Rae?

RAE
: Sure, I’d just like to see the X-rays.
[Daniel picks up a set of X-rays, puts them up on a back light, and turns it on. He points to specific areas on her teeth.]

DANIEL
: One and two in your lower right second bicuspid and first molar. The third in your upper left lateral incisor.

[Daniel takes out a syringe.]

RAE
: Don’t you need your nurse to assist you or something?

DANIEL
: She’s gone for the day. We’re all alone. Now open wide.
[Rae doesn’t open wide.]

RAE
: How can I be sure those are
my
X-rays?

DANIEL
: You’re stalling, sweetheart. Now be a good girl and open your mouth.

RAE
: I asked you a question.
[Daniel leans in close.]

DANIEL
: Are you afraid of me, Rae?

RAE
: I’m afraid of having unnecessary dental work.

DANIEL
: A little pain never hurt anyone. Personally, I think it builds character.

RAE
: Isabel said this wouldn’t hurt.

DANIEL
: Do you believe everything your sister tells you?

RAE
: No, I don’t.
[Daniel prepares the novocaine.]