Revenge of the Spellmans (21 page)

E
arly Tuesday morning, I dropped the letter in my parents’ mailbox. I then took a detour before work. Robbie Gruber—a computer expert who runs a business named Call-A-Geek—has been Spellman Investigations’ go-to guy for technical troubles for as long as I can remember having technical troubles. No one can sort out a computer problem better than Robbie. However, it comes at a cost.

I’ve seen Robbie bring my mother to the brink of tears and watched him and my father almost come to blows. Robbie tosses around the word “moron” like he has a daily quota to fill. He accuses you of being so dimwitted that you couldn’t find an on/off switch without a map. His shouting will unnerve you so much that you won’t be able to follow his simple instructions—“CONTROL! ALT! DELETE! HOW FUCKING HARD IS THAT!” And when your computer is restored to health and Robbie is packing his things to go, he will shame you into thanking him.

Robbie keeps his front door open (which doesn’t seem wise when you have the kind of enemies he does), so I let myself in. When he saw me, he didn’t say hello but rolled his eyes and continued doing whatever it was he was doing.

“Hi, Robbie,” I said with a tone of perkiness I was sure would irritate him. “I need your help.”

“I’m busy. Come back later,” he replied.

I pulled up a chair and sat down next to him. “Nope.”

I took the log sheet from my bag and put it on Robbie’s desk, along with two twenty-dollar bills.

“I’ll make it quick,” I said.

“What?” Robbie said, finally making eye contact. Although I’ve noticed that it’s not eye contact he makes. He looks at the spot just between your eyebrows. He can’t stand to look you in the eye.

“Look at the log sheet,” I said. “All the files are in their exact location except I can’t find the XYZ drive. There is no XYZ drive when you look in the browser. I’ve also checked the individual computers in the office. Should I assume it’s an external hard drive?”

“You lost a file on your own computer?” Robbie asked in a tone so condescending it would be impossible to duplicate.

“Not my computer. Someone else’s. I’m trying to figure out why I can’t find this folder when everything else is easy to access.”

Robbie glanced at the log sheet and went back to work.

“Probably a hidden share drive,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I’m not explaining that to you. You won’t understand—I guarantee it. Just follow my directions and do not deviate from them in any way. You can’t just use the network browser to search for the drive—it won’t work, because it’s a
hidden
drive, get it? Go to the Tools menu and choose Map. Network. Drive. Do I need to repeat that?”

“No, I’m recording you,” I replied.

“After you Map Network Drive, type in backslash, backslash, computer, XYZ, dollar sign. When I say ‘computer’ I’m using a placeholder for the name of your file server. Don’t type in ‘computer’ like a complete moron. And a dollar sign is just a dollar sign—shift-four. Got it? And you know what a backslash is, right? It’s leaning backward, not forward. If you do exactly what I tell you, you should find your file.”

“Are you sure?” I asked. “Don’t make me come back here.”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Robbie replied, snatching the money off the desk. “Close the door on your way out.”

The front desk at RH Investigations was backed against a wall and offered a clear view into Harkey’s office if the door was open, so it followed that he had a clear view of me. With the door open and Harkey’s eye on me whenever he didn’t hear the click of the computer keys, my window of opportunity to search for the relevant files was limited. I decided there had to be a better way.

A
fter exiting the offices of RH Investigations, I turned on my cell phone. There were five voice mail messages, as follows:

MESSAGE
#1: It’s me.
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So I need the scoop on this Gabe guy. Great hair. Call me.

MESSAGE
#2: Izz, it’s Rae. So, Mom and Dad got your letter. They seem less mad. I’d be happy to facilitate a peace deal for a small fee. I’ll be in touch.

MESSAGE
#3: Izzele, it’s Morty here. I just want to make sure I’ve thought of everything in regard to the whole moving to Florida business. Give me a call so we can put our heads together.

MESSAGE
#4: Isabel, it’s Gabe. I’m not sure what you did about Grandpa, but good job. Thanks. Oh, and your friend Petra gave me a great haircut. Um, yeah. Okay, that’s all. Good-bye. Call me if you get the chance. I have something to ask you.

MESSAGE
#5: Izzy, why am I getting mail for you at the bar? I thought we talked about this.
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Before I hopped on the train to the Philosopher’s Club, I returned the call that required the least effort.

“Hi, Morty, it’s Isabel. Listen to me very carefully: You have two choices. You move to Florida or you and Ruthy get a divorce. End of story. If you need help packing, give me a call.”

I managed to fit the above words in between “Hello” and “Wait!”

Within twenty-five minutes of hopping on the Muni train (it was too crowded to sit, and therefore to nap) I was at the Philosopher’s Club, reading the following letter in the customary ransom note format.

Would Like to Keep Your
Secret, Wash, Dry, and Wax Your
Father’s Audi this Weekend

If my blackmailer was Rae, she was trying to redirect suspicion toward my father. What was odd about this strategy was that she could only enjoy the status of puppet master but not reap any other rewards. If the note didn’t have Rae written all over it, I would have accused my dad of the crime. Either way, it was disappointing, since I would have to spend at least two hours on a Saturday morning tending to his vehicle. I had to pay for someone’s silence, but I’d rather pay that than rent. I blocked out Saturday morning on my schedule and hoped that it would silence my sister for a while. If not, I would have to retaliate.

Then I ordered a drink and sat down at the bar. Clarence misread my sluggish deportment as sadness and approached with the clear intent of improving my spirits. He said nothing but this:

“A skeleton walks into a bar. He orders a beer and a mop.”

I didn’t get it at first, but when I did, convulsive laughter took over—the embarrassing, unstable kind of laughter. When I finally came to I felt nauseous and needed a nap. I found my way to a booth in back and sprawled out.

“This ain’t a motel! Wake up, Izzy!”

Milo, the human alarm clock, ruined my much-needed rest, and then he
didn’t stop to say hello. He turned to the Irishman, said something about going to the bank, reminded him not to let people sleep, and then left.

As I was trying to shake off my afternoon sleep-hangover with an Irish coffee,
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Henry entered the bar. Alone. He sat exactly one bar stool over from me, as if he didn’t even see that I was there.

I slid over to the next bar stool and said, “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like this?”

Henry turned to me, surprised, and said rather angrily, “Where have you been?”

“Just over there,” I said, pointing at my previous bar stool. “And over there before that,” I added, pointing to the inviting booth.

“I dropped by your house two times last week. The first time I rang your buzzer at one
A
.
M
.—”

“What are you doing ringing my buzzer at one
A
.
M
.?”

“Let me finish.”

“Okay,” I said, studying Henry’s demeanor. He was not himself that day.

“The second time, I woke up some guy who said you had moved. Where?”

“I can’t believe they rented that place already. I bet the new tenant looked sleepy.”

“Where are you living?” Henry asked.

Think fast. Think fast. Don’t ruin this great thing you’ve got going.

“I’m staying with a friend for a bit. You know I was laid off here, so I need to save my money.”

“What friend?”

“No one.”

Connor approached and pointed at Henry’s almost empty whiskey.

“An I get ya anooder?”

Henry said yes and slid his glass forward.

“You understood that?” I asked.

“Ow abut you, orgeous?” Connor then asked me.

“Would you please stop calling me that?
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I’m good for now.”

Henry sipped his refreshed drink and consulted the ceiling.

“Did you move in with that Gabe kid?”

“Are you crazy?”

“Then where are you?” he asked.

“I’m crashing at my friends Len and Christopher’s place in Oakland.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I don’t have a job and can’t afford rent,” I replied. “And don’t tell anyone named Spellman.”

“Don’t worry. I’m not talking to any of them.”
5

“Well, if you do end up talking to them, don’t mention that I moved out.”

Silence ensued, which, as I’ve explained before, I’ve grown quite comfortable with. But then I got the feeling that Henry maybe wanted to talk to me about something. There are hundreds of bars in this city, many near his home, any one of which he could patronize and drink alone in.

“How’ve you been, Henry?”

“Fine,” he replied abruptly.

“How’s Maggie?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I haven’t seen her in a few days.”

“Is she missing?”

“No.”

“On the lam?”

“Are you capable of having a normal conversation?” Henry asked as he got to his feet. He was less angry than disappointed. It was one of those
rare moments when I had a brief picture of what it might be like to know me. I grabbed Henry’s wrist to stop him from leaving.

“Wait,” I said. “I’m going to try. I promise.”

Henry gazed at me suspiciously and wondered what my angle was.

“Sit down,” I said.

What followed was a long, awkward pause, because I wasn’t even sure where to begin.

“Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“We broke up. That’s all,” Henry replied.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked.

“No.”

Another long pause followed. I would like you to note that my comments were all perfectly reasonable and noninflammatory. Further evidence that my social skills are improving. I finished my drink and pointed to the glass. Connor, who apparently can read people better than I can, refilled it silently to avoid disrupting the nonconversation Henry and I were having.

“Would you like me to tell you about my own troubles as a means of distraction?” I asked.

Henry turned to me and almost smiled.

“Yes,” he said.

So I shared a few of my latest sagas with him: I told him about my trouble sleeping in a bed, but that the bus was working out for me. I explained that the constant sleep deprivation was messing with my memory in general, but especially in locating my car. I even told him that I took a job with my father’s mortal enemy (although I provided few details beyond that point, since some of my activities loitered just outside of legal). Then I told him about the advances I had made in therapy. Henry asked for examples and I came up a bit short, but did recall that I had recently discovered the power of a carefully worded note and told him about my “Dear Mom and Dad” letter.

I was running out of distraction-worthy material, so I pulled out my coup de grâce, which I really wasn’t planning on using, because the information would lead to follow-up questions. But since I’m the master of evasion, I figured I could risk it.

“And I’m being blackmailed,” I said proudly.

Henry thought I was exaggerating, so I produced the latest note.

“What kind of dirt do they have on you?” Henry asked.

“I ripped off a liquor store in my early twenties. I’m sure it’s one of my coconspirators.”

Stone completely ignored my tall tale and held the note up to the light.

“It’s Rae, of course,” he said with great conviction.

“Maybe,” I replied. “Although my dad has emerged as another suspect.”

“When you’re done with his car, mine could use a good wash and wax.”

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.