Revenge of the Spellmans (32 page)

L
ater that night, I solved the case. Well, most of it. As I looked through my file on Linda and Sharon, I noticed that November fifteenth was Sharon’s birthday. The day of my arrest was November sixteenth. Why would Sharon give a gift to her friend one day after her own birthday and yet the friend came to the lunch empty-handed? They were also eating at an establishment that clearly catered more to Linda’s whims. I checked Linda’s birthday, just to be sure it wasn’t closing in. She was born on May eighteenth. I had a hunch; maybe it’s the same hunch you have.

I e-mailed burbmom28 once again and attached two JPEG pictures. I asked burbmom28 which picture most resembled the Sharon who attended Benjamin Franklin High. Two and a half very long hours later, I received my reply. Burbmom28 identified the photo of Linda as that of Sharon Meade.

Some other investigator might have tipped off Ernie at this point, but I just had one fact down; there was no meaning behind it. I had to understand what I’d learned before I revealed anything to my client.

The next morning, I jogged
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over to my parents’ house and checked under my car for one of Harkey’s tracking devices. I found it and showed it to my dad.

“I have to go,” I said. “What should I do with this?”

Dad smiled wickedly and took it from me. “I’ll figure something out,” he said.

I headed out on Van Ness, merged onto 101 South, checked my rearview mirror, and knew that for the time being no one was following me.

Thirty-five minutes later

I parked outside Ernie’s muffler shop. I could see Linda answering phones through the window. I waited three hours until she exited the building and walked three blocks to a coffee shop. I followed her inside.

As Linda was about to pay for her coffee, I approached the cash register.

“Linda, is that you?! I can’t believe it,” I said.

Naturally, Linda looked baffled. I insisted on paying for her coffee and ushered her over to a table. (Yes, I’m that persuasive.)

“You don’t remember me, do you?” I said.

Linda smiled a friendly smile and admitted that she didn’t.

“I’ve had some work done,” I whispered. “Sit down. I’ll tell you all about it.”

Most people can’t resist dirt, even if it’s on someone they suspect to be a stranger. Linda sat down. I dropped my act and pulled out a picture of Sharon.

“I need to ask you about this woman. Please don’t get up and leave. I just want some answers.”

Linda grew pale. Her eyes searched the room for assistance or an explanation or something I couldn’t define at the moment.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” I said. “But there are some people out there that you do need to worry about.”

Linda continued to stare at me without uttering a single word.

“Would it help if I told you what I know?”

She nodded her head.

And so I told her. I had to rat out Ernie, but I defended him as best I could. I told her that I knew she and Ernie weren’t legally married; I knew
that Sharon Bancroft had given her lavish gifts and some money over the years; I told her that I knew she was being followed; I told her how I was offered a bribe to keep silent when I knew nothing at all. And then I told her that I knew that she was the real Sharon Meade and I told her how I figured it out. I also told her that I knew that Sharon was born as Linda Truesdale. But that’s when things got confusing and I told her the last thing I knew for sure.

“When I figured out that you were Sharon, I couldn’t make sense of it at first. Why would you take on the identity of someone with a criminal record, someone with a past she would want to forget? What didn’t make sense was why you would make such a big sacrifice, losing your own identity, for a friend. And then it seemed obvious. She’s not your friend, is she?”

“No,” the current Linda replied.

“She’s your sister,” I said.

Linda nodded her head. She almost seemed relieved to have someone figure it out. “How could you know that?”

“Because it’s the kind of sacrifice you can only make for family,” I said. “What happened?”

This is the real story: The current Sharon was born Linda Truesdale, three years before her sister, Sharon—now Linda, the woman sitting with me in the café. Their mother was a drug addict. When the older sister was seven and the younger sister was four, they were placed in the foster care system.

Within a few months, an older couple named Meade adopted the younger sister and raised her. They were kind, attentive, and made sure that she had a proper education. The older sibling, on the other hand, drifted from one foster family to the next until she landed in an orphanage. She got into some trouble with the law in her teenage years, and when she was in her early twenties, she was convicted for check fraud and
spent four months in a minimum-security prison. With a record, she found it almost impossible to get a job once she was released. The sisters stayed in touch, but their relationship at the time was strained. Their lives had become so different. And the older sibling found herself harboring some resentment.

After two years of college, the adoptive parents of Sharon Meade (now Linda Black, Ernie’s wife, remember) died in a car accident. She was left their modest savings, and after handling their affairs, she decided to go to Europe for a year.

In her absence, the older sister applied for a catering job—a job she really wanted but had a feeling she wouldn’t get because of her record. On a whim, she filled out her application as Sharon Meade, using all of her sister’s personal information. Her sister had a clean record. Linda Truesdale, under the assumed name Sharon Meade, got the job.

A few months later, “Sharon” met Charles Bancroft at a party she was catering in Detroit. He was going to law school in California at the time, but they began a long-distance relationship. The older sister waited for a time to tell Charles, but she never did. When the younger sister returned from Europe and the older sister knew her sibling would be looking for employment, that’s when she told her the truth.

“That’s quite a sacrifice to make,” I said. “My sister would
never
do that for me.”

Linda Black refused to portray herself as a generous soul. She explained that for years she didn’t speak to her sister when she realized how complicated her life had become in sustaining this deceit. But she also felt guilty about how differently their lives played out, and eventually she found some peace in being Linda Truesdale. Now, it seemed, most of the guilt rested on Sharon’s shoulders—hence the lavish gifts. Linda’s only regret was that she and Ernie were not legally married. She never filed the license because it would be a forged document.

I had hours’ worth of questions, but I ultimately had learned what was necessary for my client’s case. Besides, Linda had a few questions of her own.

“So, Ernie hired you? Why?”

“He thought there might be another man. He was afraid of losing you.”

Linda then laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh of mockery but more along the lines of
How could he be so foolish?

“This explains a few things,” she said. “I thought
he
was having an affair when he started doing housework all of a sudden.”

“You should tell him. Tell Ernie everything. He can handle it,” I said, and I believed she would.

“The question is, are you going to tell anyone?” she asked.

“No,” I replied. “That’s not part of the job. It’s unlikely you’ll see me again. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Neither do I,” Linda said.

That was the last time I saw her.

I could have told Linda about the mess of investigations surrounding her and Sharon’s relationship, but I decided against it, hoping that I could put the problem to rest and maybe they would never know. If you think about it, all the interested parties would want to keep silent. The only loose cannon was Harkey. There was no telling what he would do if he discovered the truth.

On the way home from my impromptu meeting with Linda, I was followed yet again. It was time to nip the problem at its source. I called information and got the address of Frank Waverly’s
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office. I arrived forty-five minutes later and was greeted with a cold reception by his secretary. I sat down in his vast, unwelcoming waiting room and let his secretary know that I would sit there until Mr. Waverly was willing to speak to me. Twenty minutes later, I was guided into his slick, chrome-filled office.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Spellman?” Waverly said as he sat down behind his massive, yet mostly bare, desk.

“It’s what I can do for you,” I replied, staying on my feet. I did this because my visit would be brief, but also because I knew it would unnerve him.

“Have a seat,” he said.

“No, thanks. Listen, call off your goons. I’m tired of being followed.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“One more lie and I walk out of here. I’m not a problem now, but I have the ammunition to become one.”

Waverly said nothing.

“Good. I like you better quiet. The truth is, no one who can hurt Congressman Bancroft has any desire to talk. Tell your client to go home and ask his wife the questions he needs answered. You, fire Rick Harkey now. Pay his bill in full, and make sure you never do business with him again. In your effort to smoke out a secret, you’ve hired someone who has broken the law on your behalf. You want to get as far away from him as you can.”

“What do you want?” Waverly calmly asked.

“Get Harkey’s men off my back now and then you and I can live peacefully. That’s all.”

Frank sat behind his desk in stunned silence.

“What are you waiting for?” I said. “Pick up the phone.”

I waited until I was sure that Waverly had Harkey on the line. Then I exited the office without another word.

When I pulled out of my parking space, I noticed I was still being tailed. I counted to ten, looked in my rearview mirror one more time, and I was free.

F
orty-eight hours later, I arrived at 1799 Clay Street and knocked at the door. I have a key, but the knock seemed more dramatic.

My father looked at his watch. “With two hours to spare, no less.”

I followed Dad into the Spellman offices, where my mother was seated behind a small mound of paperwork.

She looked up at me. “Do you have a decision?” she asked.

“I do,” I replied.

“Well?” said my dad.

“I’d like to come back to work,” I said.

The Unit’s collective sigh was at the volume of morning traffic. My father slumped into his chair. I could almost see his relief erasing the lines on his brow.

“Under these conditions,” I added, handing them an envelope. “You can read it and get back to me,” I said. “I have a few other matters to take care of right now.”

“Lunch on Friday?” Dad asked.

“I think I can free up my schedule,” I replied.

Forty minutes later I was knocking on an all-too-familiar door at an apartment in Richmond.

“Izzeee!” Bernie bellowed as he opened the door to the vacant one-bedroom that used to be Milo’s, used to be mine, and used to be Bernie’s.

“Give Uncle Bernie a hug,” he said.

“I’d rather not,” I replied, “but perhaps you’ll take a check instead.”

I passed Bernie a check for the first month’s rent and the security deposit.

“This time, you can’t move back in. Got it?” I said.

“Not even a visit?” Bernie asked, trying to be cute.

“NO!”

Bernie—a big man—had to take a step back.

I held out my hand for a businessman’s shake.

“Nice doing business with you again,” I said.

Bernie shook my hand and pulled me into a bear hug.

“Mi casa
is
su casa,”
Bernie said.

“Stop saying that,” I replied. And then I left.

Next up: I phoned Maggie and asked her to meet me at the Philosopher’s Club. It had been a while since I saw her last and, I have to admit, I missed having her around.

When I arrived, a new guy was tending bar. His name was George and he was a graduate student at SF State. I had no problem with George other than that he was new. In case you’re curious, Connor was nowhere in sight.

Maggie arrived ten minutes after me. She ordered a beer and snacked on some chocolate-covered almonds from a half-eaten bag in her pocket.

A few sips of beer seemed to banish whatever stress had been written on Maggie’s face.

“Thanks for inviting me. I didn’t feel like going home,” she said.

“Me, neither,” I replied, already thinking about how I could postpone my next move. David already promised that he wouldn’t help.

“I haven’t gotten any more survey calls,” Maggie said.

“I think it was Rae,” I said.

Yes, I’m aware that was a lie, but a mild stalking incident doesn’t usually make for an auspicious beginning for a relationship.

“Really?”

Maggie didn’t seem all that concerned anymore.

“Yeah. I think she just had a few more questions she wanted to clear up.”

“Let’s play pool!” Maggie said as if it were the first time the idea ever popped into her head.
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I followed her to the back of the bar.

Usually people who suggest a game of pool actually have some idea of how to play the game, or at least how to rack the balls. She didn’t know a thing and I didn’t let on that I did.

As we picked out our cue sticks, I said, “You’ve met my brother, right?”

Brief pause.

“David? Yes, I’ve met him. He seems really nice,” she said. She said it like she was holding back, so I knew I was onto something.

“You want to make this game interesting?” I asked.

“Sure,” Maggie replied.

“If you win, I’ll make sure my sister never demands your chauffeur services ever again.”
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“And if you win?” Maggie asked.

“If I win, you ask my brother out on a date. Deal?”

“Deal.”

And then I proceeded to kick her ass.

Five easily won pool games later, Connor entered the bar. When he saw me playing pool, he winked and went into his office. I like a man who can
accept rejection. That’s the kind of man who suddenly becomes unbearably attractive.

“Excuse me,” I said to Maggie as she eyed the table, trying to find a shot she could make. “I’ll be right back.”

I knocked on the door of Connor’s office.

“Come in,” he said in that foreign language he speaks.

I entered and shut the door behind me. Connor was seated at his desk, paying bills. When he saw me, he put down his pen.

“Can I help ya, Izz-a-bel?” he asked.

I nodded. Connor slowly got to his feet and stepped closer.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

I nodded.

He placed his right hand behind my neck, his left behind my back, and he kissed me. It was the kind of kiss that makes you forget people. Connor was there, all handsome and smelling sweet like whiskey. But the most perfect thing about him was that when he kissed me, he didn’t hesitate.

The kiss could have gone on indefinitely, but I broke away, remembering I had a “game” of pool to finish.

“So, uh, I’ll see you around,” I said.

Connor smiled. “Don’t be a stranger.”