Trail of the Spellmans (33 page)

Montgomery Street is a major road that runs perpendicular to Market, just a few short blocks from Slayter’s office. Any resident of San Francisco should know Montgomery Street, let alone someone who works downtown.

“That’s what I said,” said Charlie. “‘It’s right over there.’ Then he thanked me and said he was confused.”

“Did he ask you any other questions?”

“No. He said he might see me again at the Mechanics’ Institute.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Did he do something wrong, Isabel?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then why are you watching him?”

I never answered Charlie’s question.

Mr. Slayter exited his office building and walked up to Market Street, where his driver waited for him.

“Excuse me, Charlie.”

“See you later, Isabel.”

I hailed a cab and pointed out Slayter’s black Town Car.

“Follow that car,” I said to the cab driver.

“Why?” the cab driver replied.

“I don’t think that’s any of your concern,” I replied.

The cab driver pulled into traffic and proceeded to casually tail the sedan; his interrogation continued. “It’s my cab. I can ask questions if I want to.”

“And I can refuse to answer them if I want to.”

“Who are we following?”

“You’re following that black Town Car up there. That’s all you need to know.”

“Is your husband in that car?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

The cab was now going well below the speed limit.

“You need to drive faster.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No. If you miss this light, we lose him.”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes. He’s my boyfriend.”

The cab driver floored the gas and raced through the yellow light, weaving through traffic, shortening the distance lost during his slowdown threat.

“Do you think he’s cheating on you?” the cab driver asked.

I checked the license on the dashboard.

“I don’t know, Phil Vitus. They should name a disease after you.”

Phil took his foot off the gas and repeated his question.

“Maybe,” I said, and we accelerated again. “He’s called the same number on his cell phone three days in a row.”

“You shouldn’t be snooping,” Phil said.

“I wasn’t,” I replied. “I needed a number and I looked on his phone.”

“Did you dial the number?”

“No,” I replied.

Phil Vitus clearly thought I was holding out on him, because he slowed down again.

“What kind of crazy game are you playing?” I asked.

“Tell me the truth. Did you dial the number?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“What happened?” Phil asked.

I could feel the car slowing again, so I spoke quickly. As long as I talked and answered questions, my taxi driver had a lead foot. “I dialed the number from his phone. A woman answered and said, ‘Hey, baby.’ Then I hung up. She dialed back, but I let the call go to Jack’s voice mail.”

“Jack’s your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“How long have you and Jack been together?”

“Two years.”

“How did you meet?”

“He picked me up in a bar.”

“What was his line?”

“Excuse me?”

“What was his pickup line?”

“‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’”

“You’re lying.”

“How do you know?” I found it intriguing that he singled out one particular lie in a library of them.

“You don’t look like such a nice girl.”

“I’m not.”

“So, what did he say?”

“‘Can I buy you a drink?’”

“You’re that easy?”

“Yep.”

“Did you sleep with him on the first date?”

“You’re crossing a line here, buddy. I got your license number. Do you want me to report you?”

“Let’s skip ahead two years.”

The Town Car headed west on Fell Street and moved into the center lane.

“I think he’s going into the park,” I said. “Hang back.”

The taxi driver let a few more vehicles cut in the lane and then the queries continued.

“Cut to two years later and you find a suspicious number on his cell. Do you know who this woman is?”

“I’m almost positive she’s his dental hygienist.”

“What does she look like?”

“Blond, big boobs. The standard package. I think he’s going to the museum,” I said. “Follow them into the turnaround.”

The Town Car pulled to a stop in front of the de Young.

“Is Jack an art lover?”

“Why not?” I replied.

Mr. Slayter, all fifty-eight years of his well-groomed, moneyed self, stepped out of his Town Car. My taxi driver took one brief glance at him and then one good, long look at the thirty-four-year-old woman in a wrinkled shirt, blue jeans, and a sweater that had an obvious hole in the front. I won’t even mention how my hair looked that day. “That’s not your boyfriend,” Phil Vitus said, finally realizing that he had lost the game.

“What tipped you off?” I asked.

“Men like that don’t date women like you.”

The meter read $11.80. I gave him twelve.

“Keep the change,” I said as I got out of the taxi.

THE PORTRAIT OF DORA MAAR

M
useums are expensive. You probably know that already. I toyed with the idea of waiting until Edward Slayter had soaked up all the culture he could get and needed a coffee in the café or something. But I was ready to talk to him and thought that a museum approach was more practical than accosting him in the park.

Even in the middle of a workday, the de Young was swarming with sweaty tourists. A Picasso exhibit on loan from France was drawing in record crowds. Slayter, I assumed, was there for the same reason. Mr. Slayter, in many ways, was a perfect surveillance subject. He was over six feet, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair—easy to spot in a crowd. He was also the only suit in a sea of cotton-wear and baseball caps.

He stood in front of a painting of a woman. I clocked him. Five minutes, staring at one piece. A woman with two eyes and two noses. I stood watch behind him as he stared intently. Then I approached the placard on the wall and read that it was a portrait of Picasso’s lover. I’m no art expert, but it looked to me like he couldn’t figure her out. I wondered if Edward felt that way about his wife. Was she an enigma or a threat or neither? I wondered if he still loved her. Did she stray because she was being neglected, or did she never have any intention of being faithful? Did she marry Slayter just for his money, or was it merely a perk?

I had followed the man for months but couldn’t tell you what kind of man he was. Until I knew that, I could only plan one step at a time. I found some open space next to Mr. Slayter and held my gaze on the Picasso painting. Once I was sure he noticed my presence, I spoke.

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“What don’t you get?”

“All of it, to be honest,” I whispered.

“Then what are you doing here?” Slayter whispered back.

“My boyfriend thinks I need more culture.”
¹

“How does it make you feel?”

“I think he should keep some opinions to himself.”

“I meant how does the painting make you feel?”

“I’m not very in touch with my emotions. How do you feel?”

“Unnerved.”

“Do you think that’s what Picasso was going for?”

“I wasn’t talking about the painting. I meant you.”

“I wasn’t going for that either.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“For the art.”

“No, really, why are you here?”

“I think we need to talk.”

Slayter wouldn’t talk until after he had his fill of the exhibit, so I remained in his company and got a bit of an education. After we’d traveled through the entire exhibit, Slayter looked at the program and insisted on circling back to the portrait of Dora Maar. “This is what I came here to see,” he said.

“I know,” I replied. “And you already saw it.”

“In France, twenty years ago.”

“And here, an hour ago,” I said.

Slayter returned his gaze to the painting and took a deep breath. “I think I need a cup of coffee,” he said.

I bought Mr. Slayter a coffee from the café and at his insistence, we took it to the botanical gardens. It felt odd meeting with the subject of the investigation where I first met the client. Although the two days couldn’t have been more distinct. I met Margaret under the glare of an unusually bright sun. The day with Slayter was so thick with fog that you could see a dusting of mist covering all the leaves.

“Are you warm enough?” Mr. Slayter asked. “I could give you my coat.”

“I’m fine,” I replied.

“Do we know each other?”

“That’s an odd question,” I replied.

“It is, isn’t it? But I don’t know if we do or not.”

“You have Alzheimer’s,” I said.

“I do.”

“How long have you known?”

“I was diagnosed just over a month or so ago, if memory serves me, and, well, it doesn’t.”

“Have you told your wife?”

“No.
That
I am sure of. How do you know I have a wife?”

“You’re wearing a ring.”

“Ah, yes.”

“But that’s not how I know.”

“I think I would remember you if we had met,” Slayter said.

“I’m a private investigator.”

“I would certainly remember that.”

“Your wife hired me to follow you.”

Slayter turned to me and smiled. “You’ve been following me?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“For how long?”

“Two months.”

“I hadn’t noticed.”

“I’m good.”

“Or I’m not terribly observant.”

“I prefer the way I’m looking at it,” I said.

“Tell me, why did my wife hire you? Does she suspect me of adultery?”

“I’m not sure she suspects you of anything.”

“I take it you never caught me in an illicit act?”

“I think you know the answer to that,” I replied.

“These days, I’m not so sure.”

“My job was to keep tabs on you. Nothing else.”

“Why?”

“Do you have a prenup?”

“Of course,” Mr. Slayter replied.

“Is there an infidelity clause?”

“Yes.”

“I believe your wife is having an affair and hired me to surveil you on days she was with her lover so that she wouldn’t be caught in a lie. She never wanted to know anything more than your current location and when you would be heading home.”

“I see. Do you have evidence of her affair?”

“Here’s where the story gets a little more complicated.”

“And I was thinking it was complicated enough,” Edward replied.

“Does your wife have a brother?”

“You mean Adam?”

“Yes, Adam.”

“What about him?”

“There’s no good way to tell you this, but Adam Cooper is Margaret’s ex-husband, not her brother.”

Like a true businessman, Mr. Slayter contained his emotions. I saw only a flicker of surprise and maybe sadness cross his face. “This coffee isn’t doing it for me anymore,” he said. “I think I’d like to get a drink. Do you know a place around here?”

I know a place around anywhere. Mr. Slayter and I retired to a nearby Irish watering hole. I assumed it was a bit low-rent for him, but he didn’t seem to mind. He removed his tie, stuck it in his pocket, and ordered a Guinness. I was certain by then that Mr. Slayter was merely an innocent, but wealthy, bystander. I explained to him that it appeared to be mere chance that we were separately hired by Margaret and Adam, to fulfill each of their wanton agendas. I wasn’t clear on his wife’s plan, but I was fairly certain that Adam wanted documentation of an affair to blackmail Margaret. I asked Mr. Slayter if they had given money to Adam in the past.

Mr. Slayter had indeed invested in a number of failed businesses until last year, when he decided to cease entering into any monetary deals with his “in-law.” I asked how much he invested over the years and Slayter estimated over a hundred thousand dollars. He said that when he decided to cut Adam off, Margaret was in complete agreement and had thanked him for all the help he had provided for her brother in the past.

After we drained our first beers, I was about to order another round when my cell phone buzzed.

It was a text from Mrs. Slayter.

“She’d like to know where you are,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Tell her I’m in a bar with a young woman.”

“Are you sure you want me to do that?”

“I insist,” he said.

I texted the line. She promptly texted back.

“She wants me to describe her.”

“Tall, brunette, late twenties,
²
a little rough around the edges, but attractive.”

I texted the “tall, brunette” part and substituted a more accurate age.

Take pictures, she texted back.

Can’t. Lighting is impossible. Will try when they surface.

I closed my phone and returned my attention to Mr. Slayter.

“I’ve given you the facts. Now the question is: What do you want to do?”

“I suppose I should get divorced.”

“You’re sure that’s what you want?” I asked.

“Ah, you’re thinking that an unfaithful spouse might be better than no spouse as I drift into oblivion. Is that it?”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking. But I have just given you quite a bit of information. You might want to think it over for a day or two and see how you want to proceed.”

“Perhaps you’re right. But before I proceed, I need to know one thing: Do you have documentation of the affair?”

“I do. But there is a matter we need to discuss.”

“How much?”

“Huh?”

“How much money do you want?”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want?”

“Mostly, I don’t want my father to disown me.”

THE LAST SUPPER
¹

A
s Thanksgiving Day approached most work-related communications died down. Vivien reluctantly returned to the suburbs; Walter took two Valiums and got on a plane to St. Louis, where his elderly parents still resided; Edward Slayter endured one final, brutally uncomfortable feast day with several coworkers and the woman who will eventually be the former Mrs. Slayter. And I have no idea how Adam Cooper passed the time. Perhaps he was selling rubber turkeys in a makeshift storefront.