Trail of the Spellmans (36 page)

“What’s inside?”

“I have the names and current addresses of your biological parents and some basic background information, photos, occupations, and so on.”

She took another sip of her mocha. “Hmmm,” she said. “You know, when I figured out I was adopted, I had a lot of ideas about who my bio-parents were. Sometimes I’d picture them as Ivy League intellectuals. Sometimes criminals. For a while I was really keen on the idea that my father was a cat burglar and my mother a fence. Of course, a baby couldn’t fit into that picture. I’m sure that they’re perfectly ordinary, but I never thought of them that way. They could be anything I want them to be.”

“If you open that envelope,” I said, “that will no longer be the case.”

“I just figured that out,” Vivien said. She picked it up and looked it over.

I had this overwhelming urge to grab the envelope from her and rip it to shreds. “Before you do something that you can’t undo,” I said, “think about this: The way you see your birth parents is kind of the way you see yourself. You can be anything. Sometimes when you know where you come from, it limits you. Sometimes you feel stuck. Think about that before you make any decision.”

Vivien put the envelope back on the table.

“Why don’t you just hang on to that for a while,” she said.

After my meeting with Vivien, I took a cab to Mr. Slayter’s office. A man who was not Phil Vitus drove me straight there, no questions asked. Slayter holds a corner office on the fifteenth floor. It was about the size of Bernie’s entire one-bedroom apartment. A gray-haired man was seated on his couch, going over stacks of paperwork.

Mr. Slayter greeted me with a warm handshake and a masculine pat on the shoulder.

“Isabel,” he said deliberately to make sure he got it right. “Meet my attorney, Ritz Naygrow.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Naygrow.”

“Call me Ritz,” he replied.

“Really? Thanks, Ritz. I’ve actually never known anyone named Ritz, Ritz.”

“She’ll grow on you,” Mr. Slayter said, as if it were an order.

“Are the plans in motion?” I asked.

“We’ve transferred all the money from my wife’s bank account and closed all but one of her credit cards.”

“Has she noticed yet?”

“Not yet.”

I passed the envelope with Vivien’s photos to Slayter. I could have easily given him the pictures I’d found on my father’s computer, but I wanted my dad to have plausible deniability. I didn’t care if
I
did. And if everything went correctly, the plan was for Slayter to tell his wife he’d hired his own investigator and no one named Spellman would ever be mentioned.

“This is all you should need for the infidelity clause. Plus, you’re likely to get Adam Cooper to testify against her if he knows there isn’t any money coming in. When you tell her . . .”

Edward had stopped paying attention to me as he looked at photographs of his wife with another man. For as long as I’d known her, Margaret Slayter had been a sketchy, two-dimensional figure, a woman that I couldn’t imagine a man being heartbroken over. But Edward must have married her for some reason.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Slayter. This must be very difficult for you.”

Edward slid the photos back in the envelope and gave them to his attorney, who had the decency not to take a peek at that time.

“I filed for divorce this morning,” Mr. Slayter said. “I plan on telling Margaret this evening.”

“She’ll stay in the house,” I told him. “Once she realizes all her resources are gone, she’ll hang on to what she can.”

“I plan on moving into the Fairmont for the time being. Once the divorce is settled, she will receive a lump sum that should keep her for some time, if she’s careful. And then she’ll have to move out.”

“Is anyone else living in the house?”

“Just our housekeeper, Marta.”

“How do they get along?”

“They loathe each other.”

“Tell Marta to slack off for the next few weeks. Tell her to catch up on her daytime television and to ignore any threats that the soon-to-be-ex-Mrs. Slayter makes. Does Margaret have any allergies?”

“No,” Slayter replied.

“That’s unfortunate. I was going to suggest Marta get a dog.”

“Have you thought about what we discussed?” Slayter asked.

“I have. But I think I need to see the fallout first.”

“As you wish,” Mr. Slayter replied.

“Mr. Slayter, I think Margaret and Adam are harmless, but that was quite an unusual scam they pulled. Please err on the side of caution. I don’t know what they would become if they got desperate enough,” I said as I took my leave.

Edward gave me a quick peck on the cheek before I left. “You’re an angel,” he said.

“That’s a first,” I replied. “See you around, Ritz.”

I phoned Adam Cooper as soon as I left Mr. Slayter’s office. I told him that I had some pressing news that needed to be relayed immediately. He suggested I come to his apartment, but I thought it best to meet in a public place. We agreed on the library.

An hour before our scheduled meeting, I waited outside Cooper’s apartment in the Richmond. It was a modest twelve-unit building, from circa 1970, that needed a paint job. The units couldn’t have been more than six hundred square feet each. I was curious what kind of car he drove, since he was no longer financially solvent. I wasn’t surprised when Cooper winked the lights of a brand-new BMW, with a top-of-the-line security system. He would be that asshole whose car alarm goes off in the middle of the night, keeping the entire neighborhood awake.

The first time I met Cooper, he seemed so ordinary—in a good kind of way. The clothes so deliberately uncool. I recalled my interview with Meg and Adam’s neighbor, who described his expensive tastes and vain affectations. I realized the sweater vest was as much of a disguise as the car. When he met me, he wanted to come off as a simple, harmless man concerned about his sister’s well-being.

Since I knew where Cooper was heading, I beat him to the library with ten minutes to spare.

I returned to the government section of the main library and pulled the California Code of Civil Procedure and sat down in one of those glass booths. There was a particular section that I wanted to share. As I paged through the substantial book, I felt a shadow over my shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

“Are you the Gopher?” Cooper asked. The sense of déjà vu was disturbing.

Up close, he looked considerably changed this time around, as if he were no longer trying to hide his smarmy ways. His shirt was purple and had a sheen to it. In fact, everything he wore seemed mildly reflective, including the sunglasses that he’d left on. He sat down across from me.

There was a homeless man or an unkempt older student studying nearby; we spoke in hushed tones for privacy.

“I was glad to hear from you. Your father is not the best communicator in the world.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied.

“I’ve been waiting on photographs for the last two weeks. And his surveillance reports so far have illuminated nothing.”

I was unaware that my father was not feeding information to Cooper. I needed to see what little information he did offer.

“I’m afraid my father hasn’t been the best communicator with me, either. He’s quite overworked these days. What has he given you?”

“A few surveillance reports and some photographic evidence that Meg is going to the gym. But I already knew that. She’s been a gym rat her whole life.”

“Have you seen her recently? How did she seem?” I asked.

“We haven’t spoken in weeks. Ever since I questioned the state of her marriage. That’s what this whole thing was about. I was concerned for my sister’s well-being.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Spellman suggested that she was perhaps having an affair. I thought that he’d provide more information, but I don’t even have the name of the individual.”

“I do,” I said. “I even have pictures.”

Cooper couldn’t contain his excitement. “You do?” he asked, and then he coughed, trying to cover his eagerness with a more benign expression.

“I do,” I repeated. Then I found the page in the California Code of Civil Procedure. I spun the book around and slid it across the table. “Are you familiar with California Penal Code Section 518?”

“No. Should I be?”

“You definitely need to check out this code. I’ll just explain it to you because it might take you a while to read all the legalese. Basically, it defines extortion as trying to obtain property—in your case, cash—through force or fear. Now, fear can simply mean the threat of exposing the individual to shame. The sentence for extortion can be up to four years in prison and a fine of ten thousand dollars. Based on your latest credit report, there’s no way you can get that kind of money unless you extort someone.”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Adam asked, although he already knew.

“You, sir, are not Meg’s brother. You’re her ex-husband and you’re seeking information so that you can blackmail her and siphon as much money as possible off of her extremely wealthy spouse.”

“I’ve done nothing illegal.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I don’t know your entire biography, but you were
planning
to blackmail your ex-wife.”

“What do you want?”

“Two things: I want to reimburse you for services not rendered. I believe
you paid a twenty-five-hundred-dollar retainer. Then you stopped paying your bills, which might explain the lack of investigative product. But I also suspect Dad grew suspicious and was reluctant to provide evidence when he wasn’t sure how it would be used.”

Cooper stared at the check, folded it in quarters, and put it into his shiny pocket.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I said.

“Doubtful,” he replied.

“You’re thinking you’ll just hire another investigator to get evidence against Meg. Do you call her ‘Meg’ or ‘Margaret’ or ‘sis’? That is really creepy, you know.”

“Get to the point.”

“The jig is up,” I said. “Mr. Slayter has proof of Mrs. Slayter’s affair and has just filed for divorce. Your ex-wife will receive an extremely modest stipend to live off of for the next two years and that is all. So, you’re going to have to find someone else to shake down, but when you do, make sure that you can handle four years in prison. Because I think I’m going to keep an eye on you. Any questions?”

“You wouldn’t by chance know how Edward Slayter acquired proof of his wife’s affair?”

“No idea,” I replied.

Cooper flushed in anger. He got to his feet.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

“I think we’re done here.”

“Have a nice day!” I said cheerily. I found that people who aren’t having a nice day really loathe that phrase.

“You won’t get away with this,” Adam said as he walked away.

“I just did,” I replied.

HIDING OUT

I
drove straight to the Philosopher’s Club to take the edge off before there was an edge to take off. Bernie, as always, approached me like a scuba diver in shark water, observing, moving slowly, but always with that uncertain feeling. I sat down at the bar. Bernie, without making eye contact, said, “What can I get you?”

“Bourbon,” I said.

“Maybe you want to start with a beer,” Bernie suggested.

It was sound advice, and coming from anyone else, I might have taken it.

“Maybe I don’t want a beer.”

“You usually do,” Bernie said. True, but none of his business.

“What happened to ‘the customer is always right’?”

Bernie shrugged his shoulders and poured a bourbon on the rocks. If I drink bourbon, I drink it on the rocks, but I didn’t order it that way, so I decided to be difficult.

“Did I say ‘on the rocks’?” I said, eyeing the drink as if it were peppermint schnapps.

“My apologies,” Bernie replied.

He reached for the drink, but I beat him to it. “Forget it,” I said. “I don’t like to waste booze.”

After a few moments of satisfying silence, Bernie spoke.

“How’s life?”

“About to get very messy.”

“Care to elaborate?” Bernie asked.

“Nope,” I replied.

Another enjoyable break from conversation passed. Unfortunately, the only thing Bernie hates more than quiet is an empty refrigerator.

“Maybe I’ll put some music on,” Bernie said.

If it were up to Bernie, only Old Blue Eyes would be playing in this bar. In fact, he’d probably change its name to the Chairman’s Club if the sign didn’t cost so much.

“If you play ‘I Get a Kick Out of You,’ you’ll get one,” I said.

Bernie set the jukebox on random and took his chances. A stale Beatles song blanketed the silence; then Bernie started humming, adding another layer to the soundtrack; then my phone rang. I pulled it out of my pocket and laid it on the bar. It was the call I had been expecting.

“You going to pick up?” Bernie asked.

“Does it look like it?” I replied.

“Not really,” Bernie said as the ringing cut off.

Then my phone rang again. Different number on the screen, but the same caller, I assumed. Bernie watched me.

“I’m not picking that up either.”

“Then maybe you want to put it on mute.”

“Milo used to have a no-cell policy, but I don’t see any signs,” I said.

“It’s just basic courtesy,” Bernie said.

“And you’re an expert on that,” I replied.

My phone rang again. This time, I muted the sound on the first ring. Ten minutes passed and the phone rang again. This call was from David, so I picked up.

“Hello.”

“He’s angry,” David said.

“I expected that,” I replied.

“He’s making threats, serious threats,” David said.

“He’s bluffing,” I said, unconvinced.

“I would be genuinely concerned, if I were you,” David said. “I hope you have a plan.”

“I do,” I replied. “But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to implement it.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

“Not just yet.”

I disconnected the call and ordered a beer. Bernie pulled the pint and handed me the sports section of the newspaper he was reading. This was his version of a peace offering, since that’s the only part of the newspaper he even glances at. Then the bar phone rang. It had one of those regular rings and a cord that doesn’t let you wander. I found something oddly comforting about the relic.