by Lisa Lutz
A name change is a simple procedure with a legitimate marriage license; this detail I kept to myself. It’s quite possible that Linda wanted to keep her maiden name but didn’t want to offend her more traditional husband.
“Do you mind if I make a couple copies of things?” I asked Ernie. “I promise I’ll shred everything when I’m done.”
Ernie looked to Milo for the answer. His first question was unspoken: Can I trust her? Milo nodded and Ernie said, “I guess so.”
As I headed for Milo’s office, Ernie’s second question was posed.
“What is it you’re looking for?” he asked.
Ernie was a nice guy and I’d made mistakes before by assuming the worst about people. I didn’t want to make one again. At least, I didn’t want Ernie unduly suspicious of his wife unless I was positive those suspicions were justified.
“Maybe nothing,” I replied. “Just being thorough.”
That evening, I studied the financial data that Ernie provided. Ernie’s tax return, which included his business income, appeared legitimate enough. Only a forensic accountant could prove otherwise. Linda Black-Truesdale’s two-page 1040 required only basic math and probably took her approximately ten minutes to complete. She had one W-2, took the standard “married, filing separately” deduction, and that was that. The odd part to me was that the copy kept in the file was the original. I smudged the signature to be sure.
It was impossible to point suspicion in any one direction, but the most suspicious part of the story was that Ernie and Linda were not married and it appeared that Linda was going to great lengths to convince Ernie that they were. From a practical standpoint, this didn’t make any sense. In the event of a divorce, Linda would have difficulty proving community property. It only made sense if she had something to lose. I did an asset search and nothing showed up in her name. I ran a credit check, thinking if she had a bankruptcy in her wake, she might want to protect Ernie from her credit problems. But her credit was impeccable. At this point my investigation was stalled. All I knew was that there was more to the story.
But the investigation got a jump start when Bob Goodman showed up at the headquarters of RH Investigations. This might not sound like a big deal to you, but you’re going to have to take my word for it. It was big. In retrospect, it was the point of no return.
Part II
REGRESSION
WRONG TURNS
I t only takes one bad decision to turn your luck sour. But what if you make several in a row? Then it might seem like you don’t know how to not make the wrong turn. Over the next few weeks I set in motion a series of events that would eventually lead to blackmail, felonies, political intrigue, a trip to the zoo, and family therapy. I could shoulder the blame for all the chaos that ensued, but I’m unconvinced that anyone else—given the same set of circumstances—would have behaved any differently.
The first event I should mention was my meeting with the deciding judge on my restraining-order case—the case that landed me in therapy. There was this minor issue I wanted to officially clear up. As you may recall from not too long ago, Dr. Ira was convinced he could force me to continue therapy with another therapist. Shortly after my final visit with Dr. Ira, I phoned Morty to see if a therapist could really alter the terms of my plea bargain at his discretion. Morty took Dr. Ira’s claims more seriously than I did and scheduled a time for both of us to meet with the judge.
At ten A . M . on a Wednesday morning, I showed up at Morty’s house to pick him up for our eleven A . M . meeting (the drive, including parking, is only twenty minutes). As it turned out, Morty and I never made it to the meeting with the judge. I found my old friend suited up, ready to go—and seemingly at death’s door. Twelve hours earlier, when we spoke on the phone, Morty had been grumpy but fine; this morning he was coughing relentlessly, had trouble breathing, and when I finally convinced him to let me take his temperature, it was 103. I phoned Gabe and drove Morty straight to the hospital, where he was promptly admitted. Morty was put on a high dose of Tamiflu and slept the rest of the afternoon. The doctor reminded Gabe and me that the flu in the elderly is life threatening. Morty’s prognosis was positive, but he would need some time to recover. Gabe called his grandmother, who had to concede a temporary defeat in her geographic standoff with her husband. Ruth hopped on the next plane to California.
The next day I phoned the judge and made a solo appointment to discuss my situation. The meeting got off to a bad start. I was twenty minutes late because I couldn’t remember where I’d parked my car again and the judge didn’t take well to my tardiness. But since I was there and he had a few minutes until his next appointment, he agreed to hear me out. I explained my side of things and then the judge asked me a bunch of questions that I must have answered wrong, because he decided in favor of Dr. Ira. I left the judge’s office with an overall sense of doom. Even though it was my night off at the Philosopher’s Club, I decided to go there to drown my sorrows.
And just when I thought my week couldn’t get any worse, Milo fired me.
This was his flimsy explanation: One day Milo would like to retire. He would like to leave the bar in the hands of someone reliable, someone who understands that bartending isn’t some passing whim but a contributing element of the social machine. I suppose in an attempt to rule me out as a potential heir to the Milo empire, he decided to go with a family member. His young cousin from Ireland would be flying out next week and starting immediately, full-time. There were a couple points in Milo’s revelation that I had to take issue with.
“You’re Italian, Milo. What are you doing with an Irish cousin?”
“My father was from Sicily. One hundred percent Italian. My mother, half Irish, half Italian. Do you want me to make copies of the Ellis Island paperwork for you?”
“What’s this cousin’s name?”
“Connor O’Sullivan.”
“If ever I heard a phony-sounding name—”
“You be nice to him when he shows up.”
“Why don’t you fire that other guy?”
“Jimmy?”
“Yeah.”
“Because Jimmy doesn’t have a job just sitting there waiting for him.”
“Who says I do?”
“Your parents come in here every week praying for you to come back to work. They’re good people and you put them through hell.”
“If I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were on the take.”
“I wish I got an extra paycheck for dealing with you. You can work the rest of the week and then you’re done,” Milo said.
“So not fair,” I said.
“Izzy, you’ve been killing time here long enough.”
KILLING TIME
M y days of unsupervised visits in David’s home would soon be coming to a close. I destroyed much of that evening and the following day pretty much ransacking my brother’s house trying to figure out exactly what kind of trouble he was in. There were no more visits from men with pinky rings and no more weapons. In fact, I never even found bullets for the gun.
To refresh your memory (and mine), I’ve jotted down a list of the incriminating evidence I have against my brother.
A gun
A ledger
A visit from strange men
The obvious conclusion: David had a gambling problem. But if he had a real problem, it would follow that he was having financial problems. The goons wouldn
’t visit him unless David wasn’t paying his debt. The glitches in that theory were that A) David wasn’t exactly the compulsive-gambling type, and B) David has a lot of money; it would take a long time for him to go broke.
I couldn’t locate where David kept his credit card bills, so I had to settle for hunting through the mail that had piled up on the kitchen table and selected a credit card bill that already had a crack in the envelope. I happened to hold it over a pot of boiling water, and then the bill accidentally dropped out of the envelope, and when I was retrieving it to put it back in the envelope, I happened to read it.
There was a charge for a meal at the Last Supper Club, a few gas station charges, and some clothing purchases, but he had paid the previous month’s balance in full. There was no evidence of debt. I was missing something. But in 2,500 square feet of residence, I wasn’t sure where else to look. I called the person who knew the house almost as well as David. And no, that person was not Petra.
“What?”
“That’s not how you answer a phone,” I said.
“Can I help you with something?” Rae said rudely.
“Yes.”
“Then speak.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” I said, feeling my blood start to boil.
“Chillax, will ya?”
“I don’t like word hybrids. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“Let’s recap this conversation,” Rae said. “ You called me. ”
“The next time I see you, I plan to toss you out the window,” I replied.
“I’ll make sure to be on the first floor.”
There was a brief pause while I tried to get my anger under control.
“I have a question,” I said. “Ten bucks in it for you if you answer it correctly.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“What do you want?”
“I want Henry to start speaking to me again.”
“He’s not speaking to you at all?”
“He says things like ‘Get your feet off the table,’ ‘Shut the door,’ ‘Please leave,’ that sort of thing. But nothing friendly.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I replied.
“Speak,” she said.
“That is so obnoxious.”
“I’m waiting for your question,” Rae said impatiently.
“In your many hours of hunting for snack food in David’s house, do you recall an unusual hiding place, something that would be slightly out of the ordinary?”
“What exactly are you looking for?” Rae asked suspiciously.
“I’m dying for some Milk Duds,” I said sarcastically.
“Then don’t look in the heating vent in the guest room,” Rae said. “He stopped putting things there after the M&M fiasco…”
I’m sure Rae’s story was fascinating, but I hadn’t checked the heating vent in any room, so I ended the call, grabbed a screwdriver, and raced upstairs.
This was too easy. At least that’s what I was thinking when I pried the vent off the wall and found a metal box inside with a latch, but no security beyond that.
I placed the box on the floor, unhooked the latch, and lifted the lid. I probably gasped when I saw what the box contained. I stared at the items at first, not totally believing what I was seeing. A syringe and a vial, a bag of white powder, another baggy filled with weed. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I simply sat there on the floor staring at this box in utter disbelief. Perfect David could not possibly be a drug addict.
He couldn’t. When my eyes stopped working, my nose kicked in. There was a familiar smell emanating from the box, but not the right kind of familiar. I know what marijuana smells like. This was something else. I picked up the bag of weed and brought it to my nose.
Oregano, that was it. I opened the bag of white powder, touched a bit to my pinky, and tasted it. Sugar. I picked up the vial and realized that the contents were carefully marked as saline. With the items removed from the box I could see the letters written on its base.
GOTCHA!
I had to give David credit. Thanks to his little game, I was no closer to solving the real mystery—his current whereabouts—than I was when I first moved into his place. You’ll be happy to know, however, that I not only solved the mystery (eventually), but I also got my revenge. I should mention, however, that my revenge came at a cost. That night when I fell asleep in David’s bed, 1 it would be the last full night of sleep I would get for the next month.
THE PSAT PROBLEM
I spent the next afternoon working the Ernie Black case pro bono, which made the day just a waste of time, not money.
I surveilled Linda Black for four hours on her day off and learned that the redhead probably colors her hair, likes coffee, apparently frequents libraries, and bargain-shops. There was no shoplifting, nor were there any clandestine meetings. It was a perfectly dull day.
I returned to David’s house in the evening. My plan was to spend the night restoring his home to its pre-Isabel state and doing some Internet research to catch him in a lie on his return the following day.
As usual, my plans were foiled by my family. I arrived at David’s house only to find my dad in the hot tub, my mom invading the kitchen, and Rae roasting s’mores in front of the fireplace.
I promptly demanded that all parties evacuate the premises. Then I threatened to call the cops. My aggressive orders were met with the following responses:
RAE: Chillax. Can I interest you in a s’more?
MOM: Are you hungry, sweetie? I’m making grilled salmon.
DAD: [when he finally surfaced from the hot tub] I needed that.
Once I gave up my futile quest for a peaceful night at “home,” I used the time to uncover the latest goings-on in the family.
“So, Rae, how are you handling the cheating situation?”
“I’m handling it,” Rae replied.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“She won’t confirm or deny,” my mother said plainly. Yet no one seemed concerned.
Dad jumped in to defend my sister. “She’s agreed to take the test again under close supervision. And then she will be vindicated.”
“Why don’t you defend yourself like a normal person?” I asked my sister.
“Who is to say what normal is?” Rae asked in response.
“When did you start talking like this?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” was Rae’s only reply.
“Relax, Isabel. It will all work out,” said my father.
“Where does all this trust come from?” I asked my parents.
“What has she done that’s so wrong?” said Mom.
“You can’t be serious,” I replied, and launched into a litany of Rae’s crimes over the last few years. I’ll spare you the wordy diatribe and provide you with the bullet points:
Harassed her uncle. Stole his property. 1
Staged her own kidnapping.
Drove without a license. Ran a man over.
Tried to buy booze and porn from local liquor stores. 2
Got wasted at a party.
Masterminded a vandalism plot against the neighbor’s front yard.
Changed the locks on Henry’s apartment.
Played mind games with Henry’s girlfriend
.
“But she’s never been incarcerated, has she?” Mom replied.
After dinner, Mom and Dad cleared the table and tried to make a run for it, leaving me with all the dirty dishes. I blocked the front door, locking the deadbolt for dramatic effect, and refused to back down. Mom cooked, so it fell on Dad to do the washing up.
Once the plates were loaded into the dishwasher, my dad decided to have a nightcap before their departure. My father was spending far too much time perusing David’s liquor supply. I poured him a shot of my Jack Daniel’s and told him to drink up and be on his way.
“Why does this taste different?” Dad asked.
“Not sure.”
True answer: “Because it’s eighteen-year-old Glenlivet” (approx. $80). A discriminating houseguest can do a lot with a funnel and some free time. In case you’re wondering what happened to the JD, it’s in the Glenlivet bottle.
Just when I thought I was within minutes of ridding David’s house of the family, the doorbell rang.
My sister rushed to answer. Surely anyone on the other side of the door was more exciting than her own kin.
“What are you doing here?” she asked upon seeing Gabe.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in the same suspicious tone.
“I was making s’mores,” my sister replied, as if that were the perfect justification for her presence. It was one thing for Gabe to accompany his grandfather to a party but another entirely for him to show up unannounced at the door of the home where he knew I’d be. I knew for sure this would raise all four of my parents’ eyebrows.
Since I was in no mood to watch my parents interrogate a friend of mine, I tried to keep the reintroductions brief.
“Mom, Dad, you remember Gabe Schilling, Morty’s grandson. My parents were just leaving.”
