The Spellman Files

by Lisa Lutz

  “We had a deal, Mom. I’m sticking to it.”

  “Sweetie, Martin Snow is an attorney. Do you understand what that means?”

  “You want me to ask him out on a date?” I replied, still staring at my computer screen.

  “No. It means if you continue harassing his family, he will consider a lawsuit.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you,” I said casually.

  “How can you say that? Even the cost of defending a lawsuit could destroy us.”

  “Mom, listen. He’s hiding something. People who have a secret that they don’t want out don’t generate attention for themselves. They try to keep a low profile. His threats are just that.”

  I suspect my parents knew that I had found the listening device. Nothing was said on the subject, as I was still calculating my revenge. Rae’s teeth became a secondary concern over the next few days, which I recall with the grainy clarity of an old movie.

  I should have slept off my anger. I should have thought about what I was doing. I should have given myself and everyone else a chance to breathe, to slow down, to stop. But I could not bring the momentum to a halt. My parents had given me a case that they believed could not be solved and three weeks later I was thinking maybe it could be.

  “How do you feel about buying some drugs with me?” I asked Daniel over the phone the following afternoon.

  “Sure,” he said as if I had asked him if he wanted milk in his coffee.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.”

  THE DRUG DEAL

  I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, even as I was doing it. I pulled up outside Daniel’s house just after 7:00 P.M. and honked the horn. He exited his building wearing a well-tailored suit with a pink shirt open at the collar.

  “Nice duds,” I said as Daniel put his briefcase on the floor and slid into the car.

  “Thanks. This is my drug-buying outfit,” Daniel said dryly.

  “Did you bring the money?” I asked.

  “Yes, I brought the drug money,” he said.

  “You can just say ‘money’; you don’t have to say ‘drug money.’”

  “Yes, I brought the money.”

  Silence.

  “Eh-hem,” I said to Daniel, cuing him for his next line.

  “You need a lozenge?”

  “Eh-hem,” I said again. I had instructed Daniel to say only one line. How hard could that be? I coughed, loudly, and gave him a sharp glare.

  “If all you wanted was some blow, I could get that for you,” he said as if he were reading a script off a TelePrompTer.

  “We’re meeting Martin Snow’s dealer, Jerome Franklin. He won’t talk to me unless I’m buying. Just stay cool and everything will be fine.”

  “This isn’t the first time I’ve bought drugs.”

  “Laughing gas doesn’t count.”

  “I know my drugs, Isabel.”

  “Why don’t you be the silent partner?” I said.

  “Good idea. I’ll just sit here and look menacing.”

  Daniel was in a bad mood, so I let him stew in his flashy suit. The weekend brought even more traffic than usual on the bridge. Daniel and I ran out of safe things to say and made the rest of the trip in silence. When we reached our destination, along a patch of unfinished warehouses in West Oakland, Daniel said, “I think I’ve been here before.” I shot him a look that told him not to improvise.

  We knocked on the third door from the end and “Jerome Franklin” answered. He wore a Pittsburgh Steelers jersey and hat, baggy jeans that hung just below the hip, and an array of gold jewelry that matched his gold tooth. I wanted to say something about the tooth, like, Please, isn’t that a bit much? but I wasn’t sure how he’d take it.

  “Are you a cop?” Jerome asked me as he led us inside.

  “No. I already told you that,” I said as I took in my surroundings.

  “Is he a cop?” Jerome asked, coldly eyeing Daniel.

  “No. I’m a dentist,” Daniel said proudly.

  Jerome pulled a gun he had stuck in the front of his jeans and jabbed it against Daniel’s rib cage. “I hate dentists.”

  “I would, too, if I had your teeth,” Daniel replied.

  Jerome shoved him onto the couch and told him to shut up. I seconded that.

  Chris, another young black male, wearing suit pants, a buttoned-up vest minus a shirt, and a black do-rag, entered the room.

  “Everything cool, bro?”

  “Ai’ight.”

  “Who the bitch?” he asked, I assume referring to me.

  “She used to be down with Snow.”

  “Snow? I remember that dude. Dead, right?”

  “Missing. But probably dead.”

  “What does she want?”

  “What do they all want?”

  I didn’t plan properly where I was going to strategically work in questions about Andrew Snow. Pleasantries and drug buys were taking up enough of my time as it was. I should have written a script. That was a mistake. I tried to ease my nerves by taking in the surroundings. What was noticeable about the warehouse was the absence of things: pictures had clearly been removed from the walls, shadows of the frames hanging in their place, old folding chairs scattered about the room haphazardly in place of more permanent furniture. Ashtrays with weeks-old cigarette butts punctuated every surface. It was an odd contrast to the spotless kitchen sink, but I skimmed over it.

  My attention returned to Jerome, who dropped a satchel on a vintage blue diner table, revealing several Baggies full of white powder. “You want a taste?”

  Jerome took a vial out of his pocket, shook it onto a mirror, sliced the powder into a perfect line with a razor blade, and handed me a straw.

  I paused for a moment, making sure that all eyes were on me. Then I took the straw and leaned over the line.

  That was when I heard the all-too-familiar voice shout, “No, Izzy!”

  I looked up and saw Rae standing in front of the bathroom door. She must have climbed through an open window in back.

  Everyone froze. The room was unnaturally still, as if no one could decide what to do next. Rae saw the gun on the bureau. I saw her calculate that she could reach it first and make a run for it.

  My mind was on a time delay until the gun was in her hand and aimed at Jerome. This was not how it was supposed to go down.

  “Get away from my sister,” Rae shouted.

  Jerome looked to me for instruction.

  “Drop the blade,” she continued, aiming at Jerome, who had forgotten about the shiny razor’s edge in his hand.

  Jerome dropped the blade on the table.

  “Come on, Izzy. Let’s get out of here. Now,” she said, and then turned to Daniel and continued, “You stay here.”

  My shock was quickly replaced with an astounding rage. “What is wrong with you?” I asked.

  “I’m saving you. Let’s go.”

  I smiled at Jerome, whose real name is Leonard Williams (remember? my high school “source”), and said, “Cut!,” slicing my finger through the air in front of my throat. Then I turned to Rae.

  “The gun is not loaded. Daniel is not evil. This is not cocaine. It’s powdered sugar.1 Meet Len and his friend Christopher. They are actors—MFA candidates at the Academy of Dramatic Arts. I went to high school with Len. He owed me a favor and I finally cashed it in over a decade later. Unfortunately, I had to play off negative racial stereotypes because you watch way too many movies.”

  Rae remained speechless. A first, as far back as I can remember.

  “I don’t know about any of you, but I am dying for a cup of tea,” Christopher said with his natural British accent. “Who’s in?”

  Daniel raised his hand and said, “Earl Grey.”

  Len said, “Some chamomile, please.”

  Christopher turned to my sister and said, “And you, pet?”

  Rae stared at him as if he were speaking another language.

  “If you have any hot chocolate,” I said. “And
nothing for me.”

  Christopher left the room and put the kettle on. Len cleaned up the fake cocaine and turned to me. “I need the truth. How were we?”

  “Perfect,” I said.

  “I can’t believe that guy is English. Wow. His accent was amazing,” Daniel said cheerily.

  “Did you hear that, Christopher?” shouted Len.

  From the kitchen, Christopher replied, “You are a dear.”

  “Sit down, Rae,” I said, pulling a chair for her. “Let me tell you how this was supposed to play out.”

  Rae slowly sat down, but she held on to the gun and kept her eye on every suspicious male in the room.

  “I needed you to start following me again. I needed you to document my activity. I needed you to witness something that you would have to record. I knew that if you went to Daniel’s office and believed he was a bad guy, you’d follow me even if nobody told you to. It was an act, Rae, the creepy demeanor, the wink, the quote from Marathon Man. It was an act.”

  “Although I was not acting when I said you had three cavities,” Daniel interjected.

  Rae swirled around in the chair, pointed the gun at Daniel, and shouted, “I DON’T HAVE ANY CAVITIES!”

  I took the gun from Rae’s hands and continued. “I had a feeling if you thought I was up to something, you’d follow me. But you can’t drive. I gambled that you’d hide on the floor of my car. I was willing to do this again and again until I got you to jump through the right hoops. But you hit your mark the first time around. And I’m guessing that your digital camera is in your backpack right now, which you left in the car, right?”

  Rae averted her gaze, indicating that I was on the money.

  “What I counted on was that you would follow me, that you would watch me through the windows. If you’ll notice, they’re freshly cleaned and you have a clear shot from the north corner, where the car is parked. I counted on you recording my activities and showing the recording to Mom and Dad. What I didn’t count on was you breaking into the home of alleged drug dealers and pulling a gun on everyone in the room. How insane are you?”

  “That’s a rhetorical question, right?” she replied.

  “What you just did, Rae. It was crazy.”

  “What I did was crazy?” Rae repeated incredulously. “I’m going to tell Mom and Dad.”

  “You’re right, you are going to tell Mom and Dad. And you are going to tell them exactly what I want you to tell them.”

  Rae stared down at the table and mumbled, “I can’t believe I tried to save your life.”

  “Tea,” chirped Christopher as he carted in a tray of assorted beverages and scones.

  Daniel was delighted by Christopher’s antique china set and commented on how civilized he felt. He seemed relieved to finally drop the “evil” act. It had taken hours to persuade him to participate in this ruse. It was not only the fake drug deal that slowed up the negotiation, but also including a minor in a charade involving scare tactics, white powder, and empty firearms. After three long hours of convincing Daniel that this was the only way to get proper revenge on my parents, he reluctantly agreed.

  Len’s and Christopher’s performances outshone their sets by a long shot. Even with the absence of the pricey leather-and-mahogany couch, antique coffee table, and the impeccable throw rugs, the hand of a professional decorator was all over the warehouse—the hand being that of Christopher’s generous and wealthy mother. Had Rae’s suspicion been jarred, had she been looking for clues to a setup, she might have noticed the DVD collection, constructed almost entirely of 1940s screwball comedies and cinema vérité. She might have found the tastefully framed collector’s edition poster of the Sidney Poitier classic They Call Me Mister Tibbs! something of a giveaway, but Rae wouldn’t know what to look for. She is not a sheltered child, but she does not know the drug world. She saw white powder and black men in the sartorial gear common to rap videos and made an uneducated guess.

  “I want to go home,” said Rae.

  But my plan was not complete. I needed Rae to return home with evidence on me.

  “Drink your cocoa and then we’ll start filming.”

  On the drive home, Rae studied the footage while Daniel had a minor nervous breakdown, as if his actions had only just come into his consciousness.

  After reminding Rae that he really wasn’t evil and that she really did have cavities, Daniel said to me, “That was the most juvenile thing I’ve ever done.”

  “Are you counting even when you were a juvenile?” I replied, annoyed. “If you agree to participate in a fake drug deal, don’t complain about it later.”

  Rae then interrupted, “I still don’t understand why you were pretending to buy drugs.”

  “Mom and Dad bugged my room. That’s a line you don’t cross. If they’re going to invade my privacy, I want them to find the kind of thing worthy of invading my privacy. Listen to me carefully, Rae. You better do exactly as you’re told. I got enough dirt on you to keep you grounded for a year. Got it?”

  Rae remained silent all the way back to the city, breaking her previous record by six minutes.

  ISABEL SNORTS COCAINE: THE MOVIE

  The following night Rae screened her debut feature for my parents. She passed around popcorn and invited Uncle Ray to join them in the living room. My sister popped the homemade DVD into the player and took a formal stance in front of her audience. She introduced the film by describing a suspicious telephone conversation she overheard me have with Daniel—a conversation on the topic of making a drug buy. She explained that she hid in the back of my car under a blanket and once we were inside the “crack house,” she found an angle through the window and started filming.

  Rae pressed play and sat down on the floor in front of the coffee table. She grabbed the popcorn from Uncle Ray and told him to stop hogging it.

  My mother sat frozen, not even a breath passed her lips, as she watched Rae’s silent film on the twenty-inch screen. She watched me lean into the frame, slice the white powder with a razor blade, pick up a straw, and…

  “That is Izzy snorting cocaine,” Rae said as if she were narrating to a room full of blind people.

  My mother’s knee-jerk reaction was to protect her younger daughter from witnessing such a transgression.

  “Rae, I don’t want you watching this,” said my mom.

  “But I recorded it,” my sister replied.

  The fake drug deal was purely a retaliatory measure against my parents’ room-bugging. Unfortunately, I failed to anticipate their response. Immediately after Rae’s film night, my parents commenced a twenty-four-hour surveillance on me that did not let up until I became the last thing on their minds.

  THE INTERVIEW

  CHAPTER 5

  Stone’s calculated detachment gives way to visible scorn. His jaw clenches as he catches up on his notes.

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

  Stone takes a sip of coffee and avoids eye contact.

  “I don’t believe you do.”

  It’s true. I can read almost anyone, but not him, and it unnerves me. I need to assert some element of control.

  “Are you married, Inspector?”

  “No.”

  “Divorced?”

  “I’m not the subject of this investigation.”

  “Why did your wife leave you?”

  “That trick is older than you, Isabel.”

  “So she didn’t leave you?”

  “Isabel, please stop,” Stone says. The sincerity of the request takes me aback, and I do. I stop. But then I ask the question that has been in the back of my mind since we started this interview.

  “What did they tell you about me?”

  “Does it matter now?”

  “Yes. It does.”

  Stone, consulting his notes, says, “I know you used to knock over trash cans with your car on garbage night. I know about the drugs, I know about the drinking, I know that you can’t keep a boyfriend, I know about the Neighborhood Watch meet
ings in your honor, I know about a string of unproven cases of vandalism that all occurred during your school years. Shall I go on?”

  “You got anything good in there?”

  “I hear you’re much better now,” he says, doing his best to avoid a condescending tone.

  “Do you think this is my fault?”

  “How could I? I don’t even know what’s happened yet.”

  THE SNOW CASE

  CHAPTER 6

  As it was, I didn’t pull the name Jerome Franklin out of thin air. According to Audrey Gale, one of the three people who signed Andrew’s yearbook, he was the main drug source for most of the Marin high school students. The real Jerome Franklin’s life of crime ended in high school. He is currently a financial advisor, living in San Diego, California. Once I explained the purpose of my call to Jerome and further explained that I was uninterested in exposing his youthful indiscretions (as he called them), he was cooperative, although he provided no more insight into Andrew Snow’s life than anyone else: Andrew liked smoking weed. That’s all he could tell me.

  Since I could find no leads beyond the Snow family and Sheriff Larson, I refocused my efforts on that particular cast of suspicious characters. It was time to visit Hank Farber, Larson’s uncle and only alibi for the night of Andrew’s disappearance. I phoned Hank (never Henry) and arranged a meeting for the following day.

  My mother tailed me halfway across the city until I lost her by making an illegal U-turn that I knew she wouldn’t duplicate.

  I knocked on apartment 4C of the aging Tenderloin building at exactly 10:45 A.M. The man who answered the door was a slightly more pickled, R-rated version of your average grandpa type. The kind you see at racetracks and strip clubs chain-smoking cigars. Although cigarettes were Hank’s poison—among other things—I suspect.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” Hank said after he opened the door and looked me up and down. My grimy host then guided me to a thirty-year-old plaid couch that could exfoliate your skin through your clothes. He sat down across from me, lit a cigarette, and smiled with anticipation, as if being interviewed about a missing adolescent was kind of like the Q&A session of the Miss America pageant.