The Spellman Files

by Lisa Lutz

  I popped the trunk of my car and pulled out a hammer I keep in a toolbox. Before my father could react, I smashed the front right headlight on David’s car.

  “Just like that,” I said.

  My father shook his head, disappointed in me and himself. Daniel turned to me, horrified.

  “Why did you do that, Isabel?” Daniel asked.

  “Because he smashed my taillight.”

  “And why did he do that?”

  My father stepped closer to Daniel and explained, “When you’re following someone at night, it’s easier to keep a tail on a car with one working taillight rather than two.”

  “Why did she smash your headlight, then?”

  “Two reasons,” replied my dad. “One, because she’s mad and wants payback, and two, because it will be easier for her to tell whether she was able to lose me or not.”

  “How long is this going to go on?” Daniel asked my father.

  “As long as it takes,” said my dad as he got back into David’s car.

  Car Chase #2

  I couldn’t see the detached expression on Daniel’s face because my brain was already plotting my escape. I got into my car and started the engine. I hoped that the nap had sharpened my reflexes, but I knew deep in my heart that losing my father would require a superhuman effort, an effort I didn’t truly believe I was capable of.

  I zigzagged through the heavy traffic of West Portal Avenue, then turned left onto Ocean Avenue, which cleared soon after San Francisco State. My father stayed on my bumper the entire ride. He had six months of police academy and twenty years on the job to perfect his technique. He’s outrun people far more skilled or more indifferent to death than I. He knows I won’t risk my or his safety and so this chase is more of a conversation than actual pursuit. He phoned me on my cell phone and everything that had not been said was.

  “I could do this all day, sweetheart.”

  “So could I,” I replied.

  “Tell me how to end this, Isabel.”

  “Stop following me.”

  “Stop running.”

  “You first.”

  “No, you first.”

  “It appears we have a stalemate,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  I wove my way back to Geary Boulevard and along a series of residential streets in the Richmond district—San Francisco’s sophisticated version of tract housing glided through my peripheral vision. My father sustained his unrelenting tail, not realizing that I was no longer interested in losing him, at least not this way, when there was an easier way.

  I parked off Geary Boulevard on one of those impossible-to-park-on side streets that house a dense collection of two- and three-family homes. I parked in a legal space two blocks from the pub, checked the street cleaning signs, locked my car, and passed my father on the way to the bar. He rolled down his window.

  “Where are you going?”

  “The Pig and Whistle.”

  “What are you gonna do there?”

  “Get drunk.”

  I walked off knowing that he’d take the bait. My father parked illegally, tossed his old badge on the dashboard, and followed me into the bar.

  Dad bought the first round and the next round and the round after that. I bought the fourth round against great protest. While my father and I got good and tanked, we took a brief respite from our game of cat and mouse.

  “So how are things with you and the dentist?”

  “He has a name.”

  “How are things with you and Daniel Castillo, DDS?”

  “Fine.”

  “When can we have a real conversation, Izzy?”

  “As soon as you stop gathering intelligence.”

  “Okay, I’ll start. There’s a chance Ray will go into rehab.”

  “What kind of chance?”

  “I’d say ten percent or so.”

  “What are the chances it will stick?”

  “About ten percent.”

  “So there’s a one percent chance that Uncle Ray will get clean,” I said.

  “That sounds about right,” Dad replied, his words finally starting to slur.

  “Has anyone explained the odds to Rae? I mean, if she’s going to be a walking after-school special, someone should discuss the cost-benefit ratio with her.”

  “We’ve had the cost-benefit talk.”

  “Still, it’s impressive that he’s considering it.”

  “We know you faked the drug deal.”

  “What gave it away?”

  “The dentist can’t act, for one thing, and I sat Rae down with a batch of Rice Krispies Treats midweek. Told her she could eat them all if she talked. She talked.”

  “Is there no low you won’t sink to?”

  “I gave my kid Rice Krispies Treats. You pretended to snort cocaine in front of her.”

  “I pretended to snort cocaine because you bugged my apartment.”

  “We bugged your apartment because you were becoming obsessed with a case. A case that is over, by the way.”

  “A case that you gave me.”

  “It was a mistake.”

  “What?”

  “Giving you the case.”

  “It wasn’t your only mistake.”

  My dad picked up another basket of pretzels from the bar and returned to the table.

  “The first few times I found you passed out on the front lawn, I thought you were dead.”

  “That was a long time ago, Dad. I haven’t passed out in years.”

  “So Old Isabel isn’t making a comeback?”

  “If Old Isabel were back, she wouldn’t be having drinks with her dad.”

  “What would she be doing?”

  “Picking up one of those nice Irish boys at the bar or trying to score a dime bag in Dolores Park.”

  “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

  “I leave. You don’t follow me.”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “I think it is,” I said as I slowly put on my coat and left a tip on the table.

  “What makes you so confident?” he asked.

  “You’re too drunk to drive and I can outrun you,” I replied, grinning wildly. I’d had very few knock-’em-out-of-the-park wins in the past few weeks and I was enjoying this moment. I slowly backed away to the exit. Then I swung the door open and booked out of the bar.

  I could hear the rattling from the door as my father made his clumsy exit. There was no point in turning back to see his location. I just ran as fast and as hard as I could. Three blocks later I made a right turn on Fillmore Street and caught a cab. I ducked down in the backseat just in case. The driver found me suspicious and was more than happy when he dropped me off and received payment for his services. I ducked into an overdone tourist-trap café in the Marina. Amid wealthy Midwesterners and their furs on vacation, I drank coffee and sobered up.

  A few hours later, as I simultaneously walked off the beer buzz and the coffee jitters, I got another phone call.

  “Isabel?”

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “Meet me at the West Oakland BART station in one hour,” said an unrecognizable voice on the other end. It could have been a man or a woman, impossible to say.

  “Nah, I’m busy.”

  “Don’t you want some answers, Isabel?”

  “Yes. For instance, I’d like to know who I’m talking to.”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “I’m not crossing the bridge without a good reason. You know what traffic is like at this hour?”

  “I can answer all of your questions about Andrew Snow.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Like I said, meet me and you’ll find out.”

  “I’ll think about it. Which BART station, did you say?”

  “West Oakland. Southeast exit. Two hours.”

  “Make it three. I’m still drunk.”

  I couldn’t return to my car; my father would have removed a vital part of the engine, like the carburetor. I hopped on the Fillm
ore bus and phoned Daniel at his office. It took some persuading to get Mrs. Sanchez to release the phone to Daniel, but eventually she did.

  “I need to borrow your car.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Isabel.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “Isabel.”

  “Please.”

  This negotiation was ultimately an unspoken one. I needed something from Daniel—a car—and Daniel needed something from me—an easy breakup. To assuage his guilt, he agreed to lend me his BMW. I waited on the street outside the Folsom and Third Street parking structure. The streetlight flickered for five minutes and went out. Daniel had agreed to meet me after his tennis game. He was late. I grew edgy as I sobered up. Every sound, from footsteps in the distance to aluminum cans traveling with the breeze, made my heart stop.

  Then Daniel turned the corner. When he saw me, he averted his gaze. I had seen that look before. It was always followed by “We need to talk.” I knew what was about to happen, but I still tried to postpone the inevitable.

  “Did you make sure you weren’t followed?” I asked.

  “Who would follow me?” Daniel replied.

  “My mother or my father.”

  “I don’t believe I was followed.”

  I held out my hand, hoping for a silent gift of the keys.

  “This will never work,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You and me.”

  “Why not?”

  “What would we tell our kids?”

  “What kids?”

  “If we had kids, how would we explain how Mommy and Daddy met?”

  “We’d lie, of course.”

  “It’s over. I can’t do this.”

  I won’t bore you with the rest of the conversation. I’ll simply provide Daniel’s epitaph.

  …The Ford screeches to a halt about ten feet behind the BMW. I turn off the ignition and take a few deep breaths. I casually get out of the car and walk over to the sedan. I knock on the driver’s-side window. A moment passes and the window rolls down. I put my hand on the hood of the car and lean in just a bit.

  “Mom. Dad. This has to stop.”

  Before they can compose a sentence that would properly convey their disappointment in me, I slip my hand behind my back, pull out my pocketknife, and slash their front left tire. They gave me no choice. It was the only way to end the chase. They’re not as shocked as you might expect. My father whispers my name, shaking his head. My mother turns away, hiding her rage. I stick the knife in my pocket and back away, shrugging my shoulders.

  “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

  I drive away, satisfied that I’ve bought myself some time. I turn onto Mission Street, heading for the entrance to the Bay Bridge. An accident on South Van Ness has stalled traffic to a standstill and the rush of elation from my newfound freedom is dulled by the blasting of horns and the ticking of the clock on the dashboard. The chance of me making it across the bridge and to the West Oakland BART station within the next twenty minutes is a near-impossible task.

  I’m about to veer onto the Thirteenth Street on-ramp when my phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Izzy, Milo here.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “You can get your sister out of my bar before the cops shut me down.”

  “Milo, I’m busy. Have you tried Uncle Ray?”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t answer. And I just called your dad and he told me you slashed his tire. I’m not even going to ask. All I’m saying is that it’s Saturday night and I got a fourteen-year-old girl in my bar and I want her out of here.”

  “Let me talk to her.”

  Rae took the phone and said, “I wouldn’t have a drinking problem if things were better at home.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Stay put.”

  My phone rings again just after I disconnect the call.

  “Isabel.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re late,” says the unidentifiable voice.

  “Seriously, who is this?”

  “I thought you wanted to solve this case.”

  “I need another hour. My sister’s drinking again.”

  “You’ve got forty-five minutes and then I’m gone.”

  I’m two blocks from the Philosopher’s Club and the phone rings one more time.

  “Izzy, it’s Milo. Tell Rae she left her scarf here.”

  “Tell her yourself.”

  “Didn’t you pick her up already?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “But she’s gone.”

  GONE

  My foot was on the floor all the way to Milo’s. I slammed on the brakes and double-parked in front of the bar. I threw open the door and raced inside. It was the look on Milo’s face that shook me. Fear is more a lack of expression than an expression. Fear pulls all the blood from the extremities to concentrate on the activities that sustain life, like keeping your heart pumping. Milo visibly paled. I could see his lips moving, but could not make out the words over the hum of the bar crowd and the sound of my own breath. I walked through to the back of the bar, pushing aside patrons blocking my path. I checked the restroom and the exit into the alley.

  Milo pointed toward the front of the bar and led me outside. He showed me the spot on the stoop where she’d been waiting. We circled the block and questioned all the sidewalk traffic. We got in my car and covered every side street within a three-mile radius. We phoned the house three times and her cell phone twice. We returned to the bar and I tried her cell phone again as we circled the perimeter. And then I heard it. Her phone ringing. Milo pulled the lid off the trash can and the phone was sitting on top. I picked up the phone and turned to Milo.

  “There has to be some explanation, Izzy. Maybe she lost the phone and somebody else tossed it.”

  I drove home breaking every traffic law in the book. I drove home knowing that something horrible had happened that could not be undone. I drove home trying to remember the last time I saw my sister, wondering whether it would be the last time.

  Rae had been gone only an hour and yet I was certain her absence was much more than a miscommunication. Rae doesn’t disappear. That’s not her MO. She telephones. She communicates. She prefers chauffeuring to public transportation. She lets you know everything that is going on in her mind. She doesn’t run off when you’ve told her to stay put. She doesn’t do that.

  It seemed like minutes had passed before I could steady my hand enough to open the front door of my family’s home. So long, it briefly occurred to me, that the locks might have been changed. When the door finally flew open, I ran through the house shouting my sister’s name.

  I banged on every closed door in the hallway until I came upon Rae’s bedroom door. I tried the knob, but it was locked. My hands were too shaky to attempt a pick. I kicked it twice, but it wouldn’t budge. You can’t kick open locked doors; that is a myth. I ran down to the storage room, grabbed an axe, and returned upstairs. I swung the axe against the lock until the wood around the deadbolt was splintered to pieces. Then I laid one final kick and the door swung open.

  Uncle Ray watched me from the other end of the hallway.

  “I had a spare key,” he said, then picked up the phone and called my parents.

  The stillness of her room felt unnatural, but the chill I felt was very real. Her bed was unmade—as usual. Clothes were strewn across the floor in her typical adolescent nonchalance. It was a room waiting for someone to return to it, and yet she hadn’t returned.

  I searched her desk until I came across her address book. I phoned all two of her friends, neither of whom knew where she was or where she could be. Uncle Ray telephoned his buddies at the police station, who agreed to file an early report.

  I passed my parents in the hallway as I exited the room. Avoiding eye contact, I told them that I would comb the neighborhood. I said that so I could leave. I had hoped that the misty
air outside would cure my nausea, but once I exited the house, I began vomiting in my mother’s flower bed (not for the first time, I might add). In between violent heaving, my phone rang again.

  “Isabel, where are you?” said that goddamn voice.

  “Did you take her?” I asked. My breath was so weak I could barely get the question out.

  “Take who?”

  “My sister. Do you have her?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you’ve done something to her, your life is over. It’s over. Do you understand? They will kill you.”

  “Who?”

  “My father will kill you. Or my mother, maybe. Or they might have a little competition to see who can do it first. Do you have her?”

  “Who?”

  “If you have her, give her back,” I said and the line went dead.

  THE INTERVIEW

  CHAPTER 6

  Stone gathers his file, aligning each sheet in a perfect stack. He smacks the pages against the wood table to square the edges. He then slides his finger along the side, searching for the flat line. His finger touches on an errant edge and he smacks the stack again and then again. He slides the papers into a crisp file folder and dusts off the top, smoothing the already flat cover.

  “They’ve got medication for that sort of thing,” I say.

  “I think that is all, Isabel. If you think of anything else, please call me.”

  “You need to speak to the Snow family.”

  “As I told you before, we don’t think it’s related to this case.”

  “But there’s nothing else.”

  “There are countless possibilities.”

  “She’s not a runaway. She knows how to fight.”

  “It could be a random abduction.”

  “Is that what you think? Because I know the statistics.”

  “That’s all I need. Why don’t you get some sleep now, Isabel.”

  Inspector Stone stands. I grab his arm and he freezes uncomfortably.

  “Tell me the truth. Is she dead? Do you think she’s dead?”

  Just saying those words flattened me. Suddenly I wished he wouldn’t answer. But he did.