The Last Word

by Lisa Lutz

  “I have over one hundred employees. Where would you begin?”

  It wasn’t until I was out the door that the thought crossed my mind. Money had been embezzled from Slayter’s account and money had mysteriously arrived in my company’s account. At the time I chalked it up to coincidence. Just one more thing on a laundry list of things I got wrong.

  • • •

  The assertive approach had done nothing to improve workplace morale. In fact, when I gave up on my parents, they finally started getting work done. I decided to go with it. My parents continued to keep their baffling schedule—often absent several hours out of the day, accomplishing the bare minimum of office maintenance tasks at some other mysterious hour—and yet in retrospect they were becoming my most productive employees. Vivien and Rae were keeping their own schedule on a case that was a personal vendetta and D was devoting most of his time to the Washburn case. Out of tradition, I named him employee of the month yet again. Who else was I going to pick? Me?

  D managed to track down Washburn’s sister, Delia Wayne, through his interview with Carl. She hadn’t moved to Arizona or Colorado or any other state. She got married, had two kids, worked for Pacific Gas & Electric, and lived in the Excelsior District of San Francisco. I wanted to keep a hand in the case, since I knew some element of it wasn’t quite right, so I told D that I’d take care of the interview. I phoned her and she reluctantly agreed to meet with me at the Greenhouse Café in West Portal. I’ll spare you most of the background information and leave you with what ultimately stuck in my mind—and also made me a little grateful for the brother I had.

  Q: Does it surprise you to hear that your brother might be innocent of the crime he was convicted of?

  A: Wouldn’t surprise me.

  Q: Why is that?

  A: Armed robbery wasn’t his thing.

  Q: Is there anything you can tell us that would help his case?

  A: You mean help you get him out of jail?

  Q: Yes.

  A: I don’t want to help you get him out of jail.

  Q: All evidence points to witness misidentification.

  A: You do not want Lou out on the streets.

  Q: But he’s probably innocent.

  A: Of that crime, maybe. But he’s guilty of a whole lot of others.

  Q: When did you and your brother have a falling-out? I noticed you never visited him in prison.

  A: That boy has never been right. I keep my distance. You let me know if he gets out. We might think about moving.

  Q: What do you mean he’s never been right?

  A: In the head. There’s something wrong there.

  Q: Can you be more specific?

  A: When I was ten, he killed my cat. That specific enough for you?

  It was a little too specific. I needed a drink to clear the image from my head and since I was in the neighborhood, I dropped by the Philosopher’s Club. Gerty, Bernie’s girlfriend, my ex-boyfriend’s mother, whom I am quite fond of, was minding the bar.

  “What’ll it be, sweetheart?” Gerty said, leaning over the bar and giving me a kiss on the cheek.

  “Depends,” I said. “When is Bernie due back?”

  “Bank run. About a half hour.”

  “I think I can finish a beer in that time frame.”

  “I think you can too.”

  “So, congratulations,” I said as Gerty was pulling a pint.

  “Ah, yes,” Gerty said. “Thank you.”

  I could tell she wanted to drop the subject. For my sake, not hers.

  “You’ll make an awesome grandma.”

  “Above average, at least. How have you been?”

  “I’m okay. Running an empire is exhausting.”

  • • •

  Back at the office, Grammy was answering phones while D was, as far as I could tell, planning his next fake move.

  “Now, hypothetically speaking,” D said, “how much would it cost if I packed my kitchen but not the rest of the house? And if you could work up a quote for packing the kitchen and the office and the bedroom but leaving the living room and dining room, that would be excellent. Let me ask you another question. How much does that bubble wrap go for? You sell it by the yard. A bit pricey, isn’t it? My kids love the stuff. Maybe we could work out a deal, if I’m buying in bulk. Another question. Is bubble wrap recyclable? Because if it isn’t, I don’t want anything to do with the stuff. Okay, I see you have to go. Well have a nice day now. Try to enjoy the sun while it lasts. You know in San Francisco, we just never see the sun. Oh right, you’re not in San Francisco. So what’s the weather like in San Bruno right now? You don’t say? Oh right. You have to go. Get back to me on those quotes and here’s to doing some moving business together.”

  When D disconnected the call, I had to ask once again if my sister was blackmailing him in any capacity.

  “Vivien asked me if I’d go to Lightning Fast and have a chat, in quotation marks, with Lorre to see if we could get some of her money back. I told Vivien that even though I did time, shaking people down is not my thing. She was openly disappointed. This was the least I could do.”

  “Good job. If I worked in customer service that call would make me want a career change.”

  I typed up the transcript of my interview and gave it to D.

  “We should see who we’re dealing with here,” I said.

  “Agreed,” D said.

  “I think you need to go back to the Big Q and interview some of his cell mates. See if he’s confessed to any other crimes.”

  “The Big Q? You still on that?” D said.

  “If you keep saying it, it will become second nature. So, you’ll head back to the Big Q?”

  “Go back?” D said.

  “I’ll call Maggie. Let her know it wasn’t your idea. Maybe you can go on Monday.”

  “Monday. I’ll see if I’m free,” he said.

  “Check your calendar,” I said.

  The phone rang. Grammy picked up the closest phone.

  “Good afternoon, Spellman Investigations. Ruth Spellman speaking. How can I be of service? . . . I’m afraid Mr. Spellman isn’t in at the moment. Can I take a message? May I have your phone number? He has it? Are you sure? Well, you can’t be positive. Let’s say he doesn’t have it. May I take your number down, please? Yes. Yes. And what is this regarding? He knows? Is Mr. Spellman clairvoyant? Hello? Hello?”

  The clients had been complaining about Grammy’s message-taking for about a week, but I needed to witness it firsthand before I could take action.

  “Who was that?” I asked.

  “Mr. Gardner. My, he was in a rush.”

  D would later tell me he hadn’t ever seen me that happy. Firing Grammy Spellman was one of the highlights of my adult life. I couldn’t do it just once.

  “Grammy, please take a seat.”

  Grammy was already sitting.

  “I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to let you go. I think it’s best if we replace you with an answering machine. Don’t feel bad; it’s all part of the industrial revolution or something.”

  Then I added a pink slip to her final paycheck with the following note:

  Dear Mrs. Spellman,

  Thank you for your services. Unfortunately you have been made redundant. We wish you the best in all your future endeavors.

  Signed,

  The Management

  Grammy’s only response was, “Now I can go back to my water aerobics class. You might consider getting some exercise. You know how they say men like something to grab on to? It’s not true.”

  Since I was running regularly, I was perhaps more offended than I should have been.

  As an afternoon pick-me-up, I wrote a memo.

  MEMO

  To All Spellman Employees:

  Grammy Spellman has been fired!!!

  We will have a celebratory cheesecake tomorrow afternoon.

  Signed,

  Isabel

  In retrospect, the firing of Grammy was one of the last stress
-free moments we’d have for months. And it never occurred to me that with Grammy gone, there was no one to pawn off the filing to.

  • • •

  Just one week after Arthur broke the news of the corporate embezzlement, I got a visitor at Spellman Investigations. My cloud of fiscal ignorance was finally broken. The doorbell rang. I looked through the peephole and saw a thirtysomething male in a suit. I opened the door.

  “Can I help you?”

  The man pulled out a badge. FBI.

  “Special Agent Carl Bledsoe. Are you Isabel Spellman?”

  “Did I say I was Isabel Spellman?”

  “Would it be possible for us to have a chat?”

  “Can it wait?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Mind if I come in?”

  I had no idea where anyone was or when they would return, but it seemed wise to keep any FBI business out of the house. I left a note in the office, grabbed my coat, and got into the government-issue sedan.

  “I’ve never been questioned by the FBI before,” I said, trying to look on the bright side.

  “This must be your lucky day.”

  PART II

  ARGUMENTS

  VOICE MEMO

  3:15 A.M.

  Can’t sleep again. I pulled the recordings today and listened to each one at least ten times. I don’t know what to make of it. I know I should just come out and ask. How bad is it? But I learned from David that you should never ask a question unless you already know the answer.

  I followed my parents again. I think I know what’s going on. I wish I didn’t. I’m going to keep it to myself for a while.

  There’s this ex-con who keeps making house calls. He wants Maggie to quit the Washburn case. I get the feeling his heart isn’t in it. He just needs a part-time job. I’m thinking about hiring him. We could use a guy like him around. Everyone here is afraid to get their hands dirty. Maybe that’s been our problem from the start.

  BLEDSOE

  FBI Headquarters

  A fluorescent light flickered overhead. My chair wobbled on uneven casters. The office had a kind of blandness so ordinary it was distracting. The man who picked me up from my house and drove me to FBI headquarters at 450 Golden Gate Avenue wore the fed uniform of a navy blue suit and white shirt and tie. There was a time when J. Edgar Hoover demanded that all of his agents wear white shirts. The agent seemed like the kind of man who would follow orders from fifty years ago. I tried to tell myself that I was just talking to an accountant. An accountant with a gun.

  “Can I get you anything to drink, Ms. Spellman?”

  “Whiskey. Neat. Nothing fancy,” I said.

  He laughed. Too hard. “We have water, coffee. I can probably rustle up a soda,” the accountant said.

  “I’m good for now.”

  He took a seat.

  “I just want to ask you a few questions.”

  “Are you recording this conversation?”

  “We’re having a chat, that’s all.”

  “I like my chats recorded,” I said, pulling a digital recorder from my purse. “If you don’t mind?”

  The accountant nodded his head in acquiescence. I pressed record.

  The transcript reads as follows:

  ACCOUNTANT: Ms. Spellman. Can I call you Isabel?

  ISABEL: Sure. Can you state your name for the record?

  ACCOUNTANT: Agent Carl Bledsoe.

  ISABEL: Thank you.

  ACCOUNTANT: It is my understanding that you’re a private investigator, is that correct?

  ISABEL: Yes.

  ACCOUNTANT: You are the primary owner of Spellman Investigations, located at 1799 Clay Street, in San Francisco, is that correct?

  ISABEL: Yes. Do you want to tell me what this is about?

  ACCOUNTANT: Let’s get to know each other first.

  ISABEL: I’m an Aries. I hate long walks on the beach. I have no hobbies to speak of, but I play a decent game of pool. Had a promising future with darts until I almost took my brother’s eye out in the fourth grade. Single.

  ACCOUNTANT: Shocking.

  ISABEL: What do you want?

  ACCOUNTANT: Like I said, I just want to chat.

  ISABEL: Do I need a lawyer for this chat?

  ACCOUNTANT: Do you think you need a lawyer?

  ISABEL: Ask me another question and I’ll get back to you on it.

  ACCOUNTANT: How long have you known Edward Slayter?

  ISABEL: About eight months, give or take.

  ACCOUNTANT: What is the nature of your relationship?

  ISABEL: I do investigative work for him.

  ACCOUNTANT: Is that the extent of the relationship?

  ISABEL: We go running together a few times a week, and that’s not a euphemism for anything.

  ACCOUNTANT: It is my understanding that you’ve become his confidante.

  ISABEL: Why would the FBI be interested in my relationship with Mr. Slayter?

  ACCOUNTANT: Do you have access to the Slayter Industries bank accounts?

  ISABEL: No.

  ACCOUNTANT: In the last two months over one hundred and fifty thousand dollars has been wired from Slayter Industries into an offshore account in the Cayman Islands. In the last month, ten thousand dollars has been wired from that offshore account into your company’s checking account.

  ISABEL: I have been a bit a lax in keeping up with the books. Can you tell me the name of the offshore account?

  ACCOUNTANT: Right now all we know is that it’s a corporation called GLD Inc.

  ISABEL: I don’t know anything about this, Agent Bledsoe.

  [Bledsoe silently leaves the interrogation room and returns carrying a thin folder. He spreads several photocopies of bank statements on the dingy table and points to four highlighted transactions.]

  ACCOUNTANT: On three separate dates there are transfers from Slayter Industries into an offshore account, under the name GLD Inc., totaling one hundred fifty-two thousand dollars and eighty-one cents. A little over a month ago, ten thousand dollars from GLD Inc. was transferred into your bank account.

  ISABEL: Do you really believe that I or anyone would be stupid enough to embezzle money and then leave an arrow pointing directly at the guilty party? Clearly I’m being framed.

  ACCOUNTANT: Possibly. Another question comes to mind: How is it that you had ten thousand extra dollars in an account that rarely hovered over three thousand and you didn’t notice?

  ISABEL: I’ve been neglecting the books. Look, I’ll write a check right now and get the money out of the account.

  ACCOUNTANT: These are difficult times. It would be understandable if you took the money. Maybe you didn’t do it for yourself. Maybe you did it for your family.

  ISABEL: Does Mr. Slayter know I’m here?

  ACCOUNTANT: No. He doesn’t. This information was brought to us by the board of directors and we have not yet interviewed Mr. Slayter.

  ISABEL: The board of directors, you say. So you got the phone call about this, and the person on the other end of the line said, “Hello, this is the board of directors calling from Slayter Industries?”

  ACCOUNTANT: It was an individual who called but a decision come to by the group, after careful consideration.

  ISABEL: Mr. Slayter will clear everything up. He’ll tell you that I’m innocent and that I’m being framed.

  ACCOUNTANT: They said he would protect you. Isabel, the money trail just doesn’t look good.

  ISABEL: It’s not a money trail. It’s a money pratfall. This is bullshit and you know it. I assume I’m free to go.

  ACCOUNTANT: What makes you so sure?

  ISABEL: If I went into a bank with a note that said I had a bomb in my bag and got away with ten thousand dollars, I would be arrested and arraigned the moment I was caught, even if I was only carrying a cat. But white-collar criminals—not that I’m admitting to being one—are treated with much more respect. In fact, it’s quite possible that a person who embezzles hundreds of thousands of dollars might not do any time at all.

&nb
sp; ACCOUNTANT: I wouldn’t bank on that, Isabel.

  ISABEL: The next time we meet, I’ll have a lawyer with me.

  I hurried out of the federal building and realized I didn’t have a ride. I walked up to Van Ness and hopped on the 42 bus and rode it to Maggie’s office across the street from the criminal court building. The bus was packed like a sardine can, but I found an unsavory seat in back and phoned Edward. Since I was seated between two men arguing over which one’s girlfriend had the superior hindquarters, I dispensed with the pleasantries and launched straight into the cold facts.

  “Edward. I’m on my way to Maggie’s office. I need a lawyer. You know that money that’s missing from Slayter Industries? Yes. Well, it looks like some of it has ended up in the Spellman Investigations checking account.”

  At this point the argument got rather heated and I couldn’t really hear what Edward had to say.

  “I’ll call you later,” I said.

  After I disconnected the call, a man wearing two vests, a yellowed button-down shirt, a fedora that had been through every rainstorm in the last decade, trousers that had never heard of dry cleaning, and an odor of cigarette that blessedly masked the scent beneath turned to me and smiled ever so politely.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Samuel B. Sampson, attorney at law.”

  He handed me an old bus transfer, which I suppose was his card.

  “We have to fight the system,” he said. “Call day or night.”

  It would have helped if the bus transfer had a phone number on it.

  • • •

  Rae arrived at Maggie’s office at the same time I did. Since she had found the deposit in the first place and was now handling the Spellman financials, Maggie thought it wise to loop her in.

  “Did you talk to him?” Rae asked.

  “We talked a little,” I said as we entered Maggie’s office.

  “You don’t talk,” Rae repeated.

  “You talked?” Maggie said, jumping on me the second I walked in the door.

  Maggie had two rooms on the second floor above a café on Bryant Street. Since 30 percent of her practice was pro bono and another 30 percent for clients who didn’t have a lot of cash to begin with, she didn’t have the kind of shiny lawyerly office you see in movies. The shag carpet needed replacing; the paint was a dull ivory that needed a new coat three years ago. However, David had managed to purchase some of the furniture from his old law firm at a steal. Her desk, the reception-area couch, and the chairs were beyond luxurious. The disconnect, once you spotted it, was rather distracting.