by Lisa Lutz
“I talked a little,” I said.
“Why did you talk?” Maggie said, shaking her head and flopping down in her chrome and leather chair.
“Because I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said.
“It’s the FBI. They have evidence against you. You shut up and you call a lawyer. You don’t sit and chat and accidentally incriminate yourself,” Maggie said.
Maggie began pacing and then chomping on a cookie from her pocket. Rae, apparently, knows where Maggie keeps her junk food stash. She found a tub of licorice in the closet/kitchen and returned with a fistful.
“Listen to me carefully. Next time, even if all the agent wants to do is play miniature golf, you tell him you need your lawyer with you. Got it?”
“Got it,” I said.
“How could you not assert your Fifth Amendment right?” Rae asked.
“I’m going to do that right now.”
• • •
I took a cab to Slayter’s office and debriefed him.
“Ten thousand dollars, that’s all?” he said.
“This is serious,” I said.
“For one thing, this isn’t a significant amount of money,” he said.
“Are you referring to the ten grand or the one hundred and fifty grand?”
“Both,” he said.
“Rich people.”
“I understand that’s a lot to you, but when we find the embezzler, he or she won’t be a criminal mastermind. Don’t worry about this, Isabel. Everything will be fine.”
“What next?” I asked.
“Back to work,” he said. “Business as usual. This will be over before you know it.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not on the FBI’s most wanted list.”
“You wish.”
Just then Lenore entered Edward’s office, dressed to the nines in the middle of the day, carrying one of those purses that cost more than my car.
“Isabel, so nice to see you,” she said with a perky voice and dead eyes.
“Yes, isn’t it,” I said with dead everything.
“How are you feeling today, Edward?” Lenore asked.
“Much better, thank you.”
“Were you not feeling well?” I asked Slayter.
“I was just a little under the weather last night. Can I have a minute alone, Lenore? Just one minute?” Edward asked.
Lenore reluctantly left the office. Edward folded his arms impatiently and walked over to the window, looking out over bustling Market Street.
“What happened?”
“At dinner two nights ago, I couldn’t remember her name and I had a panic attack. I pretended to be sick to cover.”
“You think having lunch with her is a good idea?”
“Isabel, I like her. I like the company. The answer to my illness isn’t to be alone. It’s not the answer to anything. Go home, go back to work. Everything is going to be fine.”
I believed him.
NOT-SO-DIVINE STRATEGIES
I had the weekend to recover from my FBI interrogation, and then I returned to work at Divine Strategies. Since I had been imprisoned in the file room for two weeks, it was difficult to gather information, observe unusual behavior, or get sexually harassed. Although I did notice something one doesn’t see every day when I surfaced from my fluorescent dungeon one morning and took a brief break to rebandage my paper-cut wounds. Brad, Bryan, and Maureen were in Bryan’s office sitting around his desk reading from a thick book that sure resembled the Bible, although I couldn’t remember the last time I actually saw one.
When Layla drifted by, I asked her what they were doing.
“Bible meeting. They do that every Monday. Sometimes Thursdays. Or when business is slow.”
“Just the three of them?” I asked.
“Every once in a while Betty joins them, but she’s not a regular.”
“Do you know who started it?”
“No. But Maureen is the one who keeps it going. At least if Brad or Bryan forgets, she reminds them.”
I was about to call it quits and tell Edward that the company was so squeaky clean the term wet blanket came to mind when I noticed an unusual string of events one morning. Steve Grant, art director, walked into the office of his boss, Brad Gillman. The water cooler was right outside Brad’s office, because when he was a child he was struck by lightning (at least that’s what Layla Bryant told me in the bathroom) and a phenomenon of that affliction is that the person, should he or she live, tends to be thirsty. It was only natural that the water cooler should take up residence outside Brad’s office. I was at the water cooler, drinking more water for those highly uninformative bathroom reconnaissance missions, when I heard Steve ask Brad for a raise, in a polite and reasonable manner. Brad said that he was very pleased with Steve’s work and would discuss the raise with Bryan Lincoln, second in command, and Steve returned to his office.
Brad stepped into Bryan’s office; I couldn’t hear the conversation, but it was brief. Then he strode over to the office of Maureen Stevens, the office manager, which was located next to the copy room, where I conveniently had copies to make.1 If you weren’t using the copy machine and stood in a particular sweet spot and no one noticed you, you could overhear a solid 48 percent of the conversations in Maureen’s office. Fortunately I got the 48 percent worth hearing.
BRAD: [inaudible] Steve has asked for a raise. Six percent. I think he’s [inaudible].
MAUREEN: Offer him two percent; if he threatens to [inaudible], you can go up to three.
BRAD: [inaudible] How about five percent?
MAUREEN: I think he’ll [inaudible]. You never know when [inaudible] will need a raise.
Then Brad, the boss, said okay to his underling and returned to his office. At least now I knew where to focus my investigation. Maureen Stevens.
• • •
The Spellman compound had been abandoned by all humans when I arrived that afternoon. On my desk, I found a photocopy of another check from one of Rae’s new clients, with a note explaining that she’d already made the deposit. This one was for thirty-two hundred dollars. Rae’s cut: twenty-four hundred.2 The name on the check: Emma Lighthouse. I found the Lighthouse file stuffed in Vivien’s desk under a stack of database printouts. A case number had been generated, but inside the folder was only a single piece of paper containing Emma’s name and address and scribbled below that, “10–2 P.M.” Nothing else. Once again, it might have seemed more sensible to simply ask the question, but on the off chance that Rae was up to something unusual, it was best to catch her in the act.
Meanwhile, I ran a more thorough background check on Maureen Stevens, age forty-seven, divorced, one child, annual income: eighty-five thousand. She paid insurance on a Mercedes E550 coupe. The MSRP on that is just under sixty thousand dollars. However, her credit check showed no car payments for the vehicle. Her address in SOMA was a luxury high-rise. Since she had a teenage daughter, I had to assume she rented at least a two-bedroom. I phoned the rental office and learned that a two-bedroom in that building started at $4,100 a month. I also knew that three days a week she left the office at six o’clock sharp because she had a six thirty private Pilates appointment. That’s about sixty dollars a pop, times three; you do the math. It’s a lot to spend on a flat stomach, and she was clearly doing something to her face that also cost money and kept her from frowning. Even her clothes had that I-don’t-look-at-the-price-tag feel about them.
Of course, child support and a rich ex-husband could explain that. The ex-husband, as far as I could tell, had been AWOL since the divorce twelve years ago. There was no indication of any alimony or child support payments. Her credit score was extremely high and she was using only 10 percent of the credit on her revolving accounts. Eighty-five thousand a year is a reasonable salary for a seasoned office manager with twenty-plus years under her belt. The thing is, Brad made only one hundred and twenty-five thousand, and Bryan Lincoln made one hundred and five thousand.
The company financials w
ere sound, and presumably Brad could decide when to give himself a raise. According to his credit report, he was in serious need of one. His mortgage was close to five grand a month. His children went to private school (I saw their uniforms in the picture on his desk) and he was using, on average, over 75 percent of the credit limits on his revolving accounts. Essentially the support staff was living the high life and the partners were scraping by.
I’d never seen this kind of generosity in any company model. There had to be a catch. And I kind of wanted to catch it soon, because the filing was getting to me and my fingers. While I paced the vacant Spellman office trying to foment a tangible explanation for the Divine Strategies infrastructure, I got a text on my phone from D, which was odd since he was sitting right there.
What is a conflict resolution specialist?
I texted him back: I have no idea. Do you?
No. But I’d look into it.
I turned to D and asked the obvious question: “Do you have laryngitis?”
“No,” D said. He turned his attention to his computer and then began shaking his mouse vigorously. “These computers are not fixed.”
“Are you more comfortable snitching with your thumbs?” I asked.
“I’m making coffee. Do you want any?” was D’s only reply.
“No, thank you.”
Whatever D’s unorthodox method of communication was, he did remind me that I ought to investigate my sister’s activities a bit more thoroughly. I pulled Rae’s business card from my wallet and after very brief consideration decided on the best course of action. I decided to drop by Len’s place and give him a surprise acting role.
“I have a job for you,” I said when I arrived.
A startling expression of hope took residence on Len’s face.
“Like the Winslow case?” he asked, backing away from the door and silently inviting me in.
The last time I had offered Len a job, it was as an undercover valet for a rich guy being swindled by his staff. Method acting doesn’t even begin to describe Len’s devotion to the assignment. We practically needed an intervention to strip him of his valet habits.3
“I’m afraid it’s only voice work and should take no more than five minutes.”
“I see,” Len said, flopping on the couch like a punctured balloon.
“You know what they say; there are no small parts, just small actors.”
“Bullshit,” Len replied.
I sat down in an uncomfortable but very attractive chair adjacent to Len and waited patiently for the haze of disappointment to abate. Len loved to act. I once saw him play a purple-fur-coat-wearing pimp in a nonironic stage play written by a Christian fundamentalist that was genuinely racist. And he even researched the role.
“Okay,” Len sighed. “Who am I?”
“You’re a man who has found an intriguing business card and wants to know more.”
I gave Rae’s “business” card to Len.
“What’s my profession?”
“I’m not sure that it matters.”
“What’s my profession?”
“Let’s say you found the card at a café. Maybe you’re a student?”
“What’s my major?”
Me: sigh.
“Physics?” Len asked.
“Sure, but unless you know anything about physics I wouldn’t bring it up in conversation.”
“I’ll go with English.”
“Great,” I said. “Here’s the number.”
“Where am I from?”
“I don’t care.”
“Can I be a foreign exchange student?”
“Absolutely not.”
“I haven’t wrestled with a southern accent in a while.”
“Light southern accent. Not Paula Deen.”
Len and I then went over his lines and I passed him the burner cell phone I’d just picked up.4 He pressed the speaker button and dialed.
RAE: Spellman Investigations.
LEN: Good afternoon, miss. I found your business card in a café. I’m having some troubles and I’m wondering if you can help. What exactly is a conflict resolution specialist?
RAE: It’s a person who specializes in conflict resolution.
LEN: I see. That’s rather vague. Can you describe some of the services you provide?
RAE: That could take all day. Maybe you could tell me the kind of services you’re seeking.
LEN: I’m having trouble with a certain individual.
RAE: What kind of trouble?
LEN: The kind of trouble that makes me wish that individual could just kind of vanish, do you know what I mean?
I grabbed a piece of scratch paper and scribbled as quickly as possible, Too much improvising!!!
RAE: Let me be clear up front. We do not kill people or have people beaten up or inflict bodily harm in any way; we simply help you deal with another individual or help you constructively deal with your emotions toward that individual.
LEN: Sounds kind of like therapy.
RAE: No. Not at all. We can usually solve your problems in less than two weeks, sometimes two hours. Now, if you would like to tell me about your situation I can make an assessment and see if we can be of service. I should mention, however, that I now have your phone number and I would caution you against doing anything drastic toward this individual who is troubling you so. You won’t get away with it.
LEN: Let me think it over and I’ll get back to you.
RAE: I look forward to your call.
Len disconnected the call.
“Well, at least we know she’s not killing anyone,” I said.
• • •
The next time I dropped by Edward’s office, I caught him having a casual meeting with Sheldon Meyers and Willard Slavinsky. Edward has a 25 percent share of his company and Meyers and Slavinsky each have 15, which means the three men have a lock on any company votes. They’ve known each other since college, Dartmouth men who eventually found their way to the West Coast. Slavinsky and Meyers came from money, but Edward just married well to a woman who didn’t demand a prenup. She probably should have, since she got all of her money from her first husband, who didn’t demand a prenup. Edward smartened up with his second marriage, which was wise, since it was pretty much a sham.
Sheldon has always been icy with me. He knows I don’t belong in his country club and he can’t quite get used to the fact that Edward keeps my company. But Willard is different, maybe because we’re cut from the same cloth, although Willard’s is cashmere and mine is a cotton blend. According to Edward, Willard was kicked out of five boarding schools before he eventually graduated. Three generations of Slavinskys went to Dartmouth and, despite his weak academic performance, he managed to sneak in. After college, Willard squandered his inheritance on a number of failed business ventures and one bad relationship that resulted in a daughter he had out of wedlock. The family let him go broke until Edward began to look for investors for Slayter Industries. They gave him one final loan, the investment proved a massive success, and Willard was no longer the family shame. Although he did have that one child out of wedlock.
As usual, when I saw the two men, Willard approached with a warm embrace and Sheldon nodded his head politely.
“Where have you been, my girl?” Willard said. “Have you lost weight?”
“He’s making me jog,” I said.
“Have you reported this to human resources?”
“Technically I’m not a Slayter Industries employee. Willard, Sheldon. You two look like you keep fit. You know what? You should go jogging with Edward sometime. You can multitask. Business and exercise.”
“That’s what golf is for,” Willard said.
“I’m a tennis man,” Sheldon said.
“Nice try,” Edward said.
“This has been fun. But I have another board meeting in a half hour,” Willard said as he made a swift departure.
“Let me walk you out, Sheldon,” I said. “I know where to get your parking validated.”
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Since Sheldon was responsible for the Lenore introduction, I had to see what information I could gather.
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” I asked.
It was common knowledge that Sheldon spent a great deal of his free time at Caffe Trieste, especially since his wife had passed. She was an opera fan, and sometimes opera was sung at Caffe Trieste. Fortunately, not that day when Sheldon and I had our awkward cup of coffee.
“Edward thinks the world of you,” Sheldon said, adding an unnecessary question mark at the end.
“I think the world of him. I’m sure you’re wondering why I asked you here.”
“Indeed.”
“It’s my understanding that you introduced Mr. Slayter to Lenore. Yes?”
“I did.”
“How did you meet her?”
“My dear friend Glynnis met her at a book club meeting and invited her to the tennis club.”
“Who invited Lenore to the book club?”
“That I do not know.”
“Would you mind calling Glynnis and finding out? This may seem overly cautious, but in light of what happened with Edward’s last relationship, I just need to be sure.”
Sheldon obligingly phoned Glynnis and asked. Glynnis told Sheldon that Lenore was invited by Sheryl’s friend Louise. Sheldon didn’t know Louise and asked Glynnis to ask Louise how she met Lenore. Glynnis texted him a few minutes later and said that Louise met Lenore at Rodrigo’s hair salon in Pacific Heights.
• • •
It could certainly have been a coincidence. There are only a certain number of high-end hair salons in the city, but I was struck by the fact that this was also the favorite salon of the ex–Mrs. Slayter, a fact I discovered when I started surveilling her instead of her husband. I made an appointment for a haircut, then changed it to a wash and blow-dry when I heard the prices.
