The Last Word

by Lisa Lutz

  After my meeting with Sheldon, I returned to Edward’s office to give him the update on Divine Strategies. When I arrived, Evelyn and Arthur were returning from lunch. Every time Evelyn saw me, I felt like I was crashing a party I was specifically not invited to. Her face would drift from an animated smile to a cold stare, as if I’d sucked all the fun out of the room. While I had no direct recollection of starting this silent battle with Edward’s secretary, it seemed time to stop it.

  “Hi, Evelyn, how are you?” I said as nicely as I could.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “How’s your mom doing?”

  Evelyn clearly did not appreciate my interest in her personal life.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said, ignoring the question.

  “I like your . . . blouse,” I said.

  “Thank you,” she said suspiciously.

  I suppose these things take time.

  After I debriefed Edward on Divine Strategies, he said, “Drop it. If it takes this long to vet the company, we can’t recommend the client buy them out.”

  “Give me a little more time.”

  “No, Isabel. There’s no point. I’m sure you’re curious. But I’m not interested in the company anymore, and I don’t want you wasting our time on that. I think we have more pressing matters to deal with, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I have news about Lenore.”

  “What did you find?”

  “I think she might have known your ex-wife.”

  • • •

  Slayter, properly cautioned, dismissed me. I think he’d had enough bad news for one day. As I was leaving his office, I got a message from D.

  What is the CRS5 doing tonight?

  I don’t know. Do you?

  I passed Damien’s office on the way out and it occurred to me that he might be the embezzler. If he was, I should keep an eye on him. If he wasn’t, I didn’t mind his company so much and I didn’t really want to leave things as they were. I knocked on the glass door to his office.

  “Isabel, what are you doing here?”

  “I came to apologize.”

  “You came all the way over here to apologize?”

  “Sure. Sorry about last week. I think I asked about five too many questions.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Maybe we can hang out again without talking.”

  That came out wrong.

  “I mean,” I said, “maybe we could do something that doesn’t involve talking.”

  Wow, still.

  “One more time,” I said. “Tonight I’m going on a surveillance. Want to come?”

  “Like real detective work?” Damien asked.

  “Just like Perry the Platypus.”

  People unfamiliar with the chore of sitting in a car for hours on end watching people do the boring stuff they usually do—watch TV, eat, drive someplace, eat, sit at desk, eat, go to a movie,6 sleep7—have no idea how tedious surveillance really is. But they’re always game the first time around.

  “I’m in,” Damien said.

  “Great. I’ll pick you up at the office at seven. I think Subject will be on the move by nightfall.”

  When I returned to the office there was a message slip on my desk from Agent Carl Bledsoe. The message was in D’s handwriting.

  “Agent Bledsoe called?” I asked.

  “Yes,” D said.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to tell you he called.”

  “Did he say what it was regarding?”

  “No. You in some kind of trouble?” D asked.

  “No. I’m helping him with a case.”

  “Then why did you ask if he said what it was regarding?”

  “I wanted to know whether we were keeping the case under wraps or something.”

  “Okay,” D said. D wasn’t buying it, but he returned to work.

  I stepped outside and phoned Agent Bledsoe against my attorney and my sister’s advice.

  “Isabel Spellman calling for Agent Bledsoe.”

  Agent Bledsoe picked up the line. “Ms. Spellman, I’m glad to hear from you.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Good. How are you?”

  “Fine. Have you made any progress on the case?”

  “I can’t really discuss ongoing investigations. Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “No. I can’t really discuss any ongoing investigations either,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t be investigating any of this.”

  “It’s been good catching up. Talk to you later,” I said, and quickly disconnected the call. I should probably work on my pleasantries when talking to government officials.

  • • •

  We have tracking devices on all of the family vehicles. Rae’s car is in my dad’s name, so her Jetta is not excluded from the tradition. She’s tried to remove the device on several occasions, but the unit now has an alarm to alert them to this fact and a new one is always attached to a different location. She still hasn’t found the last one.

  I met Damien at his office at seven and asked if we could use his car, which is not his car. Rae was less likely to spot an unknown vehicle than my beat-up Buick. We drove to a location two blocks from my sister’s residence and parked. From my phone I can access GPS data on Rae’s vehicle. Damien had raided the Slayter Industries snack room and so we had a dry happy hour of Perrier and some fancy nut mixes with a sodium content I seriously doubt Edward would have approved of.

  Within a half hour, the tracking device started beeping and the dot on the screen alerted me that my sister was on the move.

  “Time to go.”

  Following a car in nighttime traffic without a tracker can be sticky, but tracker surveillance is kind of like running a footrace on roller skates. You have the advantage, is my point, unless you’re really lousy on roller skates. I drove while Damien held the phone in his hand and provided Rae’s current coordinates.

  “The dot is on the Bay Bridge,” Damien said.

  I headed south on Van Ness and entered the freeway at Duboce, following the signs to the East Bay.

  As we traveled through the Bay Bridge tunnel, we lost the signal and had to wait until we emerged on the other side. I stayed in the center lane as Damien stared at the device, waiting for the dot to show up again.

  “Hit refresh,” I said.

  After a minute, he said, “Eight Eighty South.”

  The exit was less than a quarter mile away and I had four lanes to cover. I turned on my blinkers and slipped into a tiny space between a Range Rover and a Honda Civic. Then I cut over two more lanes that were clear, amid horns sounding, and made the exit crossing over the V-shaped white lines where the off-ramp divorces the freeway.

  “I don’t want to die tonight,” Damien said.

  “You might have mentioned that earlier.”

  After we were safely ensconced in the 880 South traffic, Damien said, “We’re gaining on the dot.”

  “Subject,” I said. “We’re gaining on the subject.”

  “Why are we tailing the subject?” Damien asked.

  “The same reason you surveil anyone. Subject is doing something and you want to know what it is.”

  Subject exited the freeway in San Leandro, near Oyster Bay. Subject drove to a residential area of single-family homes.

  “Subject has stopped,” Damien said.

  We were on a low-traffic side street, so I extinguished the lights in our car and drove down the block until I could see my sister’s Jetta parked outside a residence on Sausalito Road. I pulled out my binoculars and caught Rae casually walking down the sidewalk with a large bag slung over her shoulder.

  “What’s happening?” Damien asked, certain that an action film was playing through my binoculars.

  “A small woman is walking down the street.”

  “What is she up to?”

  “I don’t know.”

  My cell phone rang. Henry. I picked up because I had a nagging s
ensation that I was forgetting something important.

  “Where are you?” he asked.

  “On a surveillance.”

  “So you forgot.”

  “I guess so,” I said. “What did I forget?”

  “We were supposed to meet for drinks on Friday, which is today.”

  “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  “That it was Friday or that we were having drinks?”

  “Which would you prefer?”

  “Where are you?”

  “On a surveillance.”

  “Call me when you’re done.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Talk to you later.”

  “Wait. I hate to ask. Did you run that license plate?”

  I figured with Henry getting a woman knocked up within six months of my moving out, I had a lot of leverage.

  “Marcus Lorre,” he said.

  “I knew it.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Who was that?” Damien asked.

  “My police contact.”

  Through the binoculars I saw Rae scan her immediate surroundings. She swiftly pulled a spray can out of her bag, approached a Porsche Boxster parked in a carport, and began writing something in fluffy white letters on the vehicle. The same car from the photos, owned by none other than Marcus Lorre of Lightning Fast Moving Company. From a distance, I couldn’t make out the fluffy graffiti. When Rae was done, she pocketed the can and then jogged back to her car, which she entered on the passenger side. Driver was not visible. The vehicle made a U-turn and drove back in our direction.

  “Duck,” I said.

  Damien went into a tuck like a passenger on an airplane waiting for a crash landing. I peered over his head and saw my sister in the passenger seat, Vivien driving. Once they passed, I turned over the engine.

  “You can sit up now,” I said.

  I angled out of the parking space and pulled up alongside the victimized vehicle. I got out of the car and dipped my finger into the fluffy letters and brought it up to my nose. Three words adorned the car, spelled out in whipped cream. One on the hood, one on the windshield, and one on the back window.

  Liar

  Cheater

  Thief

  I quickly snapped photos and returned to my car. As we headed back to the freeway, Damien asked, “Who was that girl?”

  “My sister.”

  “What was she doing?” he asked.

  “Working,” I said.

  So this is what a conflict resolution specialist does.

  • • •

  Damien invited me into his shiny apartment for a drink, since detectives always drink after a long night of surveillance. Our shift was a mere three hours, but I almost never turn down a drink, as you probably have noticed.

  Damien mixed whiskey sours, which isn’t really my thing. I like my drinks untampered with, out-of-the-bottle, maybe with an ice cube. He opened the blinds to a sparkly view of the city at night.

  Damien sat down on the couch next to me. We drank in silence. Without the running commentary of a surveillance subject as topic, we avoided conversation lest we end up in our previous bouts of mini-interrogatives.

  This sped up the drinking.

  “Another?” Damien asked.

  “Sure,” I said. “More whiskey, less sour.”

  “So you just want a whiskey?”

  “On the rocks, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Drinks were served. Drinks were imbibed. Food was not consumed.

  At some point Damien looked at me and said, “What are we doing?”

  “We are drinking on empty stomachs. It seems like a good idea now, but we will regret it in the morning.”

  Damien placed his drink on his glass and chrome coffee table and confiscated my drink as well.

  “I wasn’t done with that.”

  “I had to go to a sexual harassment seminar last week. I learned about appropriate and inappropriate touching.”

  “I see.”

  Damien extended his hand.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said.

  I played along and shook his hand.

  “That is appropriate touching.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Damien then swept his other hand around my waist and kissed me. It was a nice whiskey-sour kiss. I would have preferred just a whiskey kiss, but still it was nice and strange, my first non-Henry kiss; Henry kisses were usually whiskey-free. Sometimes Henry tasted like milk. He was that kind of guy.

  I’m not sure who pulled away first, but it wasn’t so much a rejection as coming up for air.

  “That would be an example of inappropriate touching,” Damien said.

  “No kidding.”

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t believe we are colleagues, technically. Would you agree?”

  “I would agree.”

  “So, we can skip filling out the office-romance paperwork?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Because I don’t have it.”

  Damien kissed me again. I could taste the whiskey, no sour, this time. It was strange feeling different hands fumble with my buttons. It’s kind of like waking up in a hotel room when you think you’re at home. Part of me wanted to go home, part of me wanted to stay with Damien, and part of me wanted to kick Damien out and have the swanky apartment and the bottle of booze to myself.

  Damien forgot to close the blinds in the bedroom and I awoke at the crack of dawn the next morning. I slipped out of bed without Damien noticing and dressed piecemeal, gathering my clothes like bread crumbs left on a trail throughout the apartment. Once fully clothed, I began the hunt for my purse. I found it under the couch. My mouth tasted like sour booze and cotton, and I rifled through my purse for a mint but came up empty. I saw a tin of Altoids on Damien’s kitchen counter and opened the box. I stole two mints and spotted a collection of mail in an untidy pile nearby.

  According to Emily Post’s Etiquette,8 you don’t go through people’s shit,9 but there was something in the pile of mail, not quite on top, but slipped in there, the corner edged out, just enough to pique my interest. It was a save-the-date card. I slipped it out of the stack just a smidge and read it.

  DAMIEN THORP AND KAREN MURPHY

  ARE TYING THE KNOT

  NOVEMBER 12TH, 2012

  DETAILS TO FOLLOW

  I guess my card hadn’t arrived yet.

  I took the entire tin of mints and slipped out the door without ever waking the bridegroom-to-be. I slept the rest of the weekend.

  • • •

  On Monday morning, I worked another tedious shift at Divine Strategies and then went straight to the office.

  “You’re getting employee of the month again,” I said to D.

  “It means nothing to me,” he said.

  “It means something to me,” I said.

  Vivien told me her computer was totally frozen and even after an hour of remote tech support from Fred, there were no remedies. Since Finkel had failed, I got a recommendation from Maggie for a high-end computer consultant. I waited to call, since high-end translates to extremely expensive. My sister sent me an e-mail informing me that she had refunded fifty percent of Greenblatt’s check. I phoned her to get the details, but she didn’t pick up. She has told me repeatedly that she prefers text messages or e-mails. Since I wanted a quick reply, I texted.

  Y R we refunding Greenblatt ck?

  Couldn’t finish job.

  y not?

  It happens.

  People keep their desks in various forms of disarray, but it has always been company policy to put a case file either a) in the file cabinet or b) on the top right corner of your desk in case another investigator needs to access it. Vivien seemed determined to camouflage all of the files pertaining to Rae’s cases. I found Greenblatt tucked away in another drawer under an unruly stash of office supplies and emergency snack food. The file was exactly the same as when I first found it, only on top of the astrological chart the words subject unresp
onsive were written in red ink.

  The phone rang. D answered and said to me, “A woman. For you. She sounds angry.”

  “Hello?”

  “Isabel, this is Lenore. If you have questions for me, why don’t you ask me?”

  “Because you might lie,” I said. “I find outside sources more reliable.”

  “It would behoove you to treat me with some respect.”

  “I have never heard anyone use the word behoove in conversation. That was awesome. Thank you.”

  “Keep your distance, Ms. Spellman, or you might find a restraining order in your future.”

  “Lenore, I am very familiar with restraining orders10 and I can assure you that by the time you have enough evidence for a TRO, I’ll have enough evidence against you to sink a ship. Have a great day.”

  Lenore Parker was a fool. Before she called, I was suspicious. Now I was sure.

  The phones began ringing at an alarming rate. Maggie phoned to remind D that he had an interview in the East Bay. Vivien left shortly after that for class. At this point it seemed reasonable to wrangle at least one of my parents out of bed.

  I climbed the steps to their bedroom, knocked twice, said, “Everybody decent?” and then opened the door without waiting for a response. I have been told you’re supposed to wait for a response.

  My mother was alone in bed, obviously woken by my intrusion. Dad’s side of the bed was still partially made, wrinkled a bit by association. Mom looked alarmed when she saw me.

  “Where’s Dad?”

  Mom lifted the covers on Dad’s side and made a show of looking for his absent figure.

  “He must have gone out,” she said.

  “Does he usually make the bed when you’re still in it?”11

  “We have more time on our hands these days.”

  “Mom. Where is Dad?”

  “He didn’t come home last night,” Mom said, avoiding eye contact.

  “Where is he?”

  “He didn’t come home,” Mom repeated.

  “Did you have a fight?”

  Mom got out of bed and gently shoved me out of her room. “Isabel, what happens between me and your father is a private matter.”

  “Is it? I’m not sure that that’s true.”

  “I need to go back to bed,” Mom said, closing the door in my face.

  • • •

  I grabbed my car keys and was about to drive over to David’s house. As I walked down the front steps, Maggie was pulling into the drive.