by Lisa Lutz
I left Bernie and his background report behind. I thought a paper trail of Bernie’s misspent middle age might convince Gerty that their relationship was doomed. But it was my plan that was doomed. Gerty chose Bernie because of his flaws—I suspect in part because he was so different from the man she had married. By highlighting them, I doubt I could have persuaded her to make a run for it. Although I’m fairly certain I could have planted a few doubts in her mind. The report contained photographic evidence of his previous homes and the state of debauchery into which he could sink; it included compromising photos from strip clubs and poker parlors that I found in my uncle Ray’s old photo albums and affidavits1 from every Bernie paramour I could track down in the California/Nevada region, documenting years of dishonesty and vulgarity. Of the seven deadly sins, Bernie was a regular with six. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t pin wrath on him. To his credit, he never had much of a temper.
After lunch I returned to the house and found only my father in the office.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“I ask myself that all the time,” Dad replied.
“And you still didn’t answer my question.”
“Your mother’s at the library, picking up her latest book club tome. She’s hosting tonight. Then she’s off to the store to buy frozen appetizers and white wine.”
“Sounds like a fun evening. I’m surprised D didn’t offer to cook. Where is he, by the way?”
“He offered to take your grandmother to a matinee.”
“What?”
“A movie. In the afternoon.”
“I’m aware of the term. But what are they doing going to a movie together?”
“A Morgan Freeman film is playing.”
“Whose idea?”
“I don’t know. He just asked for the afternoon off because my mother won’t go to films after six P.M.”
“Why not?”
“She thinks that’s when the more unsavory types show up.”
“Who cares? Isn’t it weird that they’re hanging out?”
“Yes, Isabel. But so many things in my world are that I’m starting to pay less attention.”
With the cat away, my father then foraged in the kitchen for something to eat. Rae or my mother must have inadvertently left a stash of the Crack Mix outside of the safe. Dad picked it up and brought it into the office. Since he thought it was his regular Chex Mix, he didn’t indulge immediately. He opened a diet soda, leaned back in his chair, and gave me one of those sympathetic glances. “You okay, Izzy?”
“Yep.”
“You want to talk about anything?”
“I’d love to talk about the Slayter case.”
“I think we should talk about your feelings instead.”
“I feel sad that you don’t trust me with work-related information.”
“I meant we should talk about Henry.”
“I’d rather not.”
“You sure? Because I think you should be talking to somebody.”
“I’m positive.”
“If you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“But, if you do . . .”
Dad kept staring at me, as if he were attempting to mind-read. Not that I thought he was capable of it, but I found it unnerving nonetheless. Besides, I knew that he’d pick up the topic again in five minutes or so, hoping to wear me down. So I found an opportunity and took it.
I approached his desk and scooped out a handful of Crack Mix. I left the lion’s share behind.
“Be careful with this stuff,” I said. “There’s no turning back.”
Dad reached into the bag and took his first bite of the manna from heaven. “What is this?” he said.
“It’s the Crack Mix we’ve been talking about all the time.”
Dad held the bag up to the light, gobsmacked, and said, “It’s the best snack food in the history of snack food.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty great,” I said.
“What the hell have I been eating all this time?” Dad asked.
I think he might have actually been tearing up.
“Just plain cereal with some unsalted nuts.”
My mother would kill me if she knew I’d opened the door of this finger-food Pandora’s box, but I’m the master of deflection. And I succeeded in steering my father away from having a heart-to-heart conversation with me. No good can come of that.
EDWARD SLAYTER VS. CHARLIE BLACK
Sunday evenings were Edward Slayter’s poker night.
In the past five years, he’d skipped it only once, when he had the flu. So when Margaret overheard a phone call with one of his poker buddies in which he begged off for the night, she promptly phoned me and asked if I was available for last-minute surveillance. My schedule was wide open and since that Sunday was Halloween I was happy to have something to occupy my time. While I’ve never minded the glut of leftover candy, All Hallows’ Eve has always gotten under my skin. For one thing, it always catches me unawares. I’m walking to the bus or work or a job and suddenly a skeleton appears or Charlie Chaplin or a weak imitation of Britney Spears.1 But what gets to me most is the sheer volume of women who use the holiday as an excuse to dress up like a hooker or a sexy cat.2 Ladies, what’s wrong with Fidel Castro? Get some military fatigues, a green cap, a mustache, a lit cigar, and you’re out the door.
Mr. Slayter left his home at six P.M. and had his driver take him to the Mechanics’ Institute on Post Street, where there’s a chess club with open play. I had been surveilling Slayter for two months at this point. This was the first time I ever saw him attend a chess club.
He immediately found a partner for a match. Considering my recent breakup, this arena seemed cosmically brutal, but I figured I could blend. Well, not exactly. Many of the patrons were in subtle costume, Bobby Fischer suits, maybe, and I gathered a few other sartorial homages were going on, but not being an expert on chess, I can only comment that there were a few unusual ensembles in the mix, but that’s always the case in San Francisco. But no hookers or sexy cats, thank you very much. There were a number of officious individuals who wished to make me feel welcome. I asked if I could just watch, and then I lurked in a corner. One of those officious individuals questioned whether I could see anything from the corner and I pulled my binoculars from my bag.
“We offer lessons,” the officious man said.
“I’ll think about it,” I replied.
I watched Slayter through my binoculars. He had changed into a cardigan and corduroy trousers after his day in a suit. It made him look more regular, as if he’d made an effort to appear unassuming. He ran his fingers through his hair and squinted, staring intently at the chessboard, as if there was something there that was just out of his vision.
“Jane?” a male voice said. Then he said it again. I didn’t respond because my name isn’t Jane. Then I could sense a male presence standing next to me.
“Jane, is that you?” the voice said louder, as if maybe I had earplugs in.
I turned around to find Charlie Black.
I’m not sure why I was surprised—chess is his game—but it’s always disconcerting seeing someone out of context. Once I saw my ex-shrink at a hardware store and I had to leave immediately.
“Hello?” I said.
It had only been a few days since we last met, but something was different about Charlie.
“You look nice,” I said.
“My sister visited. She made me get a haircut and a new sweater.”
“I like both.”
“Thank you,” Charlie said. “I thought maybe you swore off chess after our game.”
“No, I swore off it later.”
“Then what are you doing here, Jane?”
“I have a confession to make.”
“It’s good to confess.”
“My name isn’t Jane.”
“Do you feel better now?”
“I do.”
“What’s your real name?”
“Isabel.
”
“I like it. Why did you lie?”
“I don’t tell strangers my name,” I said.
“I can understand that policy,” Charlie replied. “So does that mean we’re not strangers anymore?”
“I guess not.”
“So what are you doing here, if you’re not playing chess?”
“I’m just hanging out, watching a few games. I have binoculars.”
“I don’t believe you, Isabel,” Charlie said, but he said it in a friendly way, so I didn’t mind.
“I’m not being a hundred percent honest.”
“That’s okay. We don’t know each other very well.”
As if to punctuate this point, we spent the next few minutes in complete silence.
“You come here often, Charlie?” I asked.
I thought Charlie might think my question was funny, but he didn’t.
“Once or twice a week,” he said.
“You see the man at the third table to the right?”
“With the gray hair?” Charlie asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s your friend, isn’t it? The one who doesn’t wave.”
“You have a good memory.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“Have you seen him here before?” I asked.
“No.”
“Do you need money, Charlie?”
“I’m not interested in breaking the law.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
I took sixty dollars from my wallet and gave Charlie my burner phone, with my number on speed dial. Charlie wasn’t familiar with cell phones, which I found shocking but worthy of respect. I took a few minutes to explain the basics to him. Then I made a very simple request. “See if you can play a game of chess with Mr. Slayter. Learn what you can about him. Call me when he leaves.”
I sat for the next few hours at Specialty’s Café near the Montgomery BART station. I texted Margaret Slayter and informed her that her husband was, as she suspected, not at his poker game, but at the Mechanics’ Institute playing chess. She seemed completely uninterested in his deception but made it clear that I should inform her when he left. I then phoned the house to see if the Tortoise was around. D said he was out and offered no further information.
Then I phoned my father on his cell. “Hi, Dad.”
“Happy Halloween,” he replied. “Are you going as yourself again?”
“Yes. You’d never recognize me. Where are you?”
“At an undisclosed location,” he replied.
“Me too,” I said, ending the call.
I think it was safe to assume that my dad was on his own surveillance of Margaret Slayter.
Three hours later (people who like chess will play it for a very long period of time), I got a call on my cell phone from my burner.
Charlie said “hello” three times and disconnected the call.
I watched Mr. Slayter’s driver pull up in front of the Post Street building and Mr. Slayter enter the vehicle. I was hoofing it, so I merely warned Mrs. Slayter that Mr. Slayter was likely on his way home. Her text reply was Thx. Still more polite than Rae, but equally suspicious.
I phoned Charlie to see whether he had more success answering calls than making them. He picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello. Hello. Hello.”
“Charlie, it’s Isabel, formerly known as Jane. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“I don’t drink coffee.”
“I’m down the block at Specialty’s Café. Can you meet me here and I’ll buy you a warm beverage and as many cookies as you can eat?”3
“Okay.”
Charlie showed up five minutes later, at which point I showed him how to answer and end phone calls. I made him order something and so he got a hot chocolate and a pumpkin cookie.
“Good luck sleeping tonight,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t sleep,” Charlie casually replied.
We sat down at the table and after Charlie took a few sips and a few bites, I began my inquiry. “How’d it go?”
Charlie then pulled out a notebook with algebraic notation and began to provide a truly mind-numbing narrative of the first game he played with Mr. Slayter.
I interrupted: “Charlie, I’m not all that interested in the game. Did you learn anything about Mr. Slayter while you were playing chess?”
“He favors his queen, seriously. She won’t come out until the endgame. He couldn’t care less about his knights. He treats them like pawns. But he has some good technique. He just seems rusty or something.”
“Did he tell you anything personal about himself?”
“He said he hadn’t played for years.”
“Anything else?”
“He told me his name. Ed.”
“That’s a start. And?”
“He said he needed to stay sharp.”
“And?”
“That’s about it. He was a good sport. He congratulated me when I won.”
“Congratulations,” I said.
A CHINK IN THE ARMOR
I had to give my dad props for his ambitious Chinese wall. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in old Albert’s stringent efforts to derail my various lines of attack. He knew me well, he considered me a viable threat, and he took unforeseen measures to lord over his cases. Dad never slipped and he kept close watch on my extracurricular activities. On one point I had to concede defeat. Dad’s computer couldn’t be cracked, but Robbie could.
As far as I knew, Robbie never left his house.
However, he did own a 1992 Toyota, which would lead me to believe that sometimes he went somewhere. I put a tracking device on his car. One evening at seven P.M., it alerted me that Robbie was on the move.
A few days later, when I had some time to kill, I tracked his car to an apartment building in Daly City. His Toyota was parked in front of a three-unit stucco building with a trio of carports. I checked the mailboxes—first initials and last names only. I took a chance and called his cell. He didn’t pick up. I called again and firmly suggested he call me back. I phoned the office and had Demetrius run a reverse address check on the building.
Sally Shore, the only female under the age of sixty who resided in the building, lived in apartment #3 and she had a landline. I formulated a plan on the spot. I’ve known Robbie almost eight years. He doesn’t make house calls—he manages virtually all of his technical support and verbal abuse remotely. His relationship with Sally was personal. And Robbie wasn’t the kind of guy who had a way with the ladies. He had an un-way. It was cruel, but this was my only opportunity to get what I needed from Gruber.
I phoned Sally’s number.
She picked up.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” I said. “Is Robbie there?”
“Um . . . yes,” she said.
“Can I speak to him?”
“May I ask who is calling?”
“He’ll know,” I said.
In the background I heard whispering until Robbie took the phone.
There was a nervous edge in his voice. “Hello?”
“Guess who?” I said.
“Oh, right. Um . . . I forgot I gave you this number in case of emergency,” Robbie said, trying to cover.
“That was pretty good,” I said. “You must like this girl.”
“What can I do for you?” Robbie asked.
“I think you know,” I said.
“The password?”
“Yes.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I’m right outside. I have a cheap wedding ring I leave in my glove compartment. I also have this mousy brown wig that makes me look extremely unattractive, which means potentially gettable for you. Sally probably isn’t into dating married men, is she?”
“You’ve crossed a line,” Robbie said.
“It’s kind of my thing.”
“Isabel,” Robbie said.
“What?”
“‘Isabel.’ That’s the password.”
My mother
phoned while I was heading back to the office.
“We have a problem,” she said.
“I know,” I replied.
I was speaking generally. My mother was speaking specifically.
“You know what I’m talking about?” she asked.
“No.”
Sigh.
“What’s up, Mom?”
“Guess where Demetrius and Ruth are at this moment?”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“They’re at the movies.”
“Again?”
“Again.”
“Together,” Mom said emphatically.
“I assumed as much.”
“This can’t go on,” she said.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “I mean, how many Morgan Freeman films can be playing at one time?”
“He’s doing the voice-over for some nature flick.”
“What’s it called? Maybe I’ll see it.”
“This is not a laughing matter,” she said.
“I understand where you’re coming from. But isn’t it nice to have her out of the house?”
“You’re missing the point.”
“It happens sometimes,” I replied.
“I used to like him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Morgan Freeman.”
“Everybody likes Morgan Freeman.”
“I don’t. Not anymore.”
“Don’t blame Morgan Freeman. You’re going to have to figure out another way to smoke her out of the house. The old living-with-an-ex-con trick didn’t work.”
“This was entirely unexpected,” my mother said dramatically.
“I’m sure it was. What are you going to do now?”
“Cook dinner.”
“I like the way you think,” I said. “If you start cooking all the time, she might decide she’s had enough.”
“It wasn’t part of a plan, Isabel. I was just telling you that I was cooking dinner.”
“Oh . . . sorry.”
“One more thing, Isabel. I got a message from the Blakes. They want the Sparrow surveilled tonight. She mentioned something in an e-mail about Vivien saying she was going to a party.”
“Who throws a party on a Wednesday night?” I asked.
“College students who don’t have to wake up until noon. You really should have gone, dear,” Mom said as she hung up the phone.
