by Lisa Lutz
“So after some guy named Ben and Mom started going out,” Rae said, “Martha put drain cleaner in Mom’s shampoo. But Mom smelled it first, so nothing happened. But then Martha told all these lies about Mom.”
“Like what?”
“That Mom put out on the first date. You would have been like the school slut if you lived in Mom’s day,” Rae said.
“And you’d be in reform school,” I said. “Now back to Martha. So, they were never friends?”
“They were full-on enemies,” Rae replied. “I don’t think Mom wanted her dead, but I know that crying spree was not for the loss of a woman who tried to make her go bald.”
“Huh,” I said. Then it occurred to me that Mom was really a spectacular liar. This is a fact I have always known, but sometimes it’s good to take notice of a fresh reminder.
“So why was she crying?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Rae said with a little too much nonchalance.
“Something strange is going on in this house.”
“Tell me about it,” Rae replied.
Dinner was better this time around for a number of reasons: We all like pizza and no one was delving into anyone else’s sex life. Although there was an awkward moment when Mom was giving Dad a quick shoulder-rub and Rae suggested they get a room.
The only other notable incident was when David brought to light a minor observation.
“What happened to that hideous light fixture in the downstairs bathroom?”
“We changed it,” Mom awkwardly replied after a brief pause.
“I’ve been asking you to change it for the last fifteen years.”
“So we did,” Mom said.
“Why is the towel rod missing?” David asked.
“It’s missing?” Dad said.
“I took it down,” Mom interjected.
“Why?” David asked.
“I didn’t like it,” Mom replied.
“She didn’t like it,” Dad echoed.
David studied my parents for signs of misdirection but eventually gave up when no member of the unit offered up their usual tells.
“Maggie, how has your week been?” Dad asked.
“Great. As you know, we won the Levi Schmidt appeal, so now we just have to wait for the DNA evidence to come back. Which takes forever, Rae, so you don’t have to keep asking.”
“I heard you loud and clear the first five times you said that.”
“Well, you didn’t hear me loud and clear, Rae. Because if you did, you wouldn’t have asked me every single day this week.”
“Got it,” Rae replied, attacking another slice of pizza.
“Maggie won another case this week too,” David interjected.
“Well, that’s good news. What was the charge?”
“Armed robbery and aggravated assault,” Maggie replied. “A jury of his peers found him innocent.”
“Congratulations,” said Dad.
“Thanks,” Maggie replied. “Too bad he was guilty.”
TRASH DUTY
The next Tuesday rolled around and I was back on garbology, which meant a simple trip to Shana Breslin’s residence to pick up her recycling and then drop it off at Pratt’s place.
The neighborhood was sufficiently quiet; the puffy plastic bags were in their place. I dropped the recycling into the trunk of my car and drove off unnoticed. I phoned Jeremy from the road and told him that I would be stopping by. He lived in the Mission, off Folsom near Twenty-second Street. A one-bedroom apartment, not unlike mine, but newer, cleaner, and paid for by somebody else. I knocked on his door and he answered wearing several layers of cotton T-shirts in various sleeve lengths, topped with a navy-blue short-sleeved shirt that had a skater logo on it, although there was no skateboard in sight. Rae would call him a poser. I would call him a moron. My mother would call him useless. My father would call him a dropout. Grammy Spellman would call him a good-for-nothing, which seems to be the most accurate description. Less-judgmental folk would say that he was finding himself, but some people have the luxury to look; others don’t.
Jeremy was on his cell phone when I entered with the “goods.” He continued his conversation, interspersed with brief comments aimed in my direction.
“[To phone:] Dude, where are we meeting Friday night? Okay, I’m down with that. [To me:] You can leave the bags in the foyer.”
“If that’s all, I’m going to go,” I said.
“Hang on, hang on,” Jeremy said to the phone.
Being dismissed like the help by a twentysomething trust-fund hipster with a failed screenwriting career shot me full of adrenalized hate. Oh, how I wanted to sucker-punch Pratt and tell him to get off the fucking phone if he had something to say.
I kept my tone even and interrupted his other conversation.
“I don’t have all night, Jeremy.”
I did have all night, but my delivery was delightfully cold and had its intended effect.
“Dude, let me call you right back.”
Jeremy flipped his phone shut and turned to me. I could see his attitude like steam coming out of his pores.
“Is that it?” Jeremy said, nodding at the bags on the floor.
“Yes,” I replied. “Unless you want to pay an arm and a leg, I suggest you try to piece them together yourself.”
“Do people actually do that?” he asked.
“Some do. It just depends on how important it is to you.”
“Other options?”
“Surveillance,” I replied.
“I’m not made of money.”
“It seems you’re mostly made of a wide variety of fabrics, as far as I can tell.”
“Can we check her phone records?”
“It’s kind of hard to do that these days.”
“Can I listen in on her conversations?”
“If she’s in public, sure.”
“No, like, can you tap her line? Or could you put some kind of recording device in her house? I mean, all I’d need to do is listen to her for a few days and then I’d know for sure.”
“Sorry, can’t do that,” I replied. “It’s illegal.”
“People do it all the time in the movies.”
“People fire semiautomatic weapons while doing somersaults in the movies. Doesn’t mean it happens in real life.”
Jeremy looked disappointed that I’d wrecked his genius idea.
“Do you want her trash again next week too? We can give each other code names if you want it to be more cinematic,” I suggested.
It took him a moment to answer the question.
“See you next week,” he said.
“It’s been a pleasure,” I replied.
It took everything I had not to slam the door on the way out.
As I was walking to my car, my cell phone rang. It was Maggie.
“Everything okay?” I asked as I got into my vehicle and shut the door. “Do you need a Rae extraction?”
“No. She just left David’s place about an hour ago. After over an hour of asking her to leave, he actually had to physically pick her up and place her outside the front door. Then she said ‘Okay, I can take a hint.’”
“I hope for all our sakes that she doesn’t gain any weight. If we lose the physical extraction option, we’re doomed,” I said.
Usually when Maggie calls me, it’s for a Rae extraction. We aren’t unfriendly otherwise, but when she began dating my brother, I thought I should give them their space. The friendship Maggie and I seemed to be forging before that was put on hold, so I couldn’t imagine why she was calling.
“Is something on your mind?” I asked.
“Yes,” Maggie replied, although she didn’t follow up.
“Do you feel like telling me?”
“David asked me to move in with him.”
“And how do you feel about that?”1
“I’m wondering if it’s too soon. We’ve only been together like four months.”
“Don’t you practically live together anyway?”
/>
“Good point.”
“Thank you.”
“What would your mother think?”
“My mother adores you. She’d be ecstatic.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Were you worried about her?”
“A little.”
“Don’t. Just worry about Rae. Are you willing to live in a place that’s walking distance from her home?”
“Now that I have to think about.”
Our call ended a few sage words later. I put the key in the ignition and started the engine. As I was checking my rearview mirror, I saw the oddest thing: Jeremy Pratt exited his apartment with three puffy bags and stuck them in his recycling bin. Now what do you make of that?
THE DIALECT WARS
The next day, Robbie Gruber finally got back to me about tracing Mason’s e-mails through the headers.
“It looks like the e-mail was sent from the UK,” Robbie replied.
“Can you narrow down the location beyond that?”
“No. He’s using a web-based e-mail program. You’d need a court order to the service provider to get more details,” Robbie said.
“But you’re sure he’s sending the e-mails from the UK?” I asked.
“No,” Robbie replied, loading that single word with truckloads of disdain. “You’re not listening. I said it looks like the e-mail was sent from the UK.”
“What does that mean, Robbie?” I asked impatiently.
“It means the e-mail could have been sent from the UK or it also could have been sent from hundreds of other countries using a proxy.”
“How hard would that be to do?” I asked.
“For you, impossible.”
“Hey. Remember who’s paying you,” I said.
“Right, ’cause that fifty bucks is gonna make or break me,” Robbie snapped back.
“If you want your car to run tomorrow morning, answer the question.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“As soon as this conversation is over, I’m going to file a restraining order.”1
“Then the sooner you get off the phone, the sooner you can start your legal proceedings. Answer the question: How hard would it be to use a proxy and fake sending e-mails from the UK?”
“Not very hard.”
“Thank you, Robbie.”
“The bill’s in the mail.”
Click.
That evening, Christopher phoned me and said that he had collected some fingerprint samples from Mason’s room. I decided to drop by their loft and see how my Method actor and his partner were doing. I’m afraid I have to report that things had taken a turn for the worse.
Just a quick refresher: Christopher is British; Len (aka Mr. Leonard) is San Francisco born and bred.
This is how Christopher answered the door: “Yo, Izz, where ya been?”
While his accent wasn’t perfect, it resembled Baltimore slang à la HBO’s The Wire, Len and Christopher’s favorite show.2 However, if I missed the point with the accent, Christopher’s puff jacket, saggy jeans, and do-rag cleared it up for me.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“Yo, make yourself comfortable.”
“Where’s Len?” I asked nervously.
“The motherfucker’s makin’ tea or something. You feelin’ thirst?”
“No, I’m fine,” I replied, finding a seat on the couch, bracing myself for what might happen next.
When Len entered the room, the contrast reached the point of absurdity. Len was still in his three-piece work attire and he was, as his companion had said so eloquently, making tea.
“Isabel, what a pleasant surprise,” Len said. Yes, still in his valet character.
“Yo, I told you she’d be dropping by for the shit.”
“Oh yes, must have slipped my mind,” Len said with excessive sarcasm. Then he turned to me as if I’d be his ally. “Can you believe the vulgarity I have to contend with here?”
“Oh my god, what have I done?” I said.
“You want that English shit or a forty instead?” Christopher asked while popping his own can of malt liquor.
“This is what I want. I want the fingerprints and I want both of you to break character and talk like reasonable people about what’s going on here.”
“I’ll get you your shit,” Christopher said, heading into the other room.
Len approached and sat down on the couch right next to me, leaning in conspiratorially.
“He won’t stop. No matter what I do, I simply cannot get him to stop. I’m absolutely at my wit’s end.”
“You stop first,” I said.
“I’m merely doing my job; what’s he doing?”
“Heads up,” Christopher said, tossing a paper bag in my direction.
I caught the bag in midair and made a beeline for the door.
“I’ll be in touch,” I said.
“Isabel, I beg you, don’t go,” said Mr. Leonard.
“I have a date,” I replied.
“Bitch, you lie,” Christopher said, following me to the door.
“This is dreadful,” I said.
“Holler if ya need more investigative materials,” said Christopher, and finally, breaking character, he mumbled, “I want this case closed.”
“Fo shizzle,” I replied.
My lie wasn’t an entire untruth. I did have a date, with my ever-reliable fingerprint kit. After cross-checking all of Christopher’s new prints against the control group, I discovered that Chris had found a fingerprint from every already-identified person currently in Winslow’s employ. There were no new prints in the collection. Therefore, there was no chance I would find a match to Mason Graves in the set. This is what happens when you send an actor/decorator to do an investigator’s job.
The following day I made an impromptu visit to the Winslow home and found my client to be in great spirits. Apparently, Len had insisted on an eye doctor visit the previous week and his handsome new Gucci glasses had just arrived. Mr. Winslow donned the frames and a whole new world emerged. I had to admit that while my case was stalling, Mr. Winslow was thriving with Len on the job. His skin showed more color, his mood was generally elevated, and I even think he put on a few pounds. I had never seen Winslow smile before, but today he did. Even his teeth didn’t look half-bad.
“My god,” Mr. Winslow said, glorying in the sight of his backyard terrace, “has it always been this magnificent?”
“Of course,” Mr. Leonard replied. “That is why I constantly insist you have afternoon tea out here, weather permitting.”
Winslow spun in a circle, taking in his home as if it were brand new.
“I love those candelabra,” he said.
“They’re gorgeous,” Len concurred.
“I really should have gone to an eye doctor ages ago,” Winslow said.
Once again, Len agreed in that polite British way. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted the housekeeper scowling, and then Mr. Winslow finally spotted me. There was no mistaken identity this time around.
“Isabel, you look so . . . so much less blurry than before.”
Would it kill the man to throw me a compliment?
“Thank you,” I said politely, and then excused myself so that I could speak to Len in private. Winslow hardly noticed, distracted by his new 20/20 vision.
“Christopher found fingerprints for everybody I already knew about. Is there any room that he might have missed dusting?”
“Did he check Mason’s bedroom?” Len asked.
“I don’t know. Did he?” I asked with a slight edge in my voice.
Len handed me a key. “Third floor, second room on the right.”
“Send me a text message if the housekeeper heads upstairs,” I mumbled.
“Will do,” Len replied.
The room hadn’t been aired in weeks. It had a musty mothball smell. To call it impersonal would be generous. It was like a guest room at a lazy man’s B and B. A bed, bureau, desk, and lamp pretty much covered t
he furnishings. There was artwork on the wall—a dreadful amateurish landscape3—and the only item of accessory was a day calendar on the desk. I decided to dust the bureau first and found four clear prints right away. I quickly prepped the prints and stuck them in my purse. I looked both ways before I exited Mason’s room, locking the door behind me.
I made my way downstairs and covertly slipped Len the key. Mr. Winslow was still in the midst of a mind-blowing tour of his own mansion. Len walked me to the door.
“How are things at home?” I asked.
“Nothing to worry about, Isabel. I promise you.”
“You’re taking to this a little too well,” I said with concern.
“An actor needs to act,” Len replied.
And that got me thinking.
MORE DETECTIVE WORK
A few days later, Maggie phoned me again and said that she had a doctor’s appointment the following afternoon and would prefer not to leave Rae alone in her office. Something about some embarrassing calls to the district attorney—I didn’t get all the details. Anyway, I picked Rae up from school. She did her best to hide the cyclist from me, but I still caught them pretending to be strangers.
I took her to my apartment to help me sort through the fingerprint collection I got from Mason’s bedroom.
When we were young—meaning children—and first absorbing the nuts and bolts of the business, even garbology had its moments of delight, but fingerprint collecting had a playground aura of fun around it. In truth, the fingerprint stuff doesn’t come up often (that’s police work) and when it does, we don’t mind so much, even though it’s a painstaking process. Rae hadn’t worked with the printing kit for years, so I let her prep the prints from Mason’s room and then had her cross-check them against all the known prints in the house.
Rae got to work but eventually broke the silence. For once, she had something to talk about besides Schmidt.
“The other day I was looking for candy in Maggie’s desk and I found these pills.”
“What kind of pills?”
“I didn’t recognize them by name, but when I later looked them up, they were antianxiety meds. And according to the Internet, she’s on a very high dosage.”
“She doesn’t seem anxious,” I said.
