The Spellmans Strike Again (11 page)

“He’s been reorganizing Mr. Winslow’s closets and taking him shopping for more suitable attire.”

“What about investigating?” I asked.

Christopher sighed and said, “Len thinks Mr. Winslow’s only problem was his previous valet. He believes it would be for the best if Mason Graves never returned.”

“Has anyone heard from him yet?”

“No.”

“Did Len get a copy of those e-mails for me?”

Christopher pulled an envelope out of the desk drawer.

“I printed out the three e-mails I could find on Winslow’s computer. There’s nothing out of the ordinary about them. I’m still looking for Mason’s employee file. You want his Social Security number, right?”

At this point I was wishing I’d given the job to Christopher. At least he had his priorities straight.

“Also in the envelope,” said Christopher, “is a copy of Winslow’s will. But it’s dated 1998, so I’m not sure if it’s the latest version. Len needs to get Winslow to check on that. I read through this will and there’s nothing out of the ordinary in it.”

A quiet beep sounded somewhere on Christopher’s body. He pulled a cell phone from his pocket.

“What’s that?”

“Len is bringing Mr. Winslow into the twenty-first century. They purchased cell phones last week. And now, instead of shouting or using the bell or fumbling with the intercom, Mr. Winslow sends a polite and subtle text message. Len programmed it for him so all he needs to do is press a button on his cell phone.”

Christopher read his message and looked up at me.

“I’m needed now. I suggest you call Len later and remind him about his primary responsibilities.”

Christopher spoke with a sharp edge that indicated his problem with Len wasn’t left at the office, so to speak.

“Everything all right at home?” I asked.

“When actors perform, there’s usually a time limit involved. Once they leave the stage, they have to return to some semblance of their real selves. Len is already speaking with the accent at home, in constant formal attire, and, well, I’d rather not mention what he does with his pinkie when he sips tea. And don’t get me started on that ridiculously expensive Gucci smoking jacket that he purchased. First of all, if he’s going to go all Method-actor on me, he should know that the help doesn’t wear smoking jackets, even when they are off duty.”

“I’m sorry to hear about this, Christopher,” I said. “I’ll try to straighten things out, once I do a little research on these latest employee records.”

“Thank you, Isabel. Anything that will speed this investigation along would be greatly appreciated. Must run. It’s tea time.”

Christopher gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me to let myself out. What he did next, I couldn’t tell you. But I was picturing him serving tea and scones. I was feeling hungry and maybe just a little bit offended that I wasn’t invited to stay.

STAKEOUT #2

I didn’t bother asking Connor to accompany me on the early-morning shift, since I was switching gears and using my allotment of Harkey investigation time checking out the insurance surveillance his firm was conducting. By following Harkey’s lead investigator, I hoped I could connect the dots to one of Dr. Hurtt’s patients. In the early hours of dawn, groggy and sleepy eyed, I sat in my car, wishing that I’d gotten myself that cup of coffee that I’d decided against because I was running late and didn’t know when Harkey’s surveillance guy, Jim Atherton, would be starting his shift. Jim would lead me to the subject of the investigation and I couldn’t risk missing his departure.

Atherton’s car was still in his driveway at six fifty
A.M.
; by seven forty-five, he was on the move. The move was short—four miles to Bernal Heights. I parked two cars behind his and tried to pare down the options of houses he was surveilling. Using my laptop I did a reverse address check on the residences and compared them to the list of potential patients I got from my photographs and license plate numbers from the Dr. Hurtt surveillance. Eventually, a name clicked. Marco Pileggi. The thrill of this minor victory was dulled by my caffeine-withdrawal headache. Just as I began searching my purse for an aspirin, there was a knock on my passenger-side window.

I was first startled and then calmed. I unlocked the door and the passenger entered my car with a nice hot cup of black coffee.

“How’d you know I’d be here?”

“I was the one who told you to check the insurance angle to begin with.”

“But how did you know my exact location?”

“I’m a cop, remember?”

“And you were in the neighborhood?” I asked.

“It’s early. I thought you might need your drug.”

I really wanted the coffee and no matter how I tried to wrap my mind around turning it down impolitely, I simply couldn’t. I grabbed the cup and said thank you, because that’s what you do when a friend brings you coffee. We sat in the car in relative silence until Marco Pileggi exited his house, neck brace still in place.

“I better get to work,” Henry said.

“Me too,” I replied.

Henry hopped out of the car and I waited until Pileggi drove away followed by Atherton. Then I followed Atherton. I spent the next two hours surveilling one man surveilling another man. When it was time for me to call it quits and return to my own work, no man had done anything that would help me get another man in trouble. Sometimes you just have an off day.

Later that afternoon, I would discover that I wasn’t the only person who had an off day.

“How’s your day been?” I asked Connor after he served me a drink. Although to be perfectly honest, I was still brainstorming about how to take down Harkey. A new storm shoved my brainstorm out of the way, however, when Connor answered the question with a dose of sharp hostility.

“How’s my day been?” he asked. He does that a lot, repeating the question with more inflection before answering it. He answered it, all right.

“It’s been a fecken Spellman family reunion in here today.”

“ Fecken.’ I’ll never get used to that,” I replied, hoping to distract him with friendly banter.

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

“Did I hear you?” I said, turning the tables. “Yes.”

“Well?”

“Please, go on,” I said, since he was going to go on anyway.

“First your sister came in here.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I did. But then she asked me to drive her to San Quentin, and when I said no she said she’d be willing to pay for the gas money and followed it up with a comment about how she’s heard my people are cheap. And when I told her that’s the Scots, not the Irish, she said, ‘
Same difference
.’ ”

“Oops. Sorry about that. Then what happened?”

“I refused to serve her just like the sign says and so she pouted in the back booth until that cop fellow with the shifty eyes showed up and they left. Maybe he drove her to San Quentin. If you ask me, that’s where
she
belongs.”

“No argument from me.”

“Then your brother showed up, looking for your sister, but she had already left. He’s clearly adopted. He said hello, ordered a drink, tipped well, and departed. Not too long after that, your mother arrived, pretending to be looking for you, but I know better. When I told her you weren’t in, that she just missed the young lass, your mom ordered a gimlet, complained about it, and then asked if you had arranged your lawyer date for this week, just to rub it in, I guess.”

“Oh, right. That reminds me. I need to get on it.”

“I need some sympathy right this second, Isabel.”

I leaned across the bar and combed Connor’s thick black hair with my fingers. “I’m sorry, Connor. You’ve got all kinds of sympathy. I swear. Please forgive me and my family.”

“I accept your apology. On one condition.”

“Name it.”

“I want the lawyer date for this fortnight out of the way. His name is Larry. He’s in the back waiting for you. An honest-to-goodness lawyer.”

“Really? Back there?”

“Don’t keep him waiting.”

“Can I finish my drink first?”

“Drink fast,” Connor replied. “I’ve already had to prop him up twice this afternoon.”

MANDATORY
LAWYER DATE #2

Larry Meyers, fifty-four, semiconscious, in a two-day-old suit and three-day unwashed hair (best guess), sank into a corner crevice in a booth in the back room. If he were a vain woman, he would have been pleased with the backlighting that hid his many flaws.

Larry was indeed a lawyer—an ambulance chaser, to be exact. But his client list had dimmed to a flicker in the past few years, beginning at the time of his divorce. I brought Larry a glass of water and hoped that he would be coherent enough to satisfy the lawyer-date requirement. My job was to force the awkward conversation that followed into something that resembled a date. Fortunately, for now, no accompanying photographs were required.

[The partial, but utterly sad, transcript reads as follows:]
¹

ISABEL
: Hi, are you Larry?

LARRY
: If I could be anyone else, I would be.

ISABEL
: My friend tells me you’re a lawyer.
²

LARRY
: I’ve heard all the jokes. Please spare me.

ISABEL
: I never remember jokes anyway.

LARRY
: Good, because I hate jokes.

ISABEL
: Me too.

LARRY
: You probably don’t hate them as much as I do.

ISABEL
: Probably not. Can I get you a cup of coffee?

LARRY
: Stick some whiskey in it this time. That bartender is stingy with the booze.

ISABEL
: I’ll be right back.

[Long pause while I return to the bar. The recorder picks up Larry falling asleep again. The sound of snoring is unmistakable.]

ISABEL
: Wake up, Larry. I brought you another drink.

LARRY
: That was so nice of you.

ISABEL
: It was nothing.

LARRY
: [choking with emotion] Why would you do something so nice for a complete stranger?

ISABEL
: We’re not strangers, remember?

LARRY
: Who are you?

ISABEL
: Your date.

LARRY
: You can’t possibly be my date. You’re pretty. And nice.

ISABEL
: Thanks. You must work too hard. That’s why you fell asleep.
³

LARRY
: Oh. Maybe.

ISABEL
: Drink up. The caffeine will do you good.

[Long pause.]

LARRY
: What’s it all about?

ISABEL
: What’s what all about?

LARRY
: Life.

ISABEL
: That might be too big a question for me.

LARRY
: It’s just so full of pain.

[Sound of crying.]

ISABEL
: Do you have any hobbies?
⁴

When I couldn’t get Larry to stop crying, I insisted that we head across the street to the Squat and Gobble café and I ordered Larry something they call the Tripple Gobble, which eventually did the trick of sobering him up. I’m not sure that he was any happier sober, but at least he could find his way home. I also managed to work in a few more required date questions, which I played for my mother a few hours later.

ISABEL
: If you could have dinner with any person, living or dead, who would it be?

LARRY
: My nana. She was the only person who ever really loved me.

[End of tape.]
⁵

My mother picked up the recording device as if it were a miniature Larry and gestured with it.

“Where did you find this guy?”

“Around.”

“Around a homeless shelter? I’m not sure this qualifies.”

“Oh,
it qualifies.
I have a first and last name and his bar number. I spent two hours drinking and eating with him. I even woke him up twice. I asked him what he did for fun. I inquired into his past relationships. It was a date, if you consider a date a bizarre ritual your mother forces you to enact in order to maintain some false idea of control. It was a date according to your definition of one.”

THE BUTLER DID SOMETHING

Mason Graves’s e-mails provided no concrete evidence of his current whereabouts. They were formal, banal, and came from a web-based e-mail account. Here’s a sampling of the juiciest one:

To: Franklin Winslow
From: Mason Graves
Subject: Greetings

Dear Sir:

I hope this e-mail finds you well. I feel dreadful for leaving you for so long but hope that you have found a sufficient temporary replacement. I assure you I will be back in no time at all.

Mother has taken a turn for the worse. She is stubborn and might linger for a while, but I suspect her days are numbered.

Please take care of yourself and remind the gardener that he must not overwater the lilies in the back.

Your humble servant,
Mason

In the years we’d had Mr. Winslow as a client, we’d never investigated his valet, since he never gave us cause to. Mason was hired a year before Winslow became a client. But I decided to run a database check on the name Mason Graves in the Bay Area. I found fifteen. However, no one jumped out at me as a plausible match. All but three were employed elsewhere and the rest didn’t match Mason Graves’s probable age (late forties to early fifties was my best guess). This was cause for some concern, but not as much cause for concern as Mr. Leonard’s accent, which had still not returned to normal.