The Spellmans Strike Again (32 page)

c. A type of exercise.

d. The largest cup of coffee in the world.

8) The U.S. will be switching over to the metric system

a. In one year.

b. In five years.

c. Never!

9) After going to the moon in 1969–1972, scientists used that knowledge to:
³

a. Use the moon as a toxic-waste dump.

b. Go to Mars.

c. Build a luxury moon hotel.

d. Not go to the moon anymore.

10) A venti mocha with whipped cream costs:

a. Approximately $2.00.

b. Approximately $3.00.

c. Approximately $4.00.

Now this is where Merriweather and I got into our first and only argument.

“I’d never pay four dollars for a fancy cup of coffee.”

“You say that now, but things change, Demetrius.”

“Never, Isabel. That’s just wasteful.”

“We’ll see what happens when we get you out.”

“Never,” he said, shaking his head.

And then, when I was scoring his quiz (100 percent), Demetrius said, “Angel, I do appreciate your efforts to enlighten me on current events. But we do have access to the Internet and TV here. And you know how I love the television. Reality TV has been my porthole to the outside world. I know what’s going on.”

“That’s the saddest thing I ever heard,” I said.

“It’s sad to watch,” Demetrius replied. “Almost makes me want to stay on the inside.”

Then he laughed.

“Just kidding, Angel. I still want out.”

When it was time for me to leave, I told Demetrius to hang in there. Demetrius told me to “be good.” I thought about it, but then I changed my mind.

Henry phoned me later that afternoon.

“I’ll be home at seven. Come over then,” he said, and then promptly disconnected the call.

I arrived at seven fifteen. Henry had a stack of files splayed across his kitchen table. Harkey files. It would be hard to convey the pleasure this vision brought to me. I guess it would be akin to another woman coming home to a room full of roses. “Did you look through them?” I asked hopefully.

“I glanced,” Henry said, which meant he did more than glance.

“Your initial impression?” I asked.

“He was a bad cop,” Henry replied. “See for yourself.”

•� •� •

For the next two hours I reviewed all of Harkey’s murder cases over a ten-year period, during the time he was a homicide inspector for the SFPD. By the time the two hours were up, I could tell you that Harkey can’t spell, has trouble forming complete sentences, and definitely never looked beyond the obvious suspects.

“How did he even make it into homicide?” I asked Henry.

“He comes from a long line of cops.”

“Right. I forgot.”

When it came time to discuss what to do with all this information, I drew a blank. I’m used to private investigative work, not legal research or criminal law.

“How would you proceed?” I asked Henry.

“I’d let it go,” Henry replied.

“Let me rephrase the question: If you were me, how would you proceed?”

“Harkey’s first partner—John Rooney—took an early retirement. From the outside, it looked like they were trying to avoid a scandal. At the same time, a forensics expert, Graham Daley, quit unexpectedly. There were rumors that they were tampering with evidence, but everything was hushed up. Remember, it was twenty years ago. If Harkey learned the job from Rooney, he might have taken certain matters into his own hands if he thought he had his suspect. I’d look into any case that Harkey was working on with Rooney. Also, I heard that he butted heads a lot with his last partner. A young guy, still on the job. His name is”—Henry shuffled through the paperwork to find it—“Andrew Fishman.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“A straight-up cop. The wrong partner for Harkey. They were together two years before Harkey retired. Fishman has a good reputation. But I don’t know if he’ll talk. You know how cops are.”

I stared down at the mess of my papers and tried to unscramble my head; I had a flashback to my high school days, trying to write a ten-page term paper on the American Revolution—I spent most of my time widening the margins and playing with the font to make 2,200 words stretch.

Henry brought me a cup of coffee and a snack of carrots and celery and hummus, which he annoyingly called “brain food.” My own brain functions better on a bag of salt-and-vinegar potato chips.

Speaking of potato chips, my sister and Fred showed up a short time later. Henry had grown accustomed to their regular drop-bys, but this time there was a new energy in the air.

“How’d you get here?” Henry asked, after he opened the door and peered outside for evidence of transportation.

“We took the bus,” Fred said triumphantly.

“Excuse me,” Rae said, brushing past Henry. “I need to wash my hands.”

“So, how’d it go?” Henry asked anyone who would answer.

Rae sighed. Fred smiled and said, “We got to where we were going and nobody vomited on anybody.”

“There’s always next time,” I chimed in.

Rae glared at me and then scoured the pantry looking for her not-so-secret-stash of junk food, which was not-so-secretly missing.

“You got rid of it again?” Rae said, betrayed.

“Yes, when you commit a felony, you lose junk-food storage privileges. That’s how the world works.”

“Whatever,” Rae said, rolling her eyes. “Can we watch TV?”

“What’s wrong with either of your homes?”

“Lost Wednesday,” Rae replied. “And David is having a dinner party, which I’m not invited to. He told me to make myself scarce until ten.”

“My parents don’t have cable,” Fred said, explaining his side of the bargain.

“Just keep the volume down,” Henry said.

“I’m not driving anyone home,” I announced ahead of time.

“Who asked you?” Rae replied.

•� •� •

Two hours later, the kids performed a quiet disappearing act. I got the feeling Henry was wondering when I would do the same. I suppose I should have asked him earlier.

“Can I sleep on your couch?”

“Something wrong with your home?” he replied.

“Yes. It’s being fumigated tonight.”

I doubt he believed me, but Henry made up the couch and offered me an extra toothbrush. I turned off my cell phone just to make sure that my sleep wasn’t interrupted.

REGRESSION

I met Bernie at the Hemlock the following afternoon. I think this was the first time in our history that I returned his bear hug with the same enthusiasm. Bernie and I sat down at the bar and I said for the first time in my life, “Get this man the finest bourbon you have.”

Of course I didn’t know that the finest bourbon would cost me ten dollars a shot, but still, it was worth it.

“You okay?” I asked Bernie, eyeing him for any visual injuries.

“I’m fine. Not sure I can say the same for the other guy, though,” Bernie replied, chuckling to himself.

“Tell me
everything
.”

“It’s a short story, Izz. I arrived at your apartment at two
A.M
. on the dot. I put on my PJs and got into bed. Believe it or not, I nodded off. The next thing I know, some Irish guy hops into bed with me, just wearing his T-shirt and shorts. If I weren’t so assured of my own manhood, I might have had an issue. Anyway, Irish guy screams like a girl, says, ‘Bloody ’ell,’ asks what I’m doing there. I says, ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’ He says, ‘Where’s Isabel?’ I says, ‘She’s not here, but she gives you her best.’”

“That was a nice touch,” I said.

“I thought so. Then he puts on his clothes, storms out of the apartment, and the rest, as you say, is history.”

There’s one final detail that I suppose will bring this matter to a close. Connor left a single voice mail message at three
A.M.
:
“Okay, Isabel. I hear ya loud and clear. Give my regards to the fat guy. You know, he’s not so bad, come to think of it. At least he shows up when you make a date.”

And that was the last I ever heard from Connor O’Sullivan, Ex-boyfriend #12.

THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DOORKNOBS

I watched the exodus of stuff from the Spellman residence for over a month. I’d solved one piece of the puzzle, but there was another angle I couldn’t figure out. Light fixtures vanishing, doorknobs departing, and now the hot-water nozzle in the downstairs bathroom sink had made an exit.

“All right. What gives?” I said to my parents when I returned to my desk after a quick bathroom break that required the use of my own personal doorknob.

“Excuse me?” Mom said innocently.

This time I was going for a direct approach.

“When are you going to tell me what’s going on here?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Isabel,” Mom replied dismissively.

Dad remained silent, as usual. I wasn’t surprised to see my father keeping his distance from the conversation, but I knew he was the weak link.

I used my doorknob as a pointer and turned to him. “Something fishy is going on here, Dad. Speak.”

“Don’t point that thing at me. It’s rude,” Dad replied.

“Evading as usual,” I said.

I spun around in my chair and directed the doorknob at Mom.

“Are you happy living like this?”

“We’re doing a little home improvement. That’s all. It always involves some chaos. You have to go with the flow, Izzy.”

Eventually I realized I wouldn’t get anything out of these two impenetrable souls. I took my doorknob and the rest of the afternoon off.

To clear my mind and improve my spirits, I picked up a coffee and sat by the community garden watching Rae scowl her way through her green probation. She had, however, managed to convince all of her co-gardeners to wear
FREE SCHMIDT!
shirts.

While I was sipping coffee and delighting in my fantasy of Rae on an eco-friendly chain gang, I saw Fred out of the corner of my eye. He was hard to miss since he was wearing his usual
FREE SCHMIDT!
T-shirt with his army jacket uniform over it. Come to think of it, I never saw Fred in anything but that green jacket. I wondered if he had some odd clothing superstition like Uncle Ray did with his lucky shirt.
¹

When Fred saw me, he waved and came over.

“What are you doing here, Fred?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” Fred replied.

Weren’t we all?

He opened his brown-bag lunch and offered me half of a sandwich.

“What kind is it?” I asked.

“Ham and cheese,” Fred replied.

“I thought you were lactose intolerant,” I said.

“I just say that,” Fred replied, “so that I can quit the drinking game whenever I want.”

“Smart man.”

“Thanks.”

“Let me give you a piece of advice: If you’re ever being followed, lose the jacket.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” Fred said. “I keep my inhaler
²
in it and it’s got all sorts of handy pockets. Sometimes you just decide that one jacket is all you need.”

That got me thinking about Demetrius and
his
jacket. Where was that denim jacket right now? I needed to double-check the evidence log in the file. But first, I had to finish eating my excellent sandwich.

“I had a feeling you’d be here,” Fred said.

“Oh yeah?”

“Rae says you find pleasure in her pain.”

“Well, wouldn’t you, under the same set of circumstances?”

“I’m not judging,” Fred replied.

“You seem like a nice guy, Fred. What are you doing with her?”

“She’s not like anybody else,” Fred replied.

He was right. I just hoped he had the mettle to handle that human tornado.

“Just be careful,” I said.

“Will do,” Fred replied.

“What we talked about the other day,” I said. “You’ve no doubt kept quiet.”

“I’m a man of my word,” Fred replied.

“Sorry to doubt you. I just don’t come across those very often.”

Fred and I sat in silence, finishing our provisions and enjoying Rae’s frozen expression of hostility—or at least I was enjoying that.

“Wow. She really hates this gardening,” I said.

“I know,” Fred replied. “And now your brother is making her plant perennials in his backyard.”

“Really?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“Interesting.”

MY AGENDA

Sometimes I can barely keep track of the galaxy of investigations, deceit, turmoil, clashes, and chaos that I travel through every day. I had too many cases—professional, pro bono, and personal—to mentally catalog. I returned home and made a list of the dangling matters that I had to contend with so that I could come up with a clear plan for a solution. Here is my to-do list at the time, which I itemized in descending order of urgency.

• Free Merriweather.

• Destroy Harkey.

• Discover Mrs. Enright’s angle.

• Solve the doorknob conspiracy at Spellman headquarters.

• Find out what dirt David has on Rae to explain extra gardening.

• Take shower.

I suppose the last item on the list wasn’t necessary, but since I was writing things down . . .

After my shower, I reviewed the Merriweather police file again and focused primarily on the crime-scene photos. For years investigators have been familiar with the phenomenon of perps occasionally returning to the scene of the crime to glory in their handiwork. While reviewing the pictures, I was pretty sure I spotted Demetrius standing with the crowd behind the police tape. However, Demetrius, being Ms. Collins’s neighbor, would naturally have been curious when teams of squad cars and ambulances pulled up right next to his home. What I noticed about the picture was that Demetrius was wearing a jean jacket. A jean jacket that looked just like the one Jack Weaver said he was wearing the night of the crime. Now, if Demetrius stole Mrs. Collins’s TV and stabbed her fifteen times while wearing that jacket, shouldn’t it have been covered in blood?
¹
And would he have been foolish enough to return to the scene of the crime in a jacket splattered with the victim’s blood?