Trail of the Spellmans Read Free

worked on the Bloomsfield case.”
    “This is ridiculous,” I said.
    “Maybe,” Rae replied. “But if it works, who cares? Plus, Dad said I can come up with the code phrases, so I’m totally in.”
    “I’m totally out,” I replied.
    “Take it up with Dad,” Rae said.
    “You can count on it.”
    “Oh, and I almost forgot. Wear a trench coat and sunglasses to the meeting. Clients go crazy for that crap,” Rae said, and then disconnected the call.
    I wish I could tell you that I promptly phoned the client and rescheduled the meeting under more professional circumstances, but after consulting with my father, he insisted that we continue with the experiment. Only so much can be expected from a case that was born under a cloud of anesthesia.
    “The rhododendrons are nice this time of year,” said the woman in the navy-blue suit.
    “So are the azaleas,” I replied.
    The woman in the navy-blue suit swept a nearby bench with a newspaper and took a seat. She was in her midforties, but the preserved kind, like she spent her spare time with her head in a freezer. It wasn’t just her face that she’d spent a small fortune on, to lock in a single expression; herclothes were all designer from top to bottom. I learned to distinguish the difference between designer and knockoffs from a case a while back—otherwise, I couldn’t give a shit. What I can tell you for certain is that her handbag cost more than my car. While I understand the desire to have the best (single-malt scotch is indeed better than most blends), I still have to wonder what deformity of character makes someone think that a bloated leather handbag that can be ripped off your shoulder by anyone with good leverage is an item to covet. Suffice it to say, I knew the client had money and I was happy to take some of it off her hands. I sat down next to her in my snug trench coat and undid a button for comfort.
    Since her face bore no scrutable expression, I stared straight ahead. If the point was for us to blend into the scenery of the botanical gardens, we failed. Other than being Caucasian, we shared no resemblance and looked positively silly next to each other, I’m sure. I even noted that my slouch was in direct contrast to her rigid upright posture, no doubt the result of a personal trainer.
    The client’s name was Mrs. Margaret Slayter. That’s exactly how she’d referred to herself when my sister took the call.
    “Thank you for meeting me,” she said, fidgeting nervously with the buckle on her purse.
    “How can I help you?” I asked.
    “I want you to follow my husband.”

THE GIRL WITH THE RAP SHEET
    G enerally when charged with a surveillance assignment, I have some historical ammunition for the job. But with the Cooper and Slayter jobs, I was provided very little information. Adam Cooper simply said that he wanted his sister followed because he was concerned about her well-being. When I asked him to be more specific, he said that he didn’t want to create an investigative bias. (An interesting concept, but a first in my career.) As for Mrs. Margaret Slayter, I asked her if she thought her husband was having an affair and she replied, “I simply want to know how he spends his time. It’s not important for you to know why.”
    The thing is, usually we do know why.
    A week after we took on the Cooper and Slayter cases, I found the Vivien Blake file. Her name was scrawled on the tab of a file folder sitting open on my mother’s desk. A high school photo with the requisite cloudy blue backdrop mingled with an unusual assortment of other documentation. The girl in the picture was wearing cap and gown and smiling the way you smile when it has just been demanded of you. Other than the reluctant toothy grin, the young brunette had the appeal of a young woman with a bright future ahead of her. Adolescents are not our typical investigative fare. Since we usually discuss active cases in our office, itwas unusual that I hadn’t even heard the name on