going to the gym.
Mrs. Slayter pulled her Mercedes out of the driveway and turned north, making a right on Gough Street. I started my engine and was about to sneak in behind her when a black Audi cut me off. The driver didn’t notice my cheap Buick on his tail. He was too focused on following the Mercedes. I hung back just a bit to keep a low profile and followed the Audi, following Mrs. Slayter to the Four Seasons hotel. Mrs. Slayter valet-parked. The driver of the Audi followed suit. Since I knew I’d miss the party if I tried to find a metered spot on the street, I valet-parked my crappy Buick. To the valet’s credit he treated me like I was driving a Benz.
“Are you a guest, ma’am?”
“No, and please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” 1
I rushed into the lavish lobby of the swanky hotel to catch a brief glimpse of Mrs. Slayter entering the elevator with an unknown male. The unknown male, I should mention, was approximately twenty years younger than her husband and not unattractive. While they did not show any affectionate exchange during my brief sighting of them, they were riding an elevator together to the guest-room towers of the Four Seasons.
I then scanned the expansive lobby and found a known male comfortably seated on a plush beige couch, reading a newspaper.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
INTERSECTION
T he question is, what are you doing here?” my father replied, folding his newspaper in quarters.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Would a straight answer every once in a while kill you?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never tried it.”
“You know this place is kind of above your pay grade.”
“We need to do something about that. So, Dad, what case are you working on?”
“I’m on a surveillance job for the Sweater Vest.”
“Who is the Sweater Vest?”
“You took the meeting.”
“You mean the guy from the library?”
“We call him the Sweater Vest, because he wears sweater vests.”
“Do you see now why this nickname business is idiotic?” I asked.
“Right now it’s not working for you and me, but Rae and I have no problem with it.”
“The client’s name is Adam Cooper, right?”
“Yes. Now, would you like to tell me why you’re here?” Dad asked.
“Who are you surveilling?” I replied.
“Meg Cooper, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“The blonde who got into the elevator with the younger man?”
“Yes, Isabel. What’s going on?”
“Meg Cooper is Margaret Slayter.”
“And that is?”
“Margaret Slayter is a client. She hired me to follow her husband.”
“Is her husband at this hotel?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I followed Mrs. Slayter here.”
“Why?”
“Because something was fishy about the job.”
“Isabel, you were not hired to follow the client; you were hired to follow her husband. You need to leave immediately.”
“Wait, how long has Margaret/Meg been seeing this man?”
“End of discussion.”
“But I need to know why she’s hired us. I think it’s to keep track of her husband while she—”
“Isabel, if you aren’t out the door in five seconds, you’re fired,” my father said.
I can usually tell when my father is bluffing, and this was no bluff. In fact, his face was turning a shade of crimson that only occurs when he’s either drunk or about to go into a rage. 1
I was out the door on the count of two.
I checked my phone when I got in the car and saw a text from Finkel from just ten minutes before.
Sub on move.
Where?
1799 Clay Street.
ha ha.
No. Seriously.
UR a dead man.
ha ha.
No. Seriously.
1799 Clay Street, in case I haven’t mentioned it, is the address of the Spellman compound. As I approached the front door, Fred surfaced from the small alley that divides our house from the next.
“What’s he doing in there?”
“I don’t know,” Fred replied, appearing genuinely baffled. “You think he made me?”
“He made you the other day when you had coffee
Mrs. Slayter pulled her Mercedes out of the driveway and turned north, making a right on Gough Street. I started my engine and was about to sneak in behind her when a black Audi cut me off. The driver didn’t notice my cheap Buick on his tail. He was too focused on following the Mercedes. I hung back just a bit to keep a low profile and followed the Audi, following Mrs. Slayter to the Four Seasons hotel. Mrs. Slayter valet-parked. The driver of the Audi followed suit. Since I knew I’d miss the party if I tried to find a metered spot on the street, I valet-parked my crappy Buick. To the valet’s credit he treated me like I was driving a Benz.
“Are you a guest, ma’am?”
“No, and please don’t call me ‘ma’am.’” 1
I rushed into the lavish lobby of the swanky hotel to catch a brief glimpse of Mrs. Slayter entering the elevator with an unknown male. The unknown male, I should mention, was approximately twenty years younger than her husband and not unattractive. While they did not show any affectionate exchange during my brief sighting of them, they were riding an elevator together to the guest-room towers of the Four Seasons.
I then scanned the expansive lobby and found a known male comfortably seated on a plush beige couch, reading a newspaper.
“Dad, what are you doing here?”
INTERSECTION
T he question is, what are you doing here?” my father replied, folding his newspaper in quarters.
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Would a straight answer every once in a while kill you?”
“I don’t know; I’ve never tried it.”
“You know this place is kind of above your pay grade.”
“We need to do something about that. So, Dad, what case are you working on?”
“I’m on a surveillance job for the Sweater Vest.”
“Who is the Sweater Vest?”
“You took the meeting.”
“You mean the guy from the library?”
“We call him the Sweater Vest, because he wears sweater vests.”
“Do you see now why this nickname business is idiotic?” I asked.
“Right now it’s not working for you and me, but Rae and I have no problem with it.”
“The client’s name is Adam Cooper, right?”
“Yes. Now, would you like to tell me why you’re here?” Dad asked.
“Who are you surveilling?” I replied.
“Meg Cooper, and you still haven’t answered my question.”
“The blonde who got into the elevator with the younger man?”
“Yes, Isabel. What’s going on?”
“Meg Cooper is Margaret Slayter.”
“And that is?”
“Margaret Slayter is a client. She hired me to follow her husband.”
“Is her husband at this hotel?”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I followed Mrs. Slayter here.”
“Why?”
“Because something was fishy about the job.”
“Isabel, you were not hired to follow the client; you were hired to follow her husband. You need to leave immediately.”
“Wait, how long has Margaret/Meg been seeing this man?”
“End of discussion.”
“But I need to know why she’s hired us. I think it’s to keep track of her husband while she—”
“Isabel, if you aren’t out the door in five seconds, you’re fired,” my father said.
I can usually tell when my father is bluffing, and this was no bluff. In fact, his face was turning a shade of crimson that only occurs when he’s either drunk or about to go into a rage. 1
I was out the door on the count of two.
I checked my phone when I got in the car and saw a text from Finkel from just ten minutes before.
Sub on move.
Where?
1799 Clay Street.
ha ha.
No. Seriously.
UR a dead man.
ha ha.
No. Seriously.
1799 Clay Street, in case I haven’t mentioned it, is the address of the Spellman compound. As I approached the front door, Fred surfaced from the small alley that divides our house from the next.
“What’s he doing in there?”
“I don’t know,” Fred replied, appearing genuinely baffled. “You think he made me?”
“He made you the other day when you had coffee
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