The Question of the Felonious Friend (21 page)

I shook my head and started toward the door. “I think we have already taken enough of your valuable time, Mr. Robinson,” I said as I opened it. “We will certainly be in touch.”

Before he could respond, clearly not used to the idea that people would not simply do as he instructed, Ms. Washburn and I left Mr. Robinson's office and walked into the hallway toward the elevator.

“Did that actually accomplish anything?” Ms. Washburn asked me quietly, better to avoid the ears of the well-dressed receptionist.

“In fact,” I said, whispering because my voice modulation is at best uncertain, “it accomplished quite a bit. I believe we can now be fairly sure that Mr. Robinson knew about the operation going on at the Quik N EZ. It would be interesting to see if we can trace similar situations to his other retail locations.”

We entered the elevator, but kept our volume low even after the doors closed. “I didn't see it,” Ms. Washburn said. “When did you get all that information?”

“It was fairly clear once we discovered that Mr. Robinson wasn't a simple small businessman with one convenience store. Men like that don't let too much happen at their businesses without them knowing about it. But that is just conjecture.”

“Then what's not conjecture?” Ms. Washburn asked. The elevator doors opened and we headed out of the building toward the parking lot.

“We just told a wealthy entrepreneur that one of his businesses was the front for an operation that was certainly stealing from him and putting his entire livelihood at risk to investigation by any number of local, state, and possibly federal agencies.” I tried to smell the air, because I am told it has a pleasant odor when the trees and flowers are blooming. In this parking lot, there was not a noticeable scent.

“Yes, that's what we did,” Ms. Washburn said. “So?”

“So what would you expect would be the first thing that man would say when he heard all that?” I asked her.

She continued to walk, almost reaching her car, keys in her hair. She pushed the button on her key to release the door locks. “You'd think the first thing would be that we should call the police and let them know what we found,” she said.

“Precisely. Did Mr. Robinson ever even mention the word
police
?”

Ms. Washburn opened the driver's side door. “Never,” she said. “So what do we do?”

“I think the only logical thing is to tell the police.”

Twenty-Four

Detective Milton Hessler stood
behind his desk with an expression on his face I could read only as incredulity. Or impatience. Those two are actually somewhat difficult to differentiate.

“You had evidence of a black market operation working out of a murder scene and you kept it to yourself?” he demanded.

“We are here to tell you about it right now,” I explained. “And our evidence is not completely empirical, detective.”

“Empirical?”

“Verifiable,” Ms. Washburn explained. “Something you could use as evidence.”

Hessler nodded in understanding. “All you've got right now is a guess?”

It wasn't the word I would use, but he was essentially correct. “Perhaps an educated guess,” I said. “I have been searching for the kind of contraband that would have been in sufficient quantity to merit this kind of operation, and perhaps the murder of Richard Handy. But so far I have found only small recoveries. Is there a way you could search the list of merchandise seized by the State Police or local authorities?”

“Yes, there is,” Hessler said. “And I will definitely do that. Thank you for your help.” He began to scan some papers on his desk, probably in a theatrical gesture of dismissal.

“Wait,” Ms. Washburn said before I could signal her to hold back. “You're not going to tell us what you find out?”

Hessler looked up, now pretending to be mildly surprised. “Why should I?” he asked. “You're civilians. I appreciate the tip you've given me. Now it's time for you to go on home and let the police do their job.” He went back to the papers on his desk, which I felt was overplaying his role just a bit.

“That's not fair,” Ms. Washburn protested.

“Oh, it's entirely fair. You've played your role in the investigation, as a good citizen should, and brought information to the attention of the proper authorities. I'm the proper authority. You can trust that I will follow up on that information and take whatever action is appropriate depending on where it leads. Again, thank you.”

Hessler was not at all an incompetent detective. I had little doubt that if there were some large seizure of contraband merchandise, he would find it faster than I could, given his official resources. And there was every probability that he would arrive at an accurate solution to his problem. But it did not necessarily mean I would be able to answer Mason Clayton's question, and that was my priority.

“I am withholding some of the information I have,” I told the detective while Ms. Washburn's face reddened.

They both stared at me. “What did you say?” Hessler asked.

I did not repeat my declaration, as I had no doubt he had heard what I'd said. Instead, I told him, “If you would like to share the information you discover based on what we have already told you—information you did not already have—I can be persuaded to tell you the rest.” I folded my arms because I have been taught that can be a gesture of immovability.

No doubt Hessler saw the look on my face and my body language. Ms. Washburn was badly stifling a smile, but luckily the detective was looking at me and not her. I did not find the situation amusing, which helped me maintain my expression.

“What have you got?” he asked.

“When you agree to share information,” I insisted.

“You're aware that I could charge you with withholding evidence and interfering with a police investigation,” Hessler said. I assumed he meant the sentence as a question, although it was not structured as one.

“I am aware,” I said. “I suppose you would have to arraign us, then explain to a judge why you are unwilling to share information with a local business and imprison a man with a neurological disorder in the process.”

There are times when the public perception of Asperger's Syndrome is useful.

Hessler curled his lip but he did not actually sneer. His expression, if I was reading it correctly, was less one of a man being defied and more one of a man realizing he should take the easy path.

“Okay, I'll tell you what the seizure search turns up,” he said, dropping his hands onto his desk and sitting down. “Now you tell me what other information you have.”

I nodded my agreement. “There is a closet in the basement of Billy Martinez's home that has been used as a storage area for the stolen merchandise, probably cartons of cigarettes,” I said. “I saw the marks of the stacked cartons on the wall, which had suffered some minor water damage. If you obtain a search warrant, you will probably find some traces of tobacco and possibly other evidence, assuming that the thieves were operating with more than one product.”

Hessler took a note on a pad in front of him, then looked up at me. “That's it?” he asked.

“It is. I've already told you about Raymond Robinson's unusual response to my revelation of the black market operation in his store. I assume he has not called you regarding that.”

“That's right.” Hessler responded as if I had asked a question. “But there's something else you are not telling me.” He was a better observer of people than I had originally believed.

“Yes, there is,” I said. “But it would be a breach of my professional ethics to tell you one part of the information I have.” Mentioning the name of Sandy Clayton Webb would violate the Questions Answered policy of betraying a client's name without permission. Admittedly, Sandy was not a client of the agency, but her brother Mason was, and my strong impression was that he would not have wanted us to give his sister's name to the police if it was at all avoidable. For the time being, it was avoidable.

“Your professional ethics?” Hessler scoffed. “You run a business out of a pizzeria that answers questions people are too busy to Google themselves. What professional ethics does that industry have?” I believe he was being sarcastic, although I am not always correct about that particular tone of voice. Mother says I should have learned it by living in New Jersey all these years. That, too, might be sarcasm.

“All professions have ethics,” I told him. “Not all are codified. If I am to protect my client's rights, anonymity is going to be necessary.”

Hessler scowled at me. “I can't say I'm crazy about this.” Again, I had to overlook the use of the word
crazy
, which does not truly fit in that expression.

“I don't doubt it, and I understand. If my client releases me from my non-disclosure agreement, I will be happy to share the information with you. And if it becomes dangerous to anyone for me to withhold the information, I promise to come forward. Is that sufficient?”

“No, but I'm not going to press charges,” Hessler said. “Now go do what you do. I have an investigation to run.” He waved a hand toward the station entrance, so Ms. Washburn and I headed in that direction.

Ms. Washburn suggested she drive me home for lunch, and as Mother had insisted, I invited Ms. Washburn to join us. She hesitated a moment, then accepted, which I did not expect.

Mother, never unprepared for such circumstances, had tuna salad sandwiches for herself and Ms. Washburn. I had my usual turkey sandwich. It was also a sign of Mother's comfort level with Ms. Washburn that we could eat in the kitchen rather than the dining room. It intimated a certain familiarity reserved for very few other than ourselves.

We brought Mother up to date on the research into Mason's question, which was the only one Questions Answered was currently contracted to answer. She listened carefully, attentively. Mother finds my work fascinating and is often more impressed than she should be with the answers Ms. Washburn and I manage to find.

“So did Detective Hessler give you any useful information?” she asked after Ms. Washburn mentioned our recent visit to the Somerset police department.

“No,” I answered, “but he did promise to let us know what he discovers about the black market merchandise Billy Martinez was selling through the Quik N EZ. And I expect the detective is a man of his word, since he was so reluctant to give it. A person willing to go back on a promise makes a lot of promises.”

Ms. Washburn looked thoughtfully past my right shoulder toward the kitchen door. “Something's been bothering me about this whole question for a while now, and I think I just figured out what it is.” She sharpened her focus and looked at me. “Why did Tyler go to the Quik N EZ?”

That seemed an oddly simple question to be pondering for very long. I thought I would answer, “To get to the other side,” but the joke probably would not have been appropriate under the circumstances. I often think some things are funny when others do not agree. “What do you mean?” I asked. “It seems obvious that Tyler frequented the Quik N EZ because he believed Richard Handy was his friend and he doesn't have many friends.”

“Not lately. The first time. Why did Tyler go to that convenience store the first time, when he met Richard and decided he might be a friend?”

“It's a convenience store,” Mother said, clearly having some difficulty grasping Ms. Washburn's meaning. “Why wouldn't he have just gone in to get a soda or something?”

“Tyler lives with his brother Mason in Franklin Township,” Ms. Washburn said. “The Quik N EZ is in Somerset, at least a few minutes' drive from his house. He must have passed three or four other convenience stores every day on his way to that one. Why did he go there the first time?”

“Is it near his work?” Mother asked. “Samuel said the boy has a part-time job at an electronics store.”

“The Microchip Mart,” I said. “And from the address Mason gave us to talk to the owner of the store”—who had told us Tyler was a model employee and nothing else—“that store is in Franklin, not walking distance to the Quik N EZ.” I turned to face Ms. Washburn. “I think you're right. We have overlooked something quite obvious that we should have considered much sooner.”

“What do you think?” she asked. “Why would Tyler walk that far to go to a convenience store when he could have gone to any number of others?”

Sometimes when I think I put my hands on either side of my head next to my eyes. People who do not know that it is a pose that helps me concentrate sometimes think I have a headache or am upset. Neither of those things was the case.

Now, I was doing just that because Ms. Washburn had asked a question that required my considering hypotheticals, something I am loath to do. It is difficult for me to think about things that are not verified by facts or measureable factors. But the question had been asked, and it was relevant to our research.

“I think it means that you might have just taken a very large step toward our answering this question,” I said. “Just one other thing: We need to call Tyler's manager at the Microchip Mart.”

“Why?” Ms. Washburn asked. “He already told us Tyler is a wonderful employee.”

“Yes, and still Tyler's hours are decreasing. So we need to ask him who owns the store.”

“Why?”

“Because Mr. Robinson said he has a small electronics chain he's about to close.”

Twenty-Five

When I called Mason
and asked him to bring Tyler and Sandy to the Questions Answered office, I did not inform him that we were also inviting Molly and Evelyn Brandt. That was perhaps an unfair tactic, but one that was necessary. I wanted both Ms. Washburn and myself to gauge the reactions of Tyler and Molly when each realized the other was present in the room.

Ten minutes before they were due to arrive, I asked Ms. Washburn (who had called the Microchip Mart and left a voice mail for the manager) if she thought it would be inappropriate for me to complete an exercise session with so little time to spare. She believed there was no harm in it “even if they see you walking around the room with your arms in the air for a minute or two; it'll catch them off-guard.” So I began my routine, circumnavigating the office and raising my arms to increase my heart rate. I find this to be an excellent way to clear the mind.

“What about the Swords and Sorcerers die?” I asked Ms. Washburn as I completed my first lap. “Have you asked your estranged husband about my theory?”

“The idea that Richard was holding the Tenduline when he was shot and dropped it as a warning to Tyler? No, I didn't consult Simon on that. He's not the best at analysis. He's better for raw data.” She looked away as she spoke, then seemed to force herself to face me again, but by that moment I had stopped looking at her.

So close to answering the question, this was not the time for me to concern myself with Ms. Washburn's marriage. It was unusual and puzzling that it occupied my mind at all. Ms. Washburn was remarkably able to separate her private life from her work at Questions Answered. Indeed, the only time I had met Simon Taylor was in connection to Mason Clayton's question. We had spoken on the phone more than once—which had not been a pleasant experience—but Ms. Washburn's life outside the office was entirely her own affair. I had no connection to it and normally would not have even thought about it. Why was my mind wandering to that topic now?

“Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said, breaking my train of thought, “it looks like Molly and Evelyn have arrived.” She pointed toward the door.

I looked up. Approaching the entrance, clearly visible through the plate glass window, were Evelyn Brandt and her daughter, Molly. I frowned. “I thought we'd asked them to come later,” I said.

“I did when I called,” answered Ms. Washburn. “I guess they hit all the lights.” That suggestion did not make sense, as a person hitting a traffic light with her car would be delayed rather than accelerated, but I did not question it. I was disappointed that Tyler Clayton would be here after Molly. My plan would have to be adjusted.

The bells on the entrance pealed as they entered. I saw Ms. Washburn stand up, so I did the same and walked toward the two visitors to welcome them. This, I have been taught, is a way to make newcomers feel more at ease. And right now, I wanted Evelyn and Molly especially to be comfortable with the surroundings.

“Welcome to Questions Answered,” Ms. Washburn said. “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“We could have taken the train to Edison from Bound Brook,” Molly informed us. “But that would have required changing trains in Newark, so driving was faster.”

Evelyn looked slightly pained. “Sorry,” she said.

“There is no need to apologize,” I told her. It was true; her daughter's autism spectrum behavior was not her fault, nor was it at all offensive in this case. “We are glad you could come to help us with this question.”

“The same would have been true if we'd taken the train from Bound Brook to New Brunswick, Metuchen, or Metropark, all of which are near this address,” Molly said. “But then we would have had to ask you for a ride from the train station because none of those are close enough to your office for us to walk.”

“That is true, Molly,” I said. “Won't you please sit down?”

Ms. Washburn and I had added to our usual complement of seats with some folding chairs I had found in the pizzeria kitchen when I took over the space for Questions Answered. At Ms. Washburn's suggestion (and with my enthusiastic agreement), they had been cleaned with disinfectant wipes. I gestured toward the chairs. Evelyn immediately took one but Molly stood.

“Come sit, Molly,” she urged, but her daughter did not acknowledge that anything was said.

“We could have taken the number one-hundred-fourteen bus and that would have been faster and less expensive, but it would have dropped us off too far from here,” Molly continued.

“Molly,” Evelyn said with an edge of tension in her voice.

Molly, apparently sensing her mother's anxiety or simply because she was acquainted with that tone of voice, took one of the other seats Ms. Washburn had arranged in front of our desks.

“What can we do to help, Mr. Hoenig?” Evelyn asked.

As if by way of answering, the bells on the front door rang again, and we—with the exception of Molly—looked toward the office entrance. In walked Mason Clayton looking haggard and tired. The ordeal of his brother's incarceration coupled with his own financial difficulties (which apparently he was attempting to keep to himself) had begun to take a toll on him.

Behind him was Tyler.

Hands moving rapidly at his sides, eyes darting from the ceiling to the floor with little time spent in between, Tyler seemed more agitated even than when we'd seen him in the interrogation room at Somerset police headquarters. No doubt the events of the past few days had damaged any progress he had made in social skills or fine motor training. He was, in the terms of the “typical” world, “regressing.”

“Thank you for coming,” Ms. Washburn said to them as they entered. “Is Sandy meeting us here?” Their sister clearly was not following the two men into the room.

“Sandy's not coming,” Mason said. “Sorry about that, but there just wasn't time for her to rearrange her day.”

That was not an unexpected development but it was a slightly disappointing one. Sandy Clayton Webb seemed to be at the center of much of the activity to be discussed, so her absence would limit the amount of information that could be gathered today.

But I was watching Molly and Tyler as closely as I could given their relative distance from each other. Molly was facing away from the entrance and Tyler had not yet spoken. (Indeed, I was not sure if he would say anything at all.) Molly was not yet aware that he had entered the room.

As Tyler followed Mason toward our small conference area, his attention was anywhere but on the people gathered in the office.
He seemed, as before, fascinated with the pizza oven, which I could understand—they are a very unusual feature, one that most people do not get to see up close on a regular basis.

Then he noticed Molly was there. “Uh-oh,” Tyler said too loudly.

Molly's reaction to Tyler's voice was considerably more dramatic. She broke into a wide smile and spun to face him. “Hawkeye!” she shouted and lunged at Tyler, catching him in an enthusiastic hug. Tyler looked startled, then uncomfortable.

“Carlye,” he said quietly. He was not smiling.

Molly's mother Evelyn dropped her mouth open in astonishment. “Carlye?” she asked.

Mason, eyes wide, smiled slightly at the sight of his brother being hugged tightly by a young woman Mason had probably never seen before. “Tyler,” he said, “do you want to introduce us?”

“No.”

“Molly,” Molly said. “I'm Molly. I'm Tyler's girlfriend.”

Mason, to his credit, did not look surprised now. He extended his hand and said, “It's nice to meet you, Molly.” But Molly was not releasing Tyler from her embrace.

He seemed uncomfortable, standing with his arms at his side, head occasionally vibrating with tension. “I shot Richard,” he said to no one in particular. “I took the gun and I shot him.”

Evelyn's face registered fear.

“No, you didn't,” Molly assured Tyler. “You couldn't shoot anybody. You're my Hawkeye.”

Mason looked at Ms. Washburn, who said, “It's a thing about the TV show
M*A*S*H
. They identify with two of the characters.”

“No,” Tyler managed.

“We don't really think we're at the four-oh-seven-seventh,” Molly said. “It's a game, like Swords and Sorcerers.”

“I shot Richard.”

Evelyn stood up. “Is that true? Did Tyler shoot someone?”

“No,” Molly crooned.

“We believe Tyler did not shoot Richard Handy,” I assured Evelyn. “We are in the process of answering the question for Mason.” I gestured toward Tyler's brother to identify him, as he and Evelyn had not been met before. “Allow me to introduce Mason Clayton.”

Evelyn, at least, did accept Mason's hand and stood up to take it. “Evelyn Brandt,” she said. “Molly and Tyler are in the same therapy group. I've seen you pick Tyler up sometimes.”

“I remember,” Mason said. I do not know if he was being truthful.

Tyler said, “Let go of me now, Molly.” Molly did not seem the least bit upset by his bluntness, which I have been told can be construed as impolite. She released the embrace but hooked her right arm through Tyler's left and stared up at him, grinning. He did not move his arm to indicate she should let go, but did not seem to participate in the gesture at all.

“Mr. Hoenig, why are we here?” Mason turned and asked me. “Is there some breakthrough you have to report?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “I have some things to ask all of you, and I'm hoping that will get us very close to answering your question, Mason.”

Ms. Washburn turned on a voice recorder she keeps on her desk but also got out her notebook and pen. Mason and Evelyn sat in the two folding chairs while Tyler remained almost immobile in his spot and Molly cheerfully held onto his arm and never took her eyes off his face.

“Tyler, Molly says she is your girlfriend,” I began. “Is that accurate?”

Tyler's eyes rolled backward and up. “Nnnnnnn … ”

I had not expected Tyler to retreat into nonverbal behavior so quickly. “Tyler,” Ms. Washburn said in a tone I recognized. “You don't have to worry. Molly will like you no matter what you say.” I did not see how she could be sure of that, but I trusted Ms. Washburn's instincts in such matters.

“That's right,” Molly said. “Hawkeye and Carlye love each other even though they can't be together when she asks for a transfer. But I am your girlfriend.”

Mason stood and got very close to Tyler so his younger brother could not avert his eyes. “Tyler. Mr. Hoenig is trying to help. Tell him what he needs to know.”

“I shot Richard.”

“No, you didn't, but that's not what we're asking you now. Is Molly your girlfriend?”

Tyler's mouth widened as if in a grimace of pain. He opened it but no sound was emitted for six seconds. It was like a muscular cramp had overtaken his speech. I have had moments when emotion has made it difficult for me to articulate myself, but this was much more dramatic and severe than anything I have ever experienced.

Finally Tyler managed, while fixing his gaze at a point some three feet over my head, to say, “Yes.”

Molly grinned at him. “See?” she said without averting her eyes.

I knew the next question would be especially stressful, so I wrote it out on a legal pad and handed it to Ms. Washburn. She read it and after a brief hesitation, asked Tyler, “Are you trying to protect Molly by saying you shot Richard?”

What I had written was,
You didn't shoot Richard. Did Molly?
I believed I knew the answer, but Tyler's heightened emotional state would make the answer more fraught with difficulty. I knew Ms. Washburn would be able to word it more palatably.

Again, Tyler struggled to speak and found the effort too overwhelming. Molly, as her mother watched open-mouthed, stepped in to rescue her boyfriend. “Yes, he's protecting me,” she said.

This time I knew I could ask the question myself. “But you didn't shoot Richard Handy, did you?” I asked Molly.

She laughed. “No. That's silly. Carlye is a nurse. They don't shoot people, not even in a war.”

“Did you see who shot Richard?” I asked Molly. “Were you at the Quik N EZ when he died?”

She seemed distracted, staring into Tyler's face. “No,” she repeated. “I left almost as soon as I got there. Maybe two minutes.”

“Molly!” Evelyn exclaimed. “You were there? You couldn't have been there. I always know where you are, don't I?”

“I said I was going to see Tyler,” her daughter answered. “I went to see Tyler.” She hugged his arm a little tighter. Then she grinned. “I dressed like him too.” She turned toward Tyler. “Why did you ask me to do that?”

“Nnnnnnnnnnn … ”

Mason, still close to his brother, put his hands on Tyler's triceps. “Look at me, buddy,” he said. “Tell me who shot that guy in the convenience store.”

Tyler grunted but did not respond verbally. Mason turned toward Molly. “Do you know?” he asked.

She seemed to refocus from a thought she had been having—something to which I can easily relate—and shook her head. “At the Quik N EZ? I just painted the cameras, then I left,” she said.

“You what?” Evelyn looked stricken, face white and eyes wide.

Molly was apparently unfazed by or insensitive to her mother's panic. “Tyler said I should dress up in a hoodie and spray paint the cameras in the store,” she said, as if explaining that she had gone to the movies that afternoon. “So I did, but then he made me leave. No talking, nothing, just go. And that's what I did.”

Ms. Washburn looked concerned and walked to Molly to make eye contact. “That was you on the security video? You spray painted the lenses of the cameras so nobody would see when Richard was shot?”

Molly was about to answer, then stopped short. “Someone got shot?” she asked.