“You were a biter.”
I stood. I kissed Mother on her forehead, which she knows is my least uncomfortable display of affection. “Don’t worry,” I said. “I have found more socially acceptable ways to act out my displeasure with rule breakers.”
She looked up. “Really. How do you do it now?”
“I send them to jail.” I turned and walked to the kitchen door, bidding Mother good night.
“Do you need a pill?” she asked behind me.
“I don’t think so. My mind is clearer now.”
I went back to my room in the attic and slept peacefully until seven the next morning.
Ms. Washburn picked me up at home at nine, as we had arranged the previous evening. There was no need for Mother to drive me to Questions Answered, and I got the impression that both women preferred not to return to the office just yet. Since I had another destination in mind anyway, it was of no significance, but there was no reason to think there would be another cadaver on the floor of the office. Why they were suddenly squeamish about a place where we had been a number of times before without incident was something of a puzzle to me.
I did not dwell on that when I sat in the passenger seat of Ms. Washburn’s car. “Where are we going?” she asked. “You said the trip would be pointless, so I’m raring to go.”
“Why would that—” I began.
“It’s a joke, Samuel. Where to?”
“To Ms. McInerney’s apartment.”
Ms. Washburn started the car and began pulling out of our driveway. “That’s pointless?”
“If I am correct, you will see.”
The drive took fourteen minutes and was uneventful. Ms. Washburn knew I preferred not to turn on the radio while we were traveling, and she concentrated on the road. I asked, perhaps foolishly, if her
husband had been upset with the events of the previous day. Ms. Washburn said, “It doesn’t matter,” and we did not talk again for a few minutes.
We approached the door to Sheila McInerney’s apartment having waited for one of her neighbors to exit the building, thus leaving the downstairs door open. Ms. Washburn seemed to slow down as we walked down the hallway toward the apartment, so I arrived at the door first and waited for her to catch up.
She stopped approximately seven feet from the door and looked at me. “Are you going to knock?” she asked. Her tone communicated clearly, even to me, that asking why she was standing so far back would be an error.
“I don’t think that is necessary,” I said. “If the door is locked, I am mistaken.”
Her eyebrows dropped in concern, but she said nothing. I reached for the doorknob and rotated it.
It turned, and the door swung open.
Ms. Washburn gasped a little and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is there anyone or … anything … in there?” she asked.
“I sincerely doubt it.” I walked through the door and did not look to see if Ms. Washburn followed. I knew her curiosity would compel her inside soon enough.
As I had anticipated, the apartment was completely empty. The scant furniture, the kitchen implements, the window treatments and even the area rugs were gone. I nodded to myself. Yes, this was what I’d known would be the case.
“It’s as if no one had ever lived here.” Ms. Washburn’s voice came from just behind me and did not startle me. It seemed natural that she would be nearby. She’d seen me walk into the apartment, so she had known there would be nothing dangerous inside. I would have alerted her if it had been otherwise.
“In a sense,” I said, “no one did.”
twelve
“Should we call the police?” Ms. Washburn was walking around the apartment slowly, as if expecting that in the other rooms, surely there would be some household accoutrements. But I knew for a fact there would be nothing, so I did not tour the living space. I was standing in the middle of what had been the main room, and I imagine I was wearing what Mother calls my “thinking face,” which is ostensibly an unusually serious expression with pursed lips and downturned eyes. I know only that I was, indeed, thinking.
“To report what crime?” I asked. “Someone who leased an apartment has moved out. It happens thousands of times a day with no help from the authorities.”
“That’s not funny, Samuel.”
“It was not intended to be.”
She called from the bedroom. “Even the hangers in the closets are gone.”
“I am not surprised. You might as well give up the search, Ms. Washburn; you’ll find nothing here.”
She walked into the living area, now a sea of unpolished wood, looking strangely puzzled. “How did you know there would be nothing here?” she asked.
“This apartment was meant to look like someone’s home, but it was never really staged convincingly,” I said. “There was no indication of daily life here. No clothing was out of place. No items were in the dish drainer or the dishwasher. The only disturbed areas were the ones Ms. McInerney and her compatriot or compatriots wanted us to see.”
Ms. Washburn nodded. “The bloodstains and the open window,” she said.
“I think the police will discover, if they took samples, that the ‘bloodstains’ were anything but blood. But even those have been cleaned up, and the window is once again closed, the screen down. This was not a living area. This was a stage set.”
Ms. Washburn looked around the room and shook her head. “It’s eerier empty than it was when we were supposed to think someone had jumped out the window. Why would someone go to all this trouble to convince us something was going on?”
“We were supposed to be witnesses, but when I began to find holes in the narrative they were creating, we became pawns. The longer they could keep us away from Questions Answered, the better.”
“It feels a little personal, doesn’t it?”
“It is personal, Ms. Washburn. Assuming Ms. McInerney was one of the architects of this charade—and I find myself hard-pressed to imagine a scenario in which she was not—this was targeted directly at me. She could have chosen anyone to act in the role she was preparing, and she decided upon me.”
Her eyes searched my face for a moment. “Does that make you angry?” she asked.
“Any number of things make me angry, Ms. Washburn. This one offers both irritation and opportunity.”
“Opportunity?”
“If I can understand the motivation behind it, the way this crime was planned can go a long way toward answering the question at hand. I believe it is time to confer with our client.”
Ms. Washburn raised an eyebrow. “But we have no idea where Sheila might be now,” she said.
“Our other client.”
We used Ms. Washburn’s cellular phone to call Detective Dickinson, and since I suggested (some might say insisted) we meet in person, he directed us to Henry’s, a diner on the Livingston campus of Rutgers University in Piscataway. Dickinson said no other Piscataway police officers would be on campus, as the university has its own force and the town gets involved only when a serious crime is committed.
He was sitting in a booth at Henry’s when we arrived, scanning the menu. He was seated facing the door—the better to avoid any surprise visitors—and nodded at me when Ms. Washburn and I walked in. We joined him in the booth.
“The food here isn’t bad, but it’s not like a real diner,” Dickinson said. “I mean, the fries are made from sweet potatoes.”
When a waiter—surely a student, judging by age and demeanor—arrived, Dickinson asked for a grilled cheese sandwich and a soda. It was not yet time for lunch, which I eat with Mother every day anyway, so I ordered nothing. Ms. Washburn requested a cup of coffee, and I believe she did so simply to be polite. She respects people at their work, and would think we were wasting the waiter’s time if she did not pay for something.
I understand her respect for workers,
but I was neither hungry nor thirsty. It would make no sense to waste food or drink.
“What was so urgent that we had to meet?” Dickinson asked once the waiter walked away. The diner was not doing very brisk business at this hour, but then college students who do not have early classes tend to sleep late. He was keeping his voice low although it was highly unlikely there was anyone within earshot who might have an interest in our business. “Have you solved the case?”
“Mr. Hoenig does not solve cases. He answers questions.” Ms. Washburn said it before I could have.
Dickinson waved a hand to indicate her statement was irrelevant. “Whatever. Did you figure it out?”
“Not yet,” I said. “I need more information, and that’s why we are here.”
“You need information from me? What am I paying you for?”
I heard Ms. Washburn make a noise deep in her throat, but she said nothing. I answered, “Presumably, you are paying me to take the information and interpret it correctly. If I am reading the situation properly, you do not trust yourself to do so.” Dickinson’s face, surprisingly, twisted into an angry expression while his right hand extended its index finger toward me, but I did not give him time to react verbally. “First, I need to know if you have discovered any evidence that Sheila McInerney and the murder victim Oliver Lewis were indeed married.”
Dickinson seemed to drop whatever intention he had of arguing with me and put his hands flat on the table. “Of course we did. They were married in Stanford, Connecticut, just under seven months ago.”
“Seven months?” Ms. Washburn said. “Sheila told Samuel they’d only been married a few weeks.”
“She also said they were married in Darien, Connecticut,” I reminded her. “I do not see a reason to assume anything Ms. McInerney told us was true.”
“That’s probably a decent bet,” Dickinson noted. “Because her real name is not actually Sheila McInerney. It’s Cynthia Maholm.” (He pronounced the name “Mah-HOL-em,” but I believed it to be “Ma-HOME.”) “Luckily, the records indicated she went by the name McInerney professionally once she was married.”
“Was Oliver Lewis’s real name McInerney?” Ms. Washburn asked.
Dickinson shook his head. “No, his name was in fact Oliver Lewis. But our pal Cynthia apparently wanted people to think she’d married a guy by the name of McInerney, so she used that one.”
The sense of that decision eluded me. “Why would she want people to think her husband’s name was McInerney?” I mused aloud. “Wouldn’t everyone she knew before her marriage know her real name, particularly her first name, which normally wouldn’t be changed?”
“More questions, and no answers yet,” Dickinson said, looking directly at me. “I don’t understand why I’m doing all the work, and you’re the one getting paid.”
Of course, Dickinson was drawing a salary from the Piscataway police department, and I had not yet been paid at all, but again, it felt like that information would not contribute to the conversation in a productive way.
“Have you contacted the Edison police?” I asked Dickinson. “Did they do any analysis on the supposed bloodstains found in Ms. Maholm’s apartment?”
The waiter reappeared carrying Dickinson’s food and Ms. Washburn’s coffee. Dickinson told the young man that he had taken far too long to bring the order, and the waiter, who I felt had done nothing of the sort, apologized. I saw Ms. Washburn’s eyes harden as Dickinson suggested the waiter not expect a very large gratuity. The young man said nothing. Obviously our professional discussion ceased until he once again left the table. Once Dickinson had taken a first (very large) bite of his grilled cheese sandwich, he sipped heavily on his soda, then sat back and considered my questions.
“After Oliver Lewis’s body was discovered, of course we got in touch with the Edison department to ask about the scene with you two earlier in the day,” he said, a slight twist in his mouth indicating he might be amused by what he was saying. “The stains were not blood at all. They were red nail polish.”
“That was what Mr. Hoenig had expected,” Ms. Washburn said. I noticed she had not yet sipped any of her coffee.
Dickinson’s expression seemed less amused now. “Yeah, well. Edison wanted to talk to you about that too. You might be hearing from a Sergeant Polk. But I did remind them that all that happened on their turf was an alleged B and E with a very suspect accuser. My guess is they won’t be calling unless they find something really unexpected.”
He appeared to expect some kind of reward or acknowledgement, as if he had done Ms. Washburn and me a great favor. I saw no reason to interrupt, and Ms. Washburn also said nothing for nearly one minute.
“When she was posing as Sheila, this Cynthia Maholm mentioned three names of friends. She said her friend Jenny LeBlanc threw the party where she met Oliver Lewis.” Ms. Washburn was not referring to notes, and even though she had not been present at the conversation in question, she was accurate in all her facts. “She said that Lewis showed up with someone named Terry Lambroux, but that she had never met Terry and didn’t know which gender Terry was. And she said that someone named Roger Siplowitz had been there when she and Lewis got married. Do we have any idea whether any of those people are real?”
Suddenly Dickinson seemed quite engrossed in his food. He did not look up to make eye contact with either of us. “I haven’t had time to look into that yet,” he said.
Ms. Washburn and I exchanged a glance. It was possible that Detective Dickinson was not the most energetic member of the Piscataway police department.
“Why don’t you leave that to me?” I suggested, on the assumption that the task would be completed much more quickly and efficiently in hands other than those of Detective Dickinson. “I will report back to you very soon.”
Dickinson nodded. Then, as if struck by a thought, he looked up from his plate and into my eyes. “You didn’t seem surprised by anything I told you,” he said.
“I was not surprised,” I assured him. That information, I believed, would give him confidence that he had contracted intelligently.
“Why not?” Dickinson appeared almost oppositional, his hands balling into fists.
“Because it makes sense, except for Ms. Maholm changing her name,” I answered. “That did not surprise me so much as it instilled in me a desire to do more research. Ms. Washburn?” I gestured to my associate, who stood up so we could make our exit.
On our way out, I noticed Ms. Washburn laying a five-dollar bill on the table and anchoring it under her untouched coffee cup.
thirteen
“Are you uncomfortable going back to Questions Answered?” I asked Ms. Washburn.
She was driving us to the office where we could begin our research into the questions posed by Detective Dickinson and the predictable, if still irritating, disappearance of our purported client Sheila McInerney, aka Cynthia Maholm.
“I told you,” my associate said, not diverting her gaze from the road, “I’ve made my decision, and what my husband thinks is between him and me. You don’t have to worry, Samuel.”
“I was asking whether it was difficult for you to return to the office after our discovery of the corpse there yesterday,” I explained. “When you asked where we were going and I told you, your face blanched a bit.”
She drew a quick breath and let it out. “Oh. Well, it does dredge up some unpleasant images, don’t you think?”
“I did not know Oliver Lewis well enough to mourn him,” I told her. “The fact that his body was in our office makes me angry, not sad. I am much more concerned with finding the people who chose to deposit it there and see to it that they are punished for their crimes. Since our professional center is in that office, I see no reason not to return there.”
Ms. Washburn made a left turn. We were less than one half-mile from the office, and she was not procrastinating by slowing down or diverting our path
. “I get that,” she said. “But some of us associate places with memories we wish we didn’t have, and that makes it difficult emotionally to go back to that place. Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine when we’re there.”
We arrived at the strip mall and saw the van for Extra Safe Cleaning parked outside. I had almost forgotten I’d contracted with a crime scene cleaning service, and hoped the bulk of the work inside had been done. I said nothing to my associate as we exited the car and entered the storefront. Ms. Washburn’s eyes darted around the room once we were inside, but she did seem to relax once she saw that it had indeed been subject to a very thorough cleaning.
Two figures in matching blue suits not dissimilar to hazmat clothing were completing the task as we entered. With respirator masks on the lower halves of their faces and the shapeless uniforms covering them from head to toe, it was difficult at first to discern that one was a man and the other a woman. The latter approached Ms. Washburn and me once we were inside.
“Sorry,” she said, “this building is being cleaned. The business is not open right now.” Through the mask, her voice sounded slightly husky for a woman, but it was unquestionably female.
“We are aware of that,” I said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, the proprietor of Questions Answered, and this is my associate, Ms. Washburn.” I did not extend my hand as I usually do when meeting a person new to me because the gloves both were wearing seemed to preclude touching.
“I’m Hazel Montrose,” the woman answered, “and this is my partner Jonah Wainwright. Sorry we didn’t recognize you, Mr. Hoenig.”
“Not a problem,” Ms. Washburn told her. “Samuel is not offended and neither am I. I’m Janet.” She did extend a hand, but Hazel Montrose did not accept it.
“Sorry,” she repeated. “We’re kind of gross, and it’s against policy.”
Ms. Washburn waved a hand to indicate she was not insulted. Meanwhile, Jonah Wainwright was completing his task, which appeared to be the removal of a very large wet/dry vacuum device from the room. He paid no attention to Hazel Montrose, Ms. Washburn, or myself as he rolled it out the door. I could see him loading it into the Extra Safe van in the parking lot.
The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband Page 9