The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband

by E. J. Copperman

  “Probably administered postmortem,” I said. “Not much blood flowing through his veins at that point.”

  “Makes you wonder why they bothered,” Ms. Washburn noted. “Look, there’s nothing in here.” She stepped out of the restroom and we diverted our attention—thankfully—back to the main office space. “There’s nothing out here, either.”

  I scanned the room again to confirm an earlier suspicion. “I think that might be a premature conclusion,” I told Ms. Washburn. “Look up in that corner.” Without pointing, I indicated the corner where the ceiling met the wall behind the open door. “But be careful about being too obvious about it.”

  Ms. Washburn’s eyes narrowed. She kept her head down, but turned her body as if to confront me more directly, and that allowed her to look up by tilting her head to make it seem she was asking me a question. “Oh,” she said.

  There was a security camera mounted from the ceiling—one of three I had noted when looking around the room. “The red light is on,” I said.

  “Well, he never turned the electricity off.”

  “That is true, but it is not the point. The camera moved when you came out of the restroom, possibly due to motion detection, but I think not. I believe we are being watched right now.”

  Ms. Washburn made an odd noise in the back of her throat. “You think Oliver Lewis is still alive?” she said quietly.

  “Absolutely not. You saw the body, and it was unquestionably him. But someone is still monitoring this office.”

  “Why would they do that? There’s nothing here.”

  “That is an excellent question,” I said. “I do not have an adequate answer at the moment.”

  “Well, here’s another question,” she replied. “What should we do now?”

  “Leave, I think.”

  We did not run for the door, but we were not especially leisurely in our pace, either. When we were settled into Ms. Washburn’s car, I instructed her to set her Global Positioning System device to the home address Oliver Lewis had listed on his registration form with Middlesex County. After one minute and twelve seconds, we were on our way.

  Ms. Washburn was unusually unsettled as she drove; she shifted in her seat a bit and her mouth twitched while she made a left turn. She did not turn her head, but she did initiate a conversation, which was not typical. “If Oliver was really cheating seniors out of their money the way you say, isn’t it possible that one of them killed him?”

  “It is possible. Almost anything is possible. But it is unlikely. Mr. Lewis was poisoned, his throat was cut, and he had been stabbed and deprived of oxygen, according to the medical examiner. If those things are true, as a healthy man in his thirties, it is not plausible that an older person by himself could have done all four of those things. And even if that were the case, the idea that the killer then felt it necessary to deposit the body in our offices rules out anyone who was not acquainted with Questions Answered.”

  Ms. Washburn seemed to consider my argument and nodded her head slightly. “Then by that line of reasoning, the only likely suspect is Cynthia Maholm. She’s the only person who had reason to be mad at Oliver Lewis and knew Questions Answered at all. She was the one who went out of her way to bring us to the fake apartment and then keep us away while the body could be brought to the office. It has to be her.”

  I clapped my hands twice. “Very good indeed!” I said. “Excellent reasoning! But there are other suspects who might have killed Mr. Lewis.”

  She blinked. “Who?”

  “Virtually any of his many wives,” I answered. “Keep in mind that all the information we have from any of them, even Hazel Montrose, we have only from their own mouths. It was clear from my perspective—and Mike agreed with me—that Ms. LeBlanc and Ms. Stanhope were lying about at least some of the details of their marriages to Mr. Lewis.”

  “I wasn’t there so I don’t know,” Ms. Washburn said quietly.

  I did not respond because I did not know why that information was relevant. “We still have not met with Rachel Vandross, the one ex-wife of whom we have heard the least. And there is the matter of Terry Lambroux, the person who seems to have introduced all these women to Oliver Lewis without any of them ever meeting him or her face to face. Roger Siplowitz does not seem to have a motive to kill Mr. Lewis, but he did indeed put considerable effort into distracting us from the question and threw us out of his office when he saw he could not accomplish that goal.”

  “That’s seven suspects,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “At the very least. And we might be about to increase our list by at least two.”

  Ms. Washburn’s brow wrinkled as her eyebrows dropped. “How’s that?”

  “There are two men in a black Sport Utility Vehicle behind your car,” I said. “They have been following us since we left Mr. Lewis’s office.”

  Twenty-one

  If I had been riding with Mike the taxicab driver, I could have suggested that he try to elude the Sport Utility Vehicle, a 2012 Ford Escape, as soon as I had noticed it matching us turn for turn, activating a turn signal each time a moment after Ms. Washburn had done so on her car. That is because Mike is a professional driver and a military veteran, and has learned some techniques that he says can prove useful under such circumstances.

  I had never had to put such a claim to use until now, but unfortunately Mike was not driving the car.

  Ms. Washburn’s voice was scratchy. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We are being followed. No doubt by the people who were watching us search Mr. Lewis’s office. Please watch the road.”

  Ms. Washburn stopped looking deeply into her rearview mirror. “Are you serious? There are two men following us and you want me to just watch the road and keep going?”

  “That is the best way to find out who they are and what they want,” I said. “Perhaps we should change our destination, however. There is no sense in leading them to Ms. Maholm if indeed she is where we presume her to be. Do you think it is risky to return to Questions Answered now, or should we stop somewhere for a bottle of spring water? And a diet soda for you?” I knew that was her preference.

  “This is hardly the time to worry about soft drinks, Samuel! People are following us! If we just stop and let them approach us, how do we know they’re not carrying guns or something?”

  It was a legitimate point. “It is likely they are armed,” I said. “But I doubt they mean us harm, at least not immediately. They are following us to gain information. Simply injuring or killing us in the street will not secure that data for them.”

  “You’re not making me feel better.”

  Since that had not been my intention, I was not surprised that I wasn’t assuaging Ms. Washburn’s anxiety. However, now that she had mentioned it, I wondered if I should have been more empathetic about her worries. What could I say now that would accomplish that goal?

  “Perhaps they are going to tell us something we need to know.”

  “What are the odds?” She probably did not really want to know the answer to that question, but I did calculate the probability and determined that the men behind us were highly unlikely to be interested in aiding our answer of the question regarding Mr. Lewis’s death.

  It occurred to me at that moment that involving Ms. Washburn in any interaction with the two men in the Escape might bring her into contact with considerable danger. Since I had promised to avoid any such scenarios while she was working for Questions Answered, it would be necessary to abandon my plan to confront our pursuers, or to somehow eliminate Ms. Washburn from the situation.

  But I could not decide which was the better plan of action.

  Ms. Washburn took a quick glance into her rearview mirror again. “What do you think they’re hoping to find?” she asked.

  “I have no facts on which to base a hypothesis,” I said. “But the only thing it seems logical for them to be s
eeking would be Ms. Maholm’s whereabouts.”

  She bit her lower lip. “Do you think they’re cops?”

  The possibility had not been one I’d considered. “I doubt it,” I said after thinking it over. “Police officers could simply stop us and ask if they thought we knew where their quarry might be hiding. And the fact is that we really don’t know at the moment, so we would have no conclusive information to impart.”

  “They don’t know that.”

  Weighing possibilities and forecasting outcomes, I was quiet for three minutes.

  “Where am I driving to?” Ms. Washburn asked again.

  Perhaps there was a way to accomplish both goals. “I think our best bet is to go to the nearest coffee shop,” I said. “There is one three blocks south of here on the far right corner.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course I am. I saw it on our way here.”

  Ms. Washburn’s expression indicated I might have misinterpreted her question, but there was no need to explore that reaction now. She appeared to be thinking seriously, but drove to the coffee shop I had indicated, the Escape staying at what the driver clearly believed to be a discreet distance behind Ms. Washburn’s Kia Spectra.

  The establishment, with a sign reading Viva Java!, was located in a small strip mall of four storefronts not unlike the one where Questions Answered is located. Ms. Washburn parked her car in a space near, but not directly in front of, the shop.

  “What’s the plan?” she asked.

  “It’s very simple. I will enter the coffee shop, buy a bottle of spring water and sit at one of the tables. If we are lucky, the two men from the Ford Escape will walk in, realize I am aware they are following us, and sit down to have a conversation. If we are not lucky, the most likely scenario is that they will stay in their vehicle and wait until I come out, at which time I will have to approach them directly and ask about their intentions. Either way, the meeting takes place in public, away from any areas where they might feel safer threatening me.”

  She waited for three seconds, which is a longer time in a conversation than it might ordinarily be considered. “And what am I doing all that time?” she asked.

  “You have a choice. Either you can lie down on the front seat of your car, or you can go inside the coffee shop and stay inside the restroom until I knock on the door four times.”

  Ms. Washburn squinted at me. “Samuel, I know you have a sense of humor, but this is hardly the time to be joking with me.”

  “I am doing no such thing. Those are the two options you have open that will ensure you will be in no danger at any time during the encounter. Which would you prefer? We have very little time.” The Ford Escape pulled up to a parking space on the street in view of the strip mall’s parking lot, but not entering the lot itself. The driver was clever, if not necessarily the most subtle stalker.

  “I did not sign on to work with you so I could go hide in the ladies’ room, Samuel. What can I do that will help answer the question?”

  “Actually, there is something extremely helpful you can do while you hide in the ladies’ room,” I said. “Call Detective Esteban on your cellular phone and ask her if there were any complaints filed against Oliver Lewis at the time of his death.”

  “I can do that from the coffee shop too,” she said.

  “Yes, but then I will be distracted and will not be operating at peak efficiency if the two men in the Escape walk in. Please. Do as I ask.” I adjusted the side mirror on Ms. Washburn’s Kia to take in the location of the Escape. The two men sat in the front seat.

  “All right,” Ms. Washburn sighed, “but don’t ever ask me to do this again.” She got out of the car and without looking in my direction walked into Viva Java!

  As I had decided to do moments before, I stayed in the Spectra. I watched Ms. Washburn walk into the coffee shop and then immediately shifted my focus to the side mirror.

  The two men were getting out of their vehicle and walking toward the shop.

  Before they could reach the front door, I got out of the Spectra and stood in their path. “Gentlemen,” I said.

  Outwardly I believe I was exuding confidence, but inside I was feeling quite the opposite. More so than when Jennifer LeBlanc was pointing a gun at me, I had a sense of danger as the two men stopped and considered me.

  One was tall and thin and wearing “skinny” jeans and a gray t-shirt. The other, shorter but also in obvious athletic trim, wore dark trousers and a navy blue polo shirt. Both wore identical New Balance running shoes. I wondered if they shopped for their footwear together.

  “We’re in a hurry,” the shorter one said. “Get out of the way.”

  I scanned both of them for signs of concealed weapons. There were no bulges in their armpits, where a shoulder holster might be located, or their hips. I decided that if they were carrying weapons, they were either in the men’s shoes, hidden by their trouser legs, or were knives.

  “I think I am the person you’re looking for,” I told them. The two men stared at me for a moment, then at each other.

  The taller one looked back at me. “You’re Janet Washburn?” he asked.

  Twenty-two

  Now I was the one who was confused. “You have been asked to follow Janet Washburn?” I asked the two men.

  “This is none of your business,” the shorter one said, and attempted to push past me.

  “No. It is indeed my business. I am her employer,” I said.

  The shorter man stopped. “You’re her boss?”

  The conversation seemed to be going in a redundant direction. “Please tell me why you have been asked to follow my associate, or I will be compelled to call the police.” The fact that Ms. Washburn was, if she were following my instructions, doing exactly that at this moment felt like something I could avoid mentioning.

  “Oh, go ahead and call the cops,” the shorter man said. “I’d like to see that.”

  “We don’t have to tell you nothing,” the taller man said. I understood that his double negative did not indicate he had to tell me something, but it took an effort not to inform him of his error.

  “I don’t have to not call the police, either,” I said, using a double negative properly. “If you do what you don’t have to do, I won’t do what I don’t have to do.”

  The taller man squinted. “What?”

  But the shorter one had grasped my explanation. “Okay. Tell me why I shouldn’t just muscle past you now and go talk to your girlfriend, and maybe we can do some business.”

  The suggestion that Ms. Washburn and I had some sort of romantic relationship slowed my thinking process until I realized that if she were here, Ms. Washburn would have explained that the man was speaking symbolically.

  “If your business has anything to do with Oliver Lewis or any of his ex-wives, I am the person you want to talk to. If your business is about Ms. Washburn’s personal life, I can assure you I know nothing at all, but will take every step I can to stop you from infringing on her privacy, including calling the police and filing charges against you. If, on the other hand, your business is in some way to help Ms. Washburn, I can assure you I will be glad to assist you in any way I can. Is that clear enough?”

  “It’s none of your—” the taller man started to say.

  “Also, I have achieved a second level black belt in tae kwon do and ‘muscling past’ me would be considerably more difficult for you than you might have anticipated. If you are carrying concealed weapons and attempt to use them, I have been trained to subdue you and the list of charges I could press would increase. Now please tell me, why have you been asked to follow my associate?”

  “It’s a collection problem,” the shorter man said.

  “I sincerely doubt it,” I countered. “Lying to me will be extremely difficult. I have a neurological condition that helps me to detect untruths when they are told to me.”
That was, of course, a lie itself. Asperger’s Syndrome (or autism spectrum disorder) does not help anyone separate truth from fiction. If it did, I never would have trusted the woman who identified herself to me as Sheila McInerney. “So please, do not waste any more of our time.”

  The taller man looked to the shorter one, who seemed to be in charge of their operation. The shorter man drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go in and sit down.”

  As long as Ms. Washburn stayed inside the restroom, that did not seem an unreasonable suggestion. I was sure to follow the two men into the coffee shop rather than turn my back on them.

  Once inside, we sat at a booth on the right side of the room. The taller man sat on one side, while the shorter one insisted on boxing me into the booth. I got in first, and he sat to my left.

  “We were hired by someone—and I’m not going to tell you who, so don’t bother asking—to keep an eye on the office you just left. It’s been a real easy job so far because no one ever goes there. So we’ve been taking our fee for sitting around eating doughnuts and drinking coffee.” The shorter man shifted in his seat, which made me uncomfortable.

  “That does not explain why you were following Ms. Washburn specifically,” I pointed out.

  The taller man straightened up, as if pleased that he could answer a question without prompting. “Her name is the one that showed up when we ran the license plate,” he said. “Easier to find out stuff from her when we could use her name. We had no idea who you were.”

  That told me a good deal more than the man had probably intended. “And what was it you were going to ask when you found her?” I said.

  “Mostly, we wanted to know what you two were doing in that office, why you’d come there, and what you think you found out,” the shorter man said. “How about you share with us now?”

  “We had some questions for the man who owned that business,” I answered. “We had no idea the space had been abandoned.”

  “Abandoned,” the taller man repeated, as if it were amusing. That helped confirm the suspicion of mine that Oliver Lewis’s business was never intended to be a true running concern. If I could get the taller man to not tell me anything for another ten minutes, I might be able to answer the question with very little difficulty.