The Question of the Felonious Friend

by E. J. Copperman

  “Did Father Mulcahy think Hawkeye should be in love with Margaret?”

  “He knew who Hawkeye really loved,” Molly said definitively.

  “Thank you, Molly,” I said. I stood and Ms. Washburn followed my lead. We began to walk to the door. Ms. Washburn turned to face Evelyn, who was leading us out as Molly retained her seat.

  “Does Molly have any other special interests?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  Evelyn’s eyes went up to indicate she was trying to remember. “Certain books of the bible,” she said. “But also New Jersey Transit train schedules and Beyoncé,” she said.

  “‘Let’s be careful out there,’” Molly said as we left.

  “Right,” her mother said, nodding. “And Hill Street Blues.”

  “It’s late,” Ms. Washburn said. “I’m going home. You?”

  “I believe I’ll call Mike,” I said. “There is some computer research I want to do.”

  Ms. Washburn had not asked me to interpret the conversation I’d had with Molly Brandt during our ride back to Questions Answered. So it was not a surprise when she turned before reaching the door and asked, “What was all that about Hawkeye and Father Mulcahy?”

  “I believe Molly might have been Tyler’s girlfriend, or at least believed she was, at some point,” I said. “But Molly thinks another woman came between them and distracted Tyler to the point that he left her for the other woman. I don’t know whether that is the truth or not, but it appears to be what Molly believes.”

  Ms. Washburn turned a little bit more toward me with a thoughtful look on her face. “Why did you ask about the priest?”

  “Molly is interested in some books of the bible,” I answered. “She might have spoken to a religious leader about the difficulty with Tyler,” I said. “When you were bringing the car to the front of the house, I asked Evelyn if there is a minister or priest in whom Molly might confide. She did not know of one, saying Molly is interested in the bible as a book but is not at all religious.”

  “Do you think that’s true?”

  “Again, I think it’s what Evelyn believes is true. The facts are not yet clear.”

  “That’s confusing,” Ms. Washburn said.

  “Yes.” I find so many things confusing that it has almost become the norm for me; I don’t often even note it anymore. “I hope you have a good night, Ms. Washburn.” I say that as she leaves each evening; it is the accepted salutation for that occasion.

  “You too, Samuel.” With that, Ms. Washburn left the office. Less than one minute later I saw her car leave the parking lot.

  I decided to begin my research with a continuation of the previous work I had done on some contraband items confiscated in the past month. But I was only about four screens into the searches when the bells attached to the office door (left over from San Remo’s Pizzeria) jangled and I looked up.

  Sandy Clayton Webb walked in wearing a tan trench coat and blue jeans. She was holding the coat tightly around herself, which would have been more understandable if this were February.

  “Has it begun to rain?” I asked, forgetting the necessity of social ritual in such cases. (It is never clear in such a question as to what has begun to rain, but no one questions that usage.)

  Sandy, in the midst of striding purposefully into the office, stopped abruptly and stood still in the middle of the room. “No. Why?”

  There was no point in explaining my reasoning. “I thought I heard something,” I said. “How can I help you, Ms. Webb?” I gestured toward the client chair, but Sandy sat in Mother’s recliner. I did not correct her.

  “Please, it’s Sandy,” she said. “I’m just here to get a progress report.”

  Since her demeanor since Tyler’s arrest had been almost adversarial toward Questions Answered (Ms. Washburn had told me), it was unusual for Sandy to make that request. It was more distressing because she was technically not a client of the agency. “I have already told your brother Mason all that is currently relevant toward answering his question,” I said.

  “I haven’t heard from Mason. What can you tell me?” Sandy sat leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs and her hands supporting her chin.

  In such cases, it is sometimes a useful distraction to ask a question of one’s own. “Is there a reason you are not in touch with your brother?” I said.

  “It’s a family matter.” Sandy’s veneer of joviality vanished. “Now would you please give me a progress report?”

  There was no longer a reason to couch my answers in niceties; I have never had much success with such a strategy anyway. “I’m afraid I can’t,” I said. “My client is Mason Clayton. He asked the question at hand. Without my client’s permission, I am unable to divulge any information we have discovered in regard to that question.”

  “Really.” Sandy stood but did not turn to walk to the door as I had anticipated. Instead she took two steps toward my desk and put her palms down on it, leaning uncomfortably toward me. It was not so much intimidating a gesture as it contemptuous. “Have you received your fee from my brother yet, Mr. Hoenig?”

  We had not required our usual retainer of one-half the agency’s fee from Mason in advance because of the pending nature of the original question Tyler had asked, for which we had also waived the retainer at Ms. Washburn’s insistence.

  “I believe that is a matter of some privacy between myself and my client,” I told Sandy.

  “Well, I’m betting you haven’t gotten a dime out of Mason,” she responded, her voice dropping to a raspy growl. “And you should consider this: You’re not going to get paid. Answer the question, don’t answer the question. Mason won’t give you the money he owes you. Want to know why?” She did not wait for a response to her question. “Because he doesn’t have it. Mason’s business went bankrupt and he’s trying to find a way to avoid paying his creditors.”

  I had known of the financial problems with which Able Home Help had been grappling. In fact, I had planned on asking Sandy about Tyler’s name being listed as a partner in the business, but she had begun abruptly with her questioning about Mason’s payment. “I am aware of the Chapter XI proceedings,” I said.

  “So why are you still working for him?” Sandy asked.

  “He is a client and has shown no cause for me to stop working for him,” I answered truthfully. I had required nothing of Mason so he had not fallen short in any way. “Are you aware that Tyler is listed as a partner in Mason’s business?”

  Sandy blinked three times, an indication that the information I’d just given her was a surprise. But she answered, “Of course.” If Ms. Washburn had been here, I was sure she would have informed me that Sandy was likely lying. I made that my assumption.

  “I assume most of Tyler’s income, his savings, his finances generally, come from Able Home Help. Is that correct?” It was best to ask while Sandy was stunned; she would have less capacity to think of untrue answers.

  “Yes. Tyler gets almost everything except his walking-around money from Mason,” she said. She stood up straight, abandoning her position leaning on my desk. She appeared to be thinking. “The electronics store job was just for his personal expenses, like a sandwich or comic books or something.”

  “So how do you explain the fact that Tyler was leaving one-­hundred-dollar tips in the jar at the Quik N EZ for Richard Handy virtually every day?” I asked. “Where would he get five hundred dollars a week just for that?”

  Sandy coughed. “I have to go.” Without another word, she left.

  Immediately I called Mike the taxicab driver. “Are you close to my office?” I asked.

  “I’m two blocks away,” he answered. “I stay close this time of night. Do you need a ride?”

  “No. But come here quickly. I need you to follow someone.”

  Twenty-Three

  “I don’t mind driving you home, Samuel, and you know that.” My
mother sat behind the steering wheel, driving at the speed limit, which in this case was thirty-five miles per hour. We were headed back to our home, two-point-eight miles from the Questions Answered offices. On occasion when there was no ride available, I have walked home, and it is not difficult. I would have done so tonight, but there was work to be done and I did not know when to expect to receive a visitor at the house. “My point is that you can drive yourself and should start thinking about doing that. You’re making money now. You should buy a car.”

  This was an ongoing conversation. Mother and Ms. Washburn had apparently discussed the subject at some length, as each had broached the subject of my driving more regularly. I own a valid driver’s license, which I maintain, but I have not driven in four years. It makes me unusually nervous to have that much responsibility at my disposal, so I avoid the practice.

  “Normally, I would have asked Mike for a ride,” I told Mother. “But as you know, he is doing something very important for me at this moment.”

  “I don’t understand that one,” she answered. “You just said he was following someone.”

  “You’ll see very soon.”

  I believe I saw the hint of a smile on Mother’s face. She likes to believe that I am more intelligent and capable than I actually am. I have given up trying to convince her otherwise. She said nothing for the rest of the short drive.

  We were clearing the table after dinner when Mike the taxicab driver knocked at our back door, which is located in the kitchen. When Mike drives me home, he parks in the driveway, which is closer to the back of the house, so he uses it as his entrance, with our permission. I let him in and he sat at the table, accepting Mother’s offer of some cold water but declining any leftover roast beef we might have.

  “Maybe now I’ll find out exactly what you were up to all this time,” Mother told him as she handed him the glass.

  It had been only fifty-three minutes since I had phoned Mike with a request to follow Sandy Clayton Webb from the Questions Answered office and report back on where she had gone and what she had done, but concepts of time are not objective. So I did not comment on Mother’s remark.

  “I was following this woman around in her car, but Samuel never told me why,” Mike answered her. They both looked to me so I assumed they wanted an explanation.

  “The woman is named Sandy Clayton Webb,” I told Mike. “She is the sister of Tyler Clayton and Mason Clayton, the man who asked me who shot Richard Handy at the Quik N EZ convenience store in Somerset.”

  I thought that was sufficient, but neither Mike nor Mother said anything for eight seconds (which is actually quite a long gap in a conversation) after I spoke.

  “Why did you need me to follow her?” Mike asked. “Do you think she killed this Handy guy?”

  I shook my head. “If Sandy had been present in the convenience store at the time of the shooting, she either would have been visible before the security cameras were disabled or there would have been audio of Tyler speaking to her as she entered. I do not believe Sandy was there, or that she could have shot Richard Handy.”

  “So why are you suspicious of her?” Mother asked. “And don’t tell me you’re not, because you wouldn’t have had poor Mike here gallivanting around central New Jersey when he should be home after a long day.”

  “Actually, I’m working until eleven tonight,” Mike said. Mother looked concerned, but he waved a hand. “Taking a friend’s shift for him.”

  “Please,” I said to Mike before more small talk could be offered, “tell me what Sandy did after she left Questions Answered.” Mother began to ask another question, but I held up a finger, indicating I would answer after Mike did. Which I was sure he would do as soon as he finished drinking the glass of water.

  He nodded, realizing I had been waiting for the information. “Sorry. Sandy drove out of your parking lot just as I got there. She didn’t ride around; her route was very direct. She drove to an address in Franklin.”

  “What was the address?” I asked.

  Mike glanced at a small notebook he carries in the pocket of his denim work shirt. He looked at my face after reading the address and told me what it was; I think he wanted to see my reaction.

  I would probably not have been able to read my own expression if I’d had a mirror, but I was feeling something like a small amount of validation. It was one of the places I’d suspected Sandy might go.

  “That is Billy Martinez’s address,” I said.

  “Billy Martinez!” Ms. Washburn had barely made it into the office the next morning when I’d told her the results of Mike’s surveillance the night before.

  “Yes. Mike reported that Sandy went to the front door of Billy’s home, rang the doorbell and was admitted by someone Mike could not see. It could have either been Billy or one of his parents, I suppose.”

  “What would Sandy want with Billy Martinez?” Ms. Washburn asked, removing her jacket and sitting behind her desk. She hung the jacket on the back of her chair despite my having offered to install a coat rack in the office. Ms. Washburn says it helps her to feel like we’re doing something urgent when she can pull the jacket off the back of her chair as we leave to do research. I don’t entirely understand the concept, but I accept it helps feed some emotional need of Ms. Washburn’s.

  “That is indeed an interesting question,” I said. “Mike told us Sandy stayed inside for approximately ten minutes, then got into her car and drove directly to her residence in Somerset, went inside and didn’t come back out. He said that, in violation of all New Jersey traffic regulations, Sandy was talking to someone through her cellular phone during her trip home. Mike drove to my house to report. But he couldn’t possibly know the intent or content of the meeting.”

  “I was asking for your opinion,” Ms. Washburn said. She got up from her desk and walked to the vending machine. Every morning she gets a bottle of green tea when she arrives, although diet soda is her preference the rest of the day. She claims it is “too early” to drink a soda before eleven a.m., which I am unable to understand. “I didn’t think Mike had answered the question for us all by himself.”

  I considered what she had said. “My opinion is that there is a connection between Sandy, Billy Martinez, and an unknown third party that involves some contraband merchandise being sold illegally, possibly through the Quik N EZ. And it is becoming increasingly clear that is the reason Richard Handy was killed.”

  Ms. Washburn took a moment to absorb the information while sitting back down at her desk. “I get the connection between Sandy and Billy Martinez, because she immediately went to see him—and we didn’t even know they’d ever met—after you talked last night. And I get the unknown third party from the phone call on Sandy’s way home, although that could be you stretching a little bit because for all we know she was calling her dry cleaner. But the contraband merchandise? Stolen merchandise? Is that from Richard’s little skirmish over the cigarettes he was stealing from the convenience store a while back?”

  “Yes,” I said. I had activated a software program I’d been working on that would run deep Internet searches in the background while I was working on other areas and inform me when a relevant match was found. So far there had been nothing, but what we were looking for was fairly obscure and had very narrow parameters. “I suggest we talk again to Mr. Robinson, the owner of the Quik N EZ. He is not often present on the store premises. Did you get his contact information?”

  Eighty-five minutes later Ms. Washburn and I were in the office of Raymond J. Robinson on the eighth floor of a building he owned in Bridgewater Township. The view, which mostly featured Route 22 running east to west, was unspectacular, but the corner office and the expensive furnishings (including a photograph of Mr. Robinson with a past president of the United States) were clearly meant to impress. It was, plainly, not the image that would have been conjured after seeing Mr. Robinson sweeping the floor of his convenienc
e store in Somerset (even in a business suit), and I mentioned that to him as we sat down in chairs upholstered with leather.

  “If you want to be successful in business, you have to know what your employees are doing,” Mr. Robinson said. “If you don’t do it yourself even for a short time, you won’t know. I take a week every once in a while and go work at one of my businesses. I have my assistant call and say an older gentleman needs a job and is coming in to work. Some of the managers balk at it. They don’t like having the boss tell them who to hire. They treat me with a vengeance like it’s my fault—which it actually is, but they don’t know that—and that tells me what the job is like and what the manager is like. It’s invaluable.”

  “That’s very interesting,” Ms. Washburn said. I have noticed that people often say exactly that when something is not the least bit interesting at all, but it was not the case in this instance. “You just happened to be working at the Quik N EZ the week Richard Handy was shot?”

  Mr. Robinson dropped his brows and held up his hands. “Oh no,” he said. “I wasn’t working there this week. You just saw me at the store because of that horrible incident. I was looking after my employees and my property.”

  “How many businesses do you own?” Ms. Washburn asked. This was meant to ingratiate herself with the subject—we had already gained this information through a simple search before leaving our office.

  Mr. Robinson leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Besides the Quik N EZ chain, with those eleven stores, I own three frozen yogurt franchises, a small electronics chain that I’m about to close, two dance studios, and four food trucks in Manhattan.” He seemed especially proud of that last item, perhaps because the trucks were located in New York. Some New Jerseyans suffer from an inferiority complex concerning the city to the north and east.