“Why didn’t you tell us about all your other businesses when we met before?” Ms. Washburn asked. The question was valid and intelligent.
“You didn’t ask,” Mr. Robinson said. His answer did not live up to the question.
But I was not inclined to spend time building a rapport with Mr. Robinson; I was more interested in getting to the heart of the matter quickly so I could exercise upon my return to the office and then get home in time for lunch. “Mr. Robinson, with all your effort to remain aware of the inner workings of your businesses, is it not odd that a black market was operating through your convenience store and you were unaware of it?”
Mr. Robinson stopped leaning back in his chair. Ms. Washburn, who was accustomed to my style of questioning, did not look at all surprised, but our subject appeared stung by my words.
“What exactly do you mean, a black market operating through my convenience store?” he demanded.
It was an odd comment, since none of the words I’d used was at all obscure. I assumed Mr. Robinson was simply trying to delay having to answer me by asking a question to which he obviously already knew the answer. So I did not answer, simply letting him process the statement.
“You’re saying someone was selling illegal merchandise under my manager’s nose?” he said, apparently thinking changing the words would somehow also alter their meaning. In this case, that was not going to happen.
“We never met the manager,” Ms. Washburn noted. “May we talk to him or her?”
“You’d have to talk pretty loud,” Mr. Robinson answered with an odd look on his face. “The manager at that particular location was Richard Handy.”
That was news to us, and it shouldn’t have been. I looked at Ms. Washburn reflexively. Her eyes widened.
“We were told Richard was the assistant manager,” I said.
“It was a symbolic thing. I had just promoted him.”
“Richard was only twenty-two years old,” I said. “He was the store manager?” Left unsaid was the fact that Richard Handy had also been implicated by the police in a previous incident of illegal sales, in that case of cigarettes he had embezzled from the Quik N EZ stock.
“He was an ambitious kid and he knew the store backwards and forwards,” Mr. Robinson said. “When the previous manager quit, he was the logical choice. I believe in promoting from within.”
That was an admirable business plan, perhaps, but it had no relevance to the conversation. “So you had no idea someone was involved in selling some sort of contraband items through your convenience store?” I said, trying to redirect Mr. Robinson to the topic at hand.
He looked startled. “Of course not,” he said. “You don’t know what was being sold?”
“I have a few ideas,” I said. It was an attempt at being evasive, or at least appearing to be speaking from a stronger empirical position than I was capable of doing at the moment. “But I am not able to list items definitively.”
But Mr. Robinson’s eyes narrowed. He had not been fooled. “What evidence do you have?” he asked.
“I prefer not to name specific individuals,” I said. The expression to “name names” is simply redundant. “But I can say that I am aware of where some stock was being kept, and at least two of the people we believe to have been involved.”
“This is serious, Mr. Hoenig,” the entrepreneur said. “If you have some proof that this sort of illegal activity was being perpetrated in my business by my employees, I will have to take actions against those people and make sure it can’t happen again. Now what can you tell me?”
I stood up. Ms. Washburn, who no doubt found the move unexpected, took a moment to follow. “I’m afraid I’ve told you everything I can at this moment,” I said. “But you can rest assured that as soon as I know more, I will be sure to let you know.”
“I don’t think that’s good enough,” Mr. Robinson answered, not standing nor proffering his hand to shake (which was something of a relief to me, actually). “I’m going to need names and I’m going to need facts, not innuendoes. Now please sit down and tell me what I need to know.”
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 w
ay 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.
The Question of the Felonious Friend Page 21
