The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband (17 page)

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 seeking 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 un
truths 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.

“What are your names?” I asked the shorter man.

“I have no reason to tell you that,” he responded. “And you haven't really answered any questions I've asked you yet. This was supposed to be an exchange. So start exchanging.”

“Very well. Ms. Washburn, at my request, drove me to the supposed headquarters of OLimited. We entered the office, found it empty and neglected, and left to pursue other avenues in our business. That is all I can tell you.”

“We knew all that already,” the taller man said.

“I have no more information than that,” I told him. “My apologies if you expected a fuller explanation.”

The two men exchanged an unsatisfied look and the shorter one placed his hands flat on the table, bracing himself to stand. “We're not doing each other any good,” he said.

“On the contrary. You have told me quite a bit. You are two off-duty police officers who have been hired by one of Oliver Lewis's ex-wives to find out more about his business dealings, perhaps with an eye toward a more favorable settlement in the divorce. I don't know your names, but that hardly seems to matter, since your interest in Ms. Washburn is based strictly on her license plate number, so I have nothing to fear from you. I do regret that I have no further information to pass along to you, but unfortunately, that is the case. Thank you, gentlemen. You may certainly return to your surveillance of the OLimited offices with no fear that Ms. Washburn or I will be back.”

“How did you know … ” the taller man said. The shorter one, pursing his lips, had not moved from the spot where he had begun to stand.

“Police officers would have access to motor vehicle information like license plate numbers,” I said. “And when I mentioned calling the police, you seemed to find that amusing. You believed you would have an advantage in such an encounter because you are a member of the brotherhood, no? You clearly are off-duty, or you would not be driving in a private vehicle—and I know enough about the workings of government to recognize municipal, county, or state markings and numbers—and wearing your personal clothing. It makes sense that anyone who wanted to keep track of Mr. Lewis's offices would have some dealings with one or more of his ex-wives. There was no business partner listed on his incorporation forms, so his ex-wives would be the only ones to benefit from any of his business dealings. And your lack of interest in Ms. Washburn is evident in the fact that you did not notice when she walked by you three minutes ago and left this coffee shop.”

Both of the men turned and looked toward the door, which was predictable but pointless, since Ms. Washburn had clearly gone back to her car and was probably now sitting in it waiting for me to return.

The shorter man appeared to be grinding his teeth; this was probably an indication that he did not care to be told about his shortcomings in front of his colleague, or probably under any other circumstances. “You can count on seeing us again, Sherlock,” he said.

Before I could point out that the fictional Mr. Holmes would no doubt have deduced a great deal more from the two men's appearance and mannerisms than I had, both of them were gone from the booth and walking toward the door.

I put two crisp dollars in the tip jar on the counter as I followed them out. The young woman behind the counter, who no doubt knew we had not ordered any refreshments, looked up at me with a surprised expression.

“For the use of the booth,” I said.

She nodded her thanks, still seeming a little dazed, and I exited the coffee shop.

Ms. Washburn was indeed seated behind the wheel of her car, whose engine was running. The two men were nowhere to be seen, and neither was their Sport Utility Vehicle. I opened the door of Ms. Washburn's Spectra and sat in the passenger seat.

“Detective Esteban was surprised to hear from me,” she reported before I could tell her about the encounter with the two officers. “She said she thought we had answered the question we'd been asked and would be done with the situation.”

“Obviously it would be an embarrassment and a breach of protocol for Detective Dickinson to tell her he had engaged us,” I said, nodding. “It makes sense he would not mention it. Was she still willing to tell you about Oliver Lewis's criminal record?”

Ms. Washburn, knowing it would unnerve me if she were to start driving while we were having this conversation (since it would unquestionably distract her from the road), left the car in park. It would be best if we kept this conference brief in order to relieve the Kia's overtaxed cooling system.

“Yes,” Ms. Washburn answered. “But I don't know why. She just seemed helpful. She said there had been an investigation by the county prosecutor's office into Lewis's dealings, but there hadn't been enough evidence found to merit a grand jury indictment. But there were civil cases pending filed by Jennifer LeBlanc and Terry Lambroux.”

That was a surprise. “Really!” I said. “What were the specifics of those suits?”

“We'll know better when we get the documents the detective is sending you in an email,” she said. “But the Lambroux one was interesting, the detective told me.”

“Interesting in what way?”

“It was a lawsuit filed claiming breach of promise,” Ms. Washburn answered, a sly grin crossing her face. She had been waiting to tell me this particular fact. “Apparently Oliver Lewis had been engaged to Terry Lambroux and broke it off before the wedding.”