The Question of the Felonious Friend (11 page)

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“Yes. Find the license for the gun and make a copy or scan it and send it to my associate Ms. Washburn. Then please call Dr. Shean and tell her—even in a voice mail message—that you authorize her to talk to me. I will not ask anything that violates her privilege. Are you legally Tyler's guardian?”

“No,” Mason said. “He's over eighteen and not in a condition that requires him to be cared for, so there is no guardian.”

“That might complicate the dealings with Dr. Shean and a few others, but aside from her, we'll hope no one else knows that.” I thought quickly. Mason was asking to help and that is not always the case with clients; many want an answer to appear magically on their doorstep. “Do you have any idea who Tyler was playing Swords and Sorcerers with online?”

“Not really. I could look on his computer, but the cops took his laptop to look for evidence so I don't really have anything.” Mason sounded perplexed. “The only one he ever talked about was Margie Cavanagh. She lives in New Brunswick, I think. Somewhere around there. And some kid Adam … something. He was in Jersey someplace, but I don't know where. All the other people in the group were in other states. Tyler used to have to play late at night because they were in different time zones.”

“Were he and Margie friends?” I asked.

Mason hesitated. “As far as I know, they never actually met. Tyler would mention every once in a while that she seemed to be really good at the game. Slaying monsters or something. I didn't really pay attention.”

“Did Tyler ever play the game on a computer other than his laptop?”

“No. Wait. I think he did once when his laptop was in the shop for repairs. He used my laptop. Maybe two months ago.”

I know a bit about computers, so I suggested that Mason bring his laptop—thankfully Tyler had not played Swords and Sorcerers on a desktop computer, which is harder to transport—to the Questions Answered office the next day, and we made an appointment to meet there at two in the afternoon. Mason said he was not working for the time being as he was uncertain as to Tyler's status and did not think he could concentrate on his job while that was the case.

“Have you secured a legal representative for Tyler yet?” I asked.

“We really can't afford a top-flight criminal defense lawyer,” Mason said, expressing some sadness in his voice. “At the moment, I'm working with the Public Defender's office, but we might be able to scrape enough together to hire that guy from TV.”

I knew exactly which attorney he meant, because T. Harrington Swain's advertisements were sometimes broadcast during telecasts of New York Yankees baseball games. The ads featured Swain, a somewhat stiff and unconvincing presence, reading from a teleprompter that he would “fight for your rights no matter what you've done,” a selling point that might have been considered somewhat accurate given the setup of the American criminal justice system, but which hardly inspired much confidence if the listener was paying careful attention.

Still, giving Mason advice about legal counsel was probably outside my purview in answering his question, so I did not suggest the public defender assigned to the case might be a better option no matter the financial arrangement Mason and Sandy might reach. Instead, I said, “Very well, then. Please keep me informed.”

“You do the same,” Mason said, and disconnected the call more appropriately than his sister had done before.

I looked at Ms. Washburn. “It's getting late,” she said. “Do you want a ride home?” If I am not staying late in my office, Ms. Washburn will provide transportation to Mother's house. If I do stay past her departure, I will call my friend Mike the taxicab driver and he drives me to the house.

I glanced at the time on my computer screen; it was 4:36 p.m. “It's a little early,” I said. “Do you have a reason to leave before five?” I was asking not as an employer. Despite the fact that we do not punch a clock at Questions Answered, I was curious as to Ms. Washburn's motivations.

She looked oddly defiant. “I told Simon I would meet him for a drink at five thirty.”

That was an odd statement. “Your estranged husband?” I asked. I actually did feel some hairs stand up on the back of my neck. It was uncomfortable.

Ms. Washburn avoided eye contact, something I am familiar enough with that I can spot it easily when someone else is doing it. “Yes,” she said quietly.

“Is that advisable?” It seemed to me that if her attorney was against the idea of her seeing Simon on a professional basis, meeting him socially would probably be that much more perilous.

Ms. Washburn's eyes flashed but she continued to look away. “It's a personal matter, Samuel, so let's not discuss it.”

That suited me, so I nodded.

“Would you like a ride home?” she asked again.

“No, thank you. I'll call Mike.”

Ms. Washburn said good night and left the office.

Twelve

“She's having second thoughts,”
Mike said.

The drive from Questions Answered to the home I share with my mother is not a long one, so Mike the taxicab driver had listened to my description of Ms. Washburn's behavior and was offering his viewpoint with only two minutes left in the ride. Mike is one of the few people I can ask about interpersonal relationships, particularly those which I am not comfortable discussing with Mother or Ms. Washburn.

“She is reconsidering her divorce?” I asked.

Mike nodded without taking his eyes from the road. “It's not very unusual. Women especially. They think they can fix the guy or that it was their fault. They're usually wrong—always about fixing the guy—but you can't try to persuade her otherwise, Samuel. She'll do what she'll do.”

“But her attorney advised her not to talk to Simon at all,” I said. I was not trying to prove Mike wrong, as I trust his judgment; I was instead attempting to understand why Ms. Washburn, usually a very rational woman, would act in such a blatantly emotional and inadvisable fashion.

Mike chuckled a bit under his breath. “Probably one of the reasons she's going,” he said.

I had met Mike at Newark Liberty International Airport a few years ago when Mother was visiting her sister, Aunt Jane. I had accompanied her to the airport and had been instructed to find a taxicab to drive me home after her flight had departed. I chose Mike's cab, which he had named Military Transport because he was an Afghanistan veteran not long returned from duty and was not interested in “sitting behind a desk or standing on a sales floor.”

It had been an unexpectedly pleasant trip in Mike's cab, so when I discovered that he was based (that is, that his house was) very close to Questions Answered and my home, I asked if he might be called upon to drive me home from work on nights Mother could not do so. Mike had agreed, and even after Ms. Washburn had come to work with me, I would contact him on evenings I worked late to ask for a ride. He had always complied and became a trusted adviser.

“Do you think Ms. Washburn will reconcile with Simon?” I asked now.

He shrugged while keeping both hands on the steering wheel. I know quite a bit about driving although I rarely practice. It makes me feel more secure to pay attention to the person behind the wheel when I am a passenger. I am not able to say whether my attention has the same effect on the driver. “No way of knowing,” Mike said. “Janet's a smart girl. Do you think she should get back with her husband?”

“It does not occur to me that I should have an opinion on the subject,” I said.

“Except you do, Samuel. Even if you're not admitting it, you don't want her to go back to Simon, and it's bugging you enough that you called me, even when she could have driven you home, just so you could tell me about it.” Mike steered the taxicab into Mother's driveway. He stopped the car and shifted into park, then turned to face me. “You care about Janet. You don't want her to get hurt and you know Simon has not been the best husband since time began. So you're rooting for her to get the divorce and move on. Now tell me I'm wrong.”

Mike did not, in fact, want me to tell him I believed him to be mistaken. Instead, he was saying he thought it unlikely I could do so honestly. I have learned this particular conversational tactic in social skills training. It was not an easy one to understand, and I am not certain I always recognize it in use even now. This time, however, I knew what he meant.

“I don't know if you are wrong,” I told him. “I am concerned about a coworker and hope she does not leave herself open for emotional pain, which is a real condition. It would disrupt her efficiency and be unpleasant for both of us. So it makes perfect sense for me to be concerned about her current direction, doesn't it?”

Mike shook his head but chuckled as he did. “Of course it does, Samuel. But there's something you're not telling me.” Mike is an astute observer of people and would no doubt make an excellent addition to Questions Answered if he were inclined to give up driving his taxicab, which he is not.

I told him about my observation at Simon's apartment.

Mike's face turned serious. “Well you know, they are getting a divorce,” he said finally. “I don't know if that's a really big deal.”

“If Ms. Washburn decides to reconcile with her husband, does it become a big deal?” I asked.

Mike smiled crookedly. “Of course it does, Samuel. Now get the heck out of my cab. I have an actual paying job to get to in New Brunswick.” He pointed to the rear passenger door, next to which I was seated.

I opened the door and stepped out. “You know I would pay you for the ride if you would accept the money,” I said. I closed the door and stepped toward the front passenger window, which was open.

“Yes, I do. And that's one of the reasons I won't accept the money. You're a friend, Samuel. I don't ever want you to think I'm acting like this with you because you are a regular fare. Clear?”

“Quite so,” I said.

“I'll see you soon.” He backed out of the driveway while I walked to the back door and entered the house.

Mother was in the kitchen. It was a warm night, so the windows were all open and the ceiling fan was spinning. She looked up and smiled when I entered. But when she saw my facial expression, she asked if something was wrong.

“No,” I assured her. “I believe Mike just illuminated part of this question for me.”

“I didn't know anything about the guy.” Billy Martinez was standing next to the lottery ticket dispenser, the opposite side of the counter at the Quick N EZ than he manned three days earlier when I had come to ask Richard Handy about Tyler Clayton. “He came in every day and bought a soda, then he left some money in the tip jar and left. That's all I know.”

He stole a glance at Mr. Robinson, who was overseeing workmen replacing the glass on the dairy display. When Ms. Washburn and I had entered this morning, the police crime scene tape had been removed, the dairy cooler had been emptied, and the floor no longer bore any traces of the violence that had taken place here a few days before. Mr. Robinson, after noting that we were still not police officers but kept coming back to ask questions, had said Detective Hessler (whom Ms. Washburn had called but not spoken to) had given him permission to have the scene cleaned the evening before and the store was now again open for business.

“He left quite a bit of money in the tip jar every day, didn't he?” I asked.

Billy was not attending to a customer at the moment, but frequently looked up the aisle as if hoping one would come and relieve him from the responsibility (completely unofficial) of speaking to me. There were only two customers in the store at the moment—perhaps news of its reopening had not yet spread through the community—and neither of them seemed especially anxious to pay for their purchases.

“I don't know how much money he left,” Billy answered. “Richard always took the tips for himself.”

Ms. Washburn looked up from her notepad. “That's not the way it's supposed to be, is it?” she asked. “Aren't all the employees supposed to share the tips?”

Billy glanced at her. “Richard didn't keep
all
the tips, just the ones from that guy,” he said.

“Tyler Clayton,” I clarified.

“Yeah, whoever. He'd come in here staring at Richard like he was in love with him or something, then he'd leave money in the jar and Richard would take it. I figured he was really just coming in for Richard, so he was entitled to the money.” Facial expression creates some difficulties for me, as do some vocal tones. I tend not to read emphasis and modulation well. But Billy's explanation was so unconvincing that I did not feel the need to confirm its falseness with
Ms. Washburn later.

“He left one hundred dollars every day,” I said, although it was not confirmed that this was a daily amount. “Do you truly believe Richard was entitled to that money simply because Tyler considered him a friend?” I believe I sounded skeptical enough to get my point across.

Billy clearly got the point, at any rate. “You think I'm lying?” he asked.

“I do not yet have enough information to form an opinion,” I said. “But it is curious.”

I traded a glance with Ms. Washburn which we
would
discuss later in her car.

Mr. Robinson walked over from the refrigerated displays. “Have you got enough?” he asked. “I don't want you interfering with my business.”

I considered protesting that Mr. Robinson had not expressed any such reservations when we walked in, and that no one else was trying to purchase an item from the store, but Ms. Washburn shook her head slightly. I smiled what Mother calls my “professional smile” and said, “I have only one more question, for both of you.”

Ms. Washburn probably thought I was going to ask about Beatles preferences, but at this moment character assessments of Mr. Robinson and Billy Martinez seemed less urgent.

“So ask,” Mr. Robinson said.

“Did Tyler Clayton ever change his style of clothing?”

Billy's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. “The style of his clothing?” he echoed.

“Yes. Did he vary colors? Change fabrics? Did the climate make a difference?”

Mr. Robinson shrugged. “I'm the owner. I wasn't here every day. I'm just here to deal with … all this today.” It was a variation on his continued insistence that he never saw anything nor heard anything concerned with the killing in his store. He was either lying or the most absentee owner such a business could have had.

Billy Martinez shook his head. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said. “That kid wore the same thing every day, no matter what. Hot, cold, snow, rain. He wore a dark blue hoodie and a pair of jeans. Every day.”

“Thank you,” I said. “You have been extremely helpful.”

Once we were safely away from the possible hearing of either of our interviewees and inside Ms. Washburn's Kia Spectra, she said, “They were lying.”

“Yes. About almost everything.”

Ms. Washburn started the car and left the parking space we'd used, half a block from the Quik N EZ. “
Almost
everything?” she asked.

“Billy was telling the truth about Tyler's wardrobe. He did indeed wear the same type of clothing every day, probably for years. It is not uncommon among those on the autism spectrum to avoid as many kinds of change as possible.”

Ms. Washburn looked like she wanted to give me a wry glance but did not divert her attention from the road, which I appreciated. “I have noticed that,” she said. “But you don't wear the same clothes every day.”

“I am not Tyler Clayton.”

“Why are his clothes important?” she asked.

“Individually, they are not,” I said. “Whether he always wore jeans or sweatpants or a tuxedo makes no particular difference to the question we are researching. What is important is that he wore the same thing every day. That means his clothes could be predicted in advance.”

Ms. Washburn thought about that for a moment, then spoke after making a left turn. “So whoever painted over the security cameras could know what to wear.”

“Precisely. Very good, Ms. Washburn. There was one other point that was relevant, but I think you noticed it when it happened.”

Ms. Washburn's eyes narrowed a tiny bit. I curbed my flicker of anxiety, realizing she could still see the road before her. “It was when you said that Tyler left a hundred-dollar bill in the tip jar every day,” she said.

“That's right. What do you think was important about it?”

Ms. Washburn shook her head. “Don't school me, Samuel. You know perfectly well what was important. I saw the technique: First you mentioned the hundred-dollar bill the day we were watching. Billy pretended he didn't know about it.”

I nodded. “That's right.”

“But then you said he did it every day. We didn't know if that was true, but we suspected it. And Billy didn't deny it or even say he didn't know if it was true. He asked if you thought he was lying. That's not the same thing.”

“So what does that do for us?” I did not mean to sound as if I were condescending to Ms. Washburn, assuming I was more skilled at researching a question than she. I am merely more experienced, having done this kind of work for years alone in my attic room long before Questions Answered became an ongoing enterprise. But I had the feeling, watching her mouth tighten, that Ms. Washburn thought I was violating her warning not to “school” her.

“Samuel. Stop it.”

“I mean no offense,” I said.

“I know, but you're treating me like a promising student, not an associate.”

“I am exploring possibilities in the question,” I said. “Your perspective helps me think of the issues in ways I might not consider. When I ask you about something, it is not because I have an answer in mind; it's because I truly want to know what you think.”

That seemed to appease Ms. Washburn, because she smiled slightly and said, “You want to know what Billy's reaction does for us? It confirms what we suspected—that Tyler really did leave a hundred dollars in the tip jar for Richard every day. But it also opens up a number of questions that we need to answer.”

“For example?”

Ms. Washburn maneuvered the car into the parking lot of the strip mall where Questions Answered is located. “We need to know where Tyler got that kind of money. That's the big thing. Did he go to the Quik N EZ on Richard's days off? Someone like Tyler probably knew the personnel schedule for the store. Either way, let's say Richard got two days off a week. That's five hundred bucks each week Tyler would put in for tips. A part-time job at an electronics store doesn't afford that kind of money just for throwing around.”