The Question of the Unfamiliar Husband (16 page)

twenty

“I can't believe we
didn't think of this sooner,” Ms. Washburn said.

It was the next morning, and we were at the Middlesex County Clerk's office, inquiring after any public records involving the deceased Oliver Lewis. The woman behind the counter, who had informed us her name was Janice (and that her favorite Beatles song was “I'm Down”), had gone off to retrieve what she had assured us would be “not much. The Freedom of Information Act doesn't mean you can find out everything you want about everybody.” And off she'd walked.

“No,” Ms. Washburn had said quietly. “We leave that to the NSA.”

I had not responded to that comment, but now I said, “The issue was not that we hadn't considered it. The issue was that what we had found out had not yet led us to this. This kind of research is a progression, and each step is necessary to that progression.”

Ms. Washburn nodded. “So what got us to this? I'm a couple of steps behind.”

Janice was still nowhere in sight, so I had time to answer, “The idea is that there were four ex-wives and one current wife when Mr. Lewis was killed,” I said. “Clearly, the apartment we had been led to believe was the home for Ms. Maholm and her husband was simply a staged set. So given that he had done this so many times before and had probably not rented a new home every time led to the conclusion that Mr. Lewis must surely have used his own residence for each marriage.”

Ms. Washburn's brows furrowed. “Why didn't you just ask Jennifer or Ms. Stanhope where they lived when they were married?”

I broke eye contact, which I do quite readily when embarrassed. “The atmosphere was not an especially welcoming one,” I said.

“I'm sorry I wasn't there.”

That took my by surprise, but I did not search Ms. Washburn's face. I trusted my ability to read her tone well enough to know she was not being sarcastic. “You have no reason to be sorry,” I said. “You didn't know I was going to Ms. LeBlanc's house.”

“Even so. I could call her now and ask, if you like. Did you get the phone number?”

I had memorized Ms. LeBlanc's telephone number when I'd found it online, but did not recite it for Ms. Washburn. “The address is not the only data we are here to collect,” I said.

Janice arrived back at the counter at that moment, so Ms. Washburn did not have time to ask me anything else. I was glad because I felt I had diminished in her view somewhat, although she had not communicated that feeling directly, so I was relieved not to continue that conversation.

“This is what you can have,” she said. “There's a fee.” She deposited a rather thick envelope on the counter.

Ms. Washburn paid the fee with the understanding that I would reimburse the expense in her paycheck. I prefer not to handle cash except when necessary—I will do so when I have to—and also have issues about using a debit or credit card, as they are traceable by unscrupulous individuals who can access one's personal and financial information. And by that I do not mean the kind of public data we were now obtaining about Oliver Lewis.

Ms. Washburn and I left the clerk's office and walked into the corridor where there were a few benches. We sat on one and she opened the envelope we had just purchased.

“You sure you don't want to take this back to Questions Answered?” she asked as she pulled out copies of various county documents.

“If this information leads us to an address—and I believe it will—going back to the office would only waste valuable time. What is included here?”

Ms. Washburn, who had no qualms about handling the documents, scanned the top few. “There's an application to register a business with the county,” she said.

“Excellent. That should have all the personal information we need, and it adds the data about the business. What kind of establishment was Mr. Lewis registering?”

“Hang on. I've read halfway through the description and I still don't know.” Ms. Washburn scanned the one-page document. “There are only two lines to describe the business and Lewis went on for six. He wrote really small too.”

“Please read it to me,” I said, being careful to include the
please
.

She read, “OLimited will provide its clientele with financial and practical life advice and products generated by multiple suppliers in an effort to increase wealth, generate retirement income, and insure against long-term health care necessities.”

“That is certainly a convoluted sentence, but—”

“Wait, there's more. ‘Clients will provide some initial seed sources in an effort to multiply opportunities through prudent and bold investments, fiduciary products, and insurance options to diversify portfolio and ensure a secure future.' What do you think that means?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“That he was trying to cheat old people,” I said. “Does he list a business address?”

“It's in Milltown,” she answered.

“Near Questions Answered. Very convenient.”

Within minutes, we were in Ms. Washburn's car heading toward Oliver Lewis's reported place of business. As usual, Ms. Washburn was attending completely to the road, but we continued to speculate (something I usually prefer to avoid doing, but which sometimes allows me to consider the facts I have in my possession in new and fruitful ways) on the information in Lewis's file.

“He listed a home address and a business address,” Ms. Washburn reminded me. “Why go to the business first?”

“If I am correct in my assumptions, it makes more sense to go to Mr. Lewis's business first because that is most likely the place in which he was killed,” I explained. “I think the apartment we were led to by Ms. Maholm was simply a stage and that even when they were married, neither Mr. Lewis nor Ms. Maholm lived there. So it is highly possible they were living in Mr. Lewis's residence.”

“So why do you think he wasn't killed at home?” We were four minutes from our destination, located above a bakery on Main Street in Milltown.

“Because I think Ms. Maholm is still living in the residence, and it seems, although we cannot confirm it, that she was involved in the killing. She would not want to leave evidence in her home because it could be easily tied to her.”

“If Oliver Lewis was murdered in his office, wouldn't someone have noticed something at the scene? Co-workers, secretaries, janitors, somebody?” Ms. Washburn was going through the same thought process I had employed in reaching this conclusion; she is very intelligent.

“Not if it is the kind of office I presume it to be,” I said.

The building was a two-story commercial structure boasting a sign on its street-level story for a “classic Italian bakery” at which there was currently a fairly robust business. Ms. Washburn parked the car across the street and we walked to the entrance.

“This isn't Oliver's office,” Ms. Washburn said. “It was supposed to be upstairs. There must be another door somewhere.”

We walked around the building to the back, where indeed there was a wooden door with a window and a mailbox that bore the legend
Italiano's/OLimited.
I looked at Ms. Washburn, who shrugged.

“You didn't expect it would be luxurious, did you?” she asked.

“On the contrary. This is precisely what I had anticipated. I was waiting for you to open the door.” I did not have a pair of latex surgical gloves with me.

Ms. Washburn did as requested, and we walked into the hallway and then, since the form we'd read indicated the office was on the second floor, up a case of rather suspect stairs. We ascended successfully and came to the only door on that level.

It had no identifying mark on it. I hesitated a moment, then nodded at Ms. Washburn, who knocked four times. There was no answer, so I nodded and she knocked again. Still no response.

Ms. Washburn did not ask; she merely reached over and turned the doorknob. The door swung open.

The room inside was the very description of empty. It would have been like the scene at Ms. Maholm's apartment after everything had been removed, except in this room, clearly intended to be used for office space, there was a thick coat of dust on everything. I hesitated before stepping inside.

“It's just dirt, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “You know we have to go in.”

I nodded. The thought was not a pleasant one, but it was necessary. I waited for Ms. Washburn to lead the way and followed her into the abandoned suite.

“Did Oliver Lewis
ever
have an office here?” Ms. Washburn asked. “He hasn't been dead that long, and it doesn't look like anyone's been here in a while.”

“No,” I agreed. “You are quite correct. This space was never intended to be a legitimate office for Mr. Lewis or anyone else. It was an address he could use to show a loss for tax purposes, legal ramifications, and in the event a potential client would ask. But I guarantee that if someone would show interest in the ‘services' he was offering, Mr. Lewis would arrange to see the client in his or her home or office. He never brought anyone up here.”

We wandered about the room, examining the dust and the floorboards, which were almost all the room had to offer visually. The windows had not been cleaned recently, if ever. The walls had last seen a coat of paint in another decade, and possibly not the most recent one. And the room held the quiet and musty smell of a space that had been neglected for quite a while. When we reached a door marked
restroom
, I had to gather my thoughts for a total of seventeen seconds.

“I am not going to ask you to look inside,” I told Ms. Washburn. “That would overstep the boundaries of the professional relationship we have initiated. But please give me enough time to—”

Ms. Washburn curled her lip and opened the washroom door. She flipped the light switch but seemed mildly surprised when the fixture over the sink illuminated.

“He had to keep the utility company paid so he could claim to have the business here; it would look suspicious otherwise,” I explained. “I'm sure the water in there is operational as well.” But I was staring at the light fixture in an attempt to avoid looking at anything else in the small room.

“There's nothing scary here, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “It's not pleasant to look at, but I don't see anything that looks like violence occurred here.”

She had mistaken my revulsion for fear, but I chose not to explain myself. “Remember that it was probably the poison that killed Mr. Lewis, if our information is correct,” I said. “There might not be the kind of gore one would expect.”

“But the knife wound,” she reminded me.

“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.”