The Question of the Absentee Father Page 12

  A person does not actually transfer his or her name to someone else simply by saying so, and that had been a difficult axiom for me to grasp initially. Now I barely registered any confusion at all.

  “Perhaps not, but this is not our cash,” I pointed out. “We have done nothing to earn it.”

  “We don’t have to keep it, but it might turn out to be evidence later.” She engaged the transmission of the vehicle and released the parking brake. In seconds we were moving down Jamieson Avenue.

  “Where are you driving?” I asked. “I have not programmed the Global Positioning System device yet.” I reached for the printout Ms. Washburn had brought with the address of the local neighborhood commission so I could enter the information into the device.

  “I want to get out of her sight in case she’s watching from the house,” Ms. Washburn answered. “That money is our leverage over her. I don’t want her to get the license plate number on this car. We can pull over a few blocks from here.”

  She maneuvered the Kia Soul for three blocks to Enfield Avenue and parked the car in an empty space on the street. Neither of us had said anything as she drove.

  Ms. Washburn placed the transmission in the Park mode and turned toward me. “Okay, Samuel,” she said. “What’s our plan?”

  I thought I had made it clear that my plan would be to return the money to the woman at the Kaplan Enterprises facility, but Ms. Washburn was obviously not expecting me to reiterate that suggestion. The circumstances had changed. We had arrived seeking Reuben Hoenig and had left with $40,000 we did not seek but no more specific information on Reuben’s whereabouts.

  “My guess is that the money was not earned in a traditional fashion,” I began, musing for myself aloud so I could work my way through the problem. “It might be stolen. It might have been taken in exchange for illegal drugs. It is possible Kaplan Enterprises is involved in any number of criminal activities that deal almost exclusively in cash.”

  “That doesn’t tell me what we’re going to do next,” Ms. Washburn pointed out.

  “You know how I work,” I reminded her, then continued to pursue my train of thought. “Given that the money was likely obtained illegally or at least illicitly, it is quite likely that the loss will not be reported to the authorities.”

  Ms. Washburn almost snorted. “That’s for sure.”

  “That means we have some time to decide what we want to do,” I reasoned. “We should proceed as if we had not suddenly been handed these funds and take our time to think the matter through.”

  “So we go to the neighborhood council?” Ms. Washburn said. Her tone betrayed no skepticism. She was not disagreeing with me, merely asking for instructions.

  “Yes.” I gave her the address of the Reseda Neighborhood Council and she turned her attention to driving after I programmed the information into the Global Positioning System device. It was a very short drive.

  The council was housed in the same building as a Bank of America branch, its entrance just to the left of the street-facing Automated Teller Machine affiliated with the bank. We had not called ahead and I wondered as Ms. Washburn and I approached whether anyone would be staffing the council if there was no pressing business.

  But the front door was open and Ms. Washburn and I walked in. I had been taught to hold the door for a woman so Ms. Washburn entered ahead of me. She did not react in any way upon entering, and when I walked in I could see there was no reason to do so.

  The council headquarters was a single room that looked like the local branch of a political campaign office. There were binders occupying every inch of shelf space. The floor was carpeted with inexpensive wall-to-wall fiber. Rather than a desk or a counter, there was a table in the center of the room. A woman in her forties of Latin descent sat behind it and looked slightly surprised to see guests walking in.

  “The bank’s next door,” she said.

  “We are aware of that,” I assured her. I extended my right hand. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Samuel Hoenig, proprietor of Questions Answered, and this is my associate, Ms. Washburn.”

  The woman looked at my hand for a moment and then took it briefly. I appreciated her not holding on long; for me the contact is more than I really desire. It is the gesture that is significant in such interactions. “We’re not buying anything,” the woman said.

  “That suits us, as we are not selling anything,” I told her. “We are trying to locate a man who might live in Reseda and thought you might be able to give us some direction in that area.”

  “Police station is on Vanowen,” she answered. “We don’t do missing people here. This is a community council. We have enough trouble just trying to help senior citizens find the right place to vote.”

  Ms. Washburn took a step forward. “This isn’t exactly a missing person,” she explained. “Samuel here is looking for his father and we thought maybe someone in a neighborhood organization might know him. Reuben Hoenig?”

  The woman shrugged. “Never heard of him.”

  “Do you know anything about Mendoza Communications? We think Reuben might be working there, Ms. …” Making her voice trail off at the end of the sentence was apparently a way that Ms. Washburn used to ask the woman her name. It was the first time I had understood that particular practice although I had heard it before.

  “I’m Carmen Sanchez,” she said. “I’ve heard of Mendoza, but I don’t think they have an office in Reseda anymore. I think they moved out four or five years ago. They used to own a couple of radio stations in the area but they sold out to some big corporation and started creating websites for people or something online.”

  There was only one more area in which Ms. Sanchez could possibly have helpful information. “Are you aware of Kaplan Enterprises?” I asked her.

  Ms. Sanchez’s face looked like she had detected an unpleasant odor. I almost asked her if that was the case because I could not be counted on to notice such a thing, but Ms. Washburn was not reacting the same way so I decided Ms. Sanchez’s expression was in response to my question.

  “If your dad is working for that Kaplan guy, good luck to you,” she said. “I’ve gotten nothing but complaints since they moved in two years ago.”

  “What kind of complaints?” Ms. Washburn asked.

  “Guy keeps that house like a fortress,” Ms. Sanchez told us. “No open windows. Not a word to the neighbors. That wouldn’t be so bad; you don’t have to be friendly if you don’t want to. But more than one person has seen the barrel of a rifle sticking out through holes drilled in the walls. They don’t make noise, but people are coming in and out of that house all day and all night. Might be a drug house.”

  “Has no one called the police?” I asked.

  Ms. Sanchez shrugged. “For what? We don’t know anything. No noise complaints. Maybe they saw guns, maybe not. It’s not illegal to own a gun. Far as I know they haven’t shot anybody. Just seems weird.”

  “If you think people are selling drugs there …” Ms. Washburn began.

  Ms. Sanchez held up a hand. “The key word there is think. We don’t know anything. It’s not our job to report our suspicions when we have no proof. The neighborhood council just promotes Reseda, that’s all. We’re not the cops and we’re not your mother. What you do here, assuming you don’t hurt anybody else, is your own business.”

  “What can you tell us?” Ms. Washburn asked. It was undoubtedly a final effort.

  “There’s a street fair coming up Sunday,” Ms. Sanchez told her. “There’ll be a bounce room, pony rides, and free popcorn.”

  I handed her one of the Questions Answered business cards Ms. Washburn had suggested I have printed. “If anyone mentions the name Reuben Hoenig at the street fair or any other time, will you call me?” I asked.

  Ms. Sanchez looked at the card as if deciding whether it was safe to handle it. She took it from my fingers and looked away
as she stored it in her wallet, which she took from a purse she had left on the floor. “If they do, but I wouldn’t count on it.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “There are seventy-five thousand people living in Reseda,” she answered. “What are the odds one name will come up?”

  Actually, the high population density in Reseda would be something of a statistical asset for finding Reuben Hoenig if he were in fact there. A higher number of people who can know something increases the chances that someone will have the information needed.

  Ms. Sanchez wished us good luck, which I supposed had some significance although I do not believe in luck as a concept. Every occurrence is traceable to a series of occurrences that came before it and caused it to happen. But I was not in the mood to debate the point with Ms. Sanchez. Mostly, I believe her good wishes were a ploy to persuade Ms. Washburn and me to leave the council office and by that measure they were quite effective.

  We walked back to the Kia Soul, whose bright blue color was very difficult to mistake on the sun-drenched street. The air was starting to become hot and thick with humidity. It occurred to me that it was cooler and drier in New Jersey. In three days I would be on the aircraft heading east. It was worth remembering.

  “Maybe you should try calling your mother again,” Ms. Washburn suggested as we got into the Kia Soul.

  I had not forgotten but the reminder was welcome; I do not always know what the appropriate amount of time to wait might be in any given social situation. I tend to act on things when I think of them, and if it is a subject I think about frequently I can take action far too often. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the iPhone.

  Ms. Washburn started the engine and was asking me about our next destination when Mother’s voice mail message played into my ear. I held up a hand and Ms. Washburn stopped talking.

  I left my third message on Mother’s voice mail and replaced the phone in my pocket.

  “Is there anyone else you can call?” Ms. Washburn asked. “A friend of your mother’s or a neighbor who can look in?”

  “I can’t call Mike the taxicab driver, I’m afraid. He is not in proximity,” I said.

  “No, I guess not. Anyone else? A neighbor who knows your mother?”

  “There is Mrs. Schiff next door,” I answered. “But Mother gave me her phone number only to use in an emergency. I am not certain this situation qualifies.”

  Ms. Washburn let the air conditioning flow over her for a moment, leaning in toward the vent. “An emergency doesn’t have to be a dire situation, Samuel. It can just be a moment when you need someone to help you. Mrs. Schiff can certainly knock on the door and make sure your mother is all right, can’t she?”

  Her reasoning was impeccable. I found the contact information for Mrs. Schiff and, although I considered asking Ms. Washburn to make the call for me, drew in a breath and pushed the icon to make the call.

  Mrs. Schiff answered after the fourth ring. I looked at the time on the screen of my iPhone and made the mental adjustment for the East Coast. “Good morning, Mrs. Schiff,” I said. “This is Samuel Hoenig calling.”

  “Hello, Samuel,” she answered. Ms. Washburn could probably hear her voice from the driver’s seat; Mrs. Schiff spoke quite loudly. “Is something wrong?”

  That was a disturbing question. “Why do you think so?” I asked.

  “You’ve never called me before and you live right next door,” was the reply. “If everything was all right and you just wanted to talk, you could walk over to my house.”

  “That is true,” I admitted, “but the circumstances are not typical. I am in Reseda, California.”

  There was a significant pause of three seconds. “You are?”

  “Yes. And I have been unable to contact my mother. Her cellular phone is sending my call directly to voice mail and she is not answering the landline inside the house.”

  “Oh.” I could hear some sounds that indicated movement on Mrs. Schiff’s part. “I’m walking out onto my porch,” she said. I heard the door hinges creak a bit as she opened it, then louder footsteps as Mrs. Schiff stepped onto the wooden porch.

  “Your mother’s car is not in the driveway,” she reported. “Do you want me to go over and knock on the door?”

  “Please do,” I said. Ms. Washburn nodded so I added, “That would be very helpful.”

  There was the sound of walking and Mrs. Schiff’s breathing became slightly more labored. The houses are not far apart at all so it took only eight seconds for her to reach Mother’s front door.

  “All right, I’m approaching the door,” she said. “I’m going to ring the doorbell.”

  Ms. Washburn stifled a smile. “I feel like I’m at Mission Control,” she said.

  “Please let me know if my mother answers the ring,” I told Mrs. Schiff.

  “First thing,” she agreed. “So far, nothing.” It had been three seconds since she had said she was ringing the doorbell. Mother would have had to stand next to the door to answer that quickly. I chose not to point out that fact. I reminded myself that Mrs. Schiff was doing this on my behalf.

  “I’m still waiting,” she reported.

  Ms. Washburn’s face was no longer amused. She whispered to me, “If her car isn’t there, she’s probably not home.”

  That opinion was borne out thirty-seven seconds later when Mrs. Schiff, having rung the doorbell a second time, reported no response from my mother. The fingers on my left hand began to clench and open in rhythm. I was aware of the movement but did not attempt to stop it.

  “Thank you for trying, Mrs. Schiff,” I said after a long moment. I could think of nothing else.

  “I’ll check in later, Samuel,” Mrs. Schiff said. “If I see or hear from your mom, I’ll make sure she calls you. Don’t worry.”

  I thanked her again and disconnected the call, but I saw no reason that I should not be worried.

  Ms. Washburn must have observed that emotion on my face. “If something really serious had happened, you would already know,” she said as we sat in the car and felt the cool air distribute itself throughout the interior. “You are your mother’s emergency contact. You’d be the first person they’d get in touch with. I’m sure this is something very simple, like her cell phone breaking. She’s probably out right now at the store replacing it.”

  While there was a good deal of logic in what Ms. Washburn said, I was already scrolling through possible scenarios in my mind. Very few of them were benign.

  “You are probably right, Ms. Washburn,” I said. “But perhaps we should fly home tonight so I can be certain.”

  She shook her head. “Not yet, Samuel. We still have work to do. What’s our next move?”

  I had no chance to answer because my iPhone rang at that moment. Assuming it was some news about Mother I reached for it quickly. But a cursory glance at the screen showed a number with a California area code, one I had seen recently.

  It was George Kaplan’s number. Disappointed and frustrated, I accepted the call. I did not offer a greeting. I did not have to.

  The voice on the other end of the phone was that of the man who had identified himself to Ms. Washburn and me as Kaplan. He did not waste time with his message. He spoke as soon as it was clear that I had opened the line.

  “You have something of mine,” he said. “I want it back.”

  fourteen

  I touched the screen in the proper area to activate the speaker function so Ms. Washburn could hear the conversation. “What is it I have of yours?” I asked.

  Of course, the obvious answer was the package of cash Ms. Washburn had stored in the glove compartment of the Kia Soul. But there was no point in giving this Kaplan, whomever he actually was, an advantage in what was to come. I would make him state his terms as clearly as possible.

  With my mother unreachable, I was determined to conclude this business
as swiftly as possible and find the next available flight to Newark Liberty International Airport. The urgency of the situation as I saw it had strengthened my resolve and made me slightly less cautious than usual.

  “You know what you have,” the man said.

  Ms. Washburn looked slightly alarmed.

  “I have a great many things,” I said. “I do not know which one of them is yours, and how I might have acquired it.”

  Now Ms. Washburn looked very surprised.

  When Kaplan spoke again it was in clipped tones, as if through clenched teeth. He was trying, unsuccessfully, to mask his irritation. “You have a package the idiot at my house gave you and I want it back or you’re going to have trouble. Is that clear enough?”

  “You mean the packet of cash in the amount of approximately forty thousand dollars?” I said. If Kaplan thought this line was not secure and that he was compromising his own operation by speaking on it he would be more inclined to come to an agreement quickly. That was my reasoning.

  “Yes.” The sound was like the hiss of a rattlesnake, if the recordings found on television programs and in motion pictures are at all accurate. I have not seen a rattlesnake within physical proximity of myself because I would find that very unsettling. Kaplan’s response reminded me of such a noise, but not to the point that I would be especially upset about it. Clearly, a human adult male was speaking and not a rattlesnake. “Now give it back to me.”

  It was time for me to, as the expression states, put my cards on the table. I had no cards and there was certainly no table inside the Kia Soul, but in this case the metaphor was appropriate since the conversation was becoming very much like a game of poker and I was about to make my bid.

  “I will be happy to give you back your money,” I said. Ms. Washburn looked at my eyes and nodded. “But first you will have to put me in touch with Reuben Hoenig.”