nine

“This is absurd,” I said, power walking around the cell and raising my arms for added aerobic activity. “There is no reason for us to be held. We explained to the officers exactly how and why we were in Ms. McInerney’s apartment.”

Ms. Washburn, sitting on the bench of the holding cell, drew a heavy breath and made a sound in the back of her throat. “This is not how I pictured the day going either, Samuel. But they’ll sort it out and we’ll be out very soon. You heard what the sergeant said.”

No amount of explanation, including even showing the Edison police officers my copy of the contract between Ms. McInerney and Questions Answered, had convinced them the burglary call they’d gotten was simply a misunderstanding. Of course, it was not at all a misunderstanding—Ms. McInerney, for reasons we could not begin to determine, had clearly set up Ms. Washburn and myself to be arrested at her apartment for, as Officer Duncan had explained before reciting our Miranda rights, “criminal trespass and suspicion of burglary.” He had mentioned something about “theft” as well, since when they’d arrived, Ms. Washburn had been holding a wedding band that was not her own. But I had not heard anything about thievery mentioned when we were processed upon arrival at the police station at the Edison municipal complex.

The wedding band, which was inscribed “O.L. to S.M.,” had been confiscated as evidence.

Throughout, Ms. McInerney had insisted that Ms. Washburn and I were unwelcome guests in her home, that we had “barged in” with a wild story about her beloved husband Oliver, and that she had asked us to leave repeatedly and we had refused. She’d had no recourse, she said, but to go outside—afraid for her own safety—and notify the police.

“How long should it take to get here from Montclair?” Ms. Washburn asked me in the cell. She had called her brother Mark rather than her husband, she said, because “if Simon hears about this, he’ll never let me out of the house again.”

“It is difficult to calculate based on traffic patterns, but the trip should take thirty-nine to forty-four minutes,” I said, “at this time of day.”

Ms. Washburn looked at me and smiled, not happily. “It’s just that sort of thing I missed,” she said quietly.

I did not understand, but I knew enough not to answer.

Officer Duncan and his partner Officer Patel had not been unsympathetic, but their bureaucracy had demanded we be arrested, booked, and then arraigned, which had taken two hours and seventeen minutes. We had made our phone calls, and now Ms. Washburn was concerning herself mostly with the reaction her husband would have if he were told of her ordeal on her first day back at Questions Answered.

I saw no conflict. Simon Taylor need never know that his wife had been held briefly on charges that were true from a technical standpoint—we had entered Ms. McInerney’s home without her permission, largely because we had been awaiting her return—but were groundless by any other measure. Clearly, we had not burglarized the apartment, nor had we any intentions other than the gathering of information to answer the question Ms. McInerney herself had hired me to research.

After my twenty-third circumnavigation of the cell, I stopped my efforts to raise my heart rate and stood next to the bench where Ms. Washburn sat, chin rested in her palms. “What I don’t understand,” I said, “is why Ms. McInerney would have hired us if she did not want us to answer her question.”

Ms. Washburn looked up at me. “It is curious, isn’t it?” she said. “The day after she asks you about her husband, she gets us arrested by way of defending her husband. There doesn’t seem to be any sense behind it.”

These were precisely the areas in which I most needed her help. “Could they have reconciled overnight?” I asked. “Found some common ground in whatever misunderstanding they’d had?”

But Ms. Washburn shook her head. “It doesn’t fit. She never said they had an argument; she said she didn’t know who he was and doubted they were really married. There’s no reason to set us up that’s going to help that.”

“It’s true,” I agreed. “And even if there had been some kind of understanding reached, why would Ms. McInerney call me and say her husband was outside the bathroom door brandishing a knife? Why would she … ” My thought process began to speed up, which is what happens when I apply myself singly to a task.

Ms. Washburn’s eyes narrowed. “What?”

“The only reason for Ms. McInerney to insist on my being there, if the goal really was not to determine if Oliver Lewis is her lawful husband, was that she wanted me there and nowhere else,” I mused aloud.

“That doesn’t make sense.” Ms. Washburn stood up and tilted her head to one side, as people sometimes do when trying to comprehend what another person is saying. “How does getting you to her apartment help the situation with her marriage?”

I found myself touching my nose, which is another stimulation move I make subconsciously when deep in thought. I resolved to work harder to stop doing that, and dropped my hand to my side. “It doesn’t,” I said. “It is possible that none of this was ever about the marriage, if there was a marriage.”

“You’re miles ahead of me, Samuel. Slow down and come back to the station.” My face must have looked very confused, because Ms. Washburn smiled and added, “I’m just saying that you should explain yourself more completely.”

“Of course. This comes to a question of motivation.” I did start pacing around the cell, but more slowly this time. “As you said, there was no reason to claim you and I had been unlawfully violating Ms. McInerney’s apartment. There was nothing to gain from that. Unless the reason was that Ms. McInerney wanted to be certain I—and by extension, you, because she had never met you before—were in that apartment, and then in this cell, for a number of hours.”

Ms. Washburn held up her hand. “So this was a ruse to get you to a spot where you’re no longer able to leave? She wants you detained?”

“I believe so. The idea was to occupy me with the bogus notion of a man with a knife who somehow cut himself and then jumped out the window, to get me to consider that for a long period of time. When that did not work, because the elaborate scene that had been staged did not pertain to the question I’d been asked, Ms. McInerney put her backup plan into action, and that involved immobilizing us here.”

Ms. Washburn shook her head again; this time it seemed out of a sense of befuddlement. “I don’t get it. Why would Sheila want to keep you stuck in a cell for hours? April Fool’s Day was months ago.”

“April Fool’s Day?” I asked. “How does a strange unofficial holiday relate to the predicament in which we find ourselves?”

She chuckled lightly. “I was saying that this seems like a very bad idea for a joke, Samuel.”

I nodded. “It is indeed. But the only possible explanation is somewhat disturbing, and—oh good. Mother!”

Indeed, my mother was walking toward the holding cell, which was not far from the main reception area of the Edison police headquarters. “Samuel, I never thought I’d be putting up bail for—Janet!” Mother clucked her tongue. “How did he get you involved in this? I thought you’d decided to be sensible.”

“I had, Vivian. But the prospect of working with your son was just too enticing.”

“Don’t joke, dear. You’re in jail.”

“Mother,” I said, “does your arrival indicate that I am free to go? It’s imperative that I get out of this cell immediately!”

Mother looked around the cell. “Why immediately? Is there a spider in there?” Mother knows I have arachnophobia, although she believes it to be more severe than it really is.

“No.” There was no time to argue the point about spiders. “We have to get back to Questions Answered as soon as possible!”

“Oh my.” Mother produced a yellow form from her purse. “This is the paper. It says you’ve posted bail.” She beckoned to the officer at the desk beyond us. “Officer? My son has to leave.” He nodded and waved a hand, in a gesture I believe was to mean that he would be there after a short wait.

“Officer!” I shouted. “This is an emergency!” He repeated the gesture, slightly more emphatically.

“I don’t get it, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said. “I mean, I want to get out of here at least as much as you do, but you seem almost frantic.”

“I am frantic! Don’t you see? How could you not see?” My mind was racing. I knew that Ms. Washburn and Mother hadn’t reached the same realization as I had, but I was not in a mood to try to understand others’ feelings right now; there was something far more important to attend to, and it might already be too late to do any good.

“See what?” Mother asked, her tone reminding me to breathe.

I closed my eyes for a moment and reflected, as Dr. Mancuso has often instructed me to do. I did not take deep breaths, but I concentrated on respiration for ten seconds. It had the desired effect, the one that would get me out of my cell most quickly.

“Ms. McInerney went out of her way to lure me to her apartment, and then she deliberately implicated Ms. Washburn and me in crimes that had never taken place so that we would be brought and detained here. The only logical motivation to do those two things, in that order, was that she wanted us—specifically me, since she did not know Ms. Washburn was coming—to be away from Questions Answered for a period of hours. That means something has happened at our office that she did not want me to see. And if it is what I believe it to be, the result could be very serious indeed.”

Ms. Washburn had heard this tone in my voice before, and she tensed in her shoulders and around her mouth. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” she asked.

“I make no assumptions. It is possible that the offices have been searched for some artifact or piece of information the intruders believe they need, although I cannot imagine what that might be.” Feeling the emotion welling up in me again, I struggled to sound calm. “But it is also possible that when we arrive, we will find a dead body in the office.”

Mother turned toward the desk. “Officer!” she shouted. “We need you now!”