seventeen

“I believe that Reuben Hoenig has character traits that would indicate Asperger’s Syndrome,” I told Mike and Ms. Washburn.

We were sitting in the restaurant of the hotel, where I had secured a room for Mike. After he had put off three days of his livelihood at the last minute (an expression I had learned to use only lately) to fly to Los Angeles at my request, it seemed to be the least compensation I could offer. When I had called Mike and explained the situation, he had insisted on making the trip with a handgun legally allowed with a permit, unassembled and unloaded, in the bag he checked for storage by the airline. I had paid Mike’s airfare as well.

At Ms. Washburn’s suggestion we had vacated the Canoga Park hotel because it was possible Kaplan knew we were staying there. Now that he had vowed to find us when we were unaware of him, it was agreed that new arrangements had to be made. Ms. Washburn used her cellular phone to find another hotel in Burbank. It was considerably more expensive, but seemed the safe choice. I would be sure to accept more questions for income purposes when we arrived home.

“I didn’t get a chance to really talk to him, but he seemed to be babbling,” Ms. Washburn said. “He said things that didn’t really fit the conversation.”

“He appears to have a special interest in the novel and the film The Maltese Falcon,” I said. “But I think he is also either self-medicating or being given some drugs that are affecting his behavior, since Mother never mentioned to me his acting in such a fashion.”

“Maybe he didn’t act like this thirty years ago,” Mike suggested.

“It is a possibility. I have tried to contact my mother again since we arrived here in Burbank but her phone is still referring all calls immediately to voice mail. It is perplexing.” I had informed Mike of the entirety of our situation including my inability to contact Mother, which was occupying more of my attention than the question at hand now. I had seen Reuben Hoenig and he seemed to be in no immediate danger. Finding his address might be something of a problem but it was not urgent.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Samuel,” Ms. Washburn said.

“Why?” I asked. Perhaps Ms. Washburn had information I had not yet received.

She looked stumped for a moment. “Because that seems the most likely thing right now.”

Ms. Washburn had been trying to comfort me. I had missed that signal.

“What do we do now?” Mike asked. “We’re only here until Saturday, and today’s Thursday. Most of the day is gone already.”

I had called Mike the day before and asked if he could take a short trip to Los Angeles in case Ms. Washburn and I required assistance, which seemed possible at the time. Mike had agreed and then when he’d arrived called me from the airport. I’d called him back when I could after Kaplan and I had arranged the meeting and Mike and I had come up with the plan for him to rent a costume. That enabled him to get close to our group without seeming suspicious.

“How do we get your father away from Kaplan and that other man?” Ms. Washburn asked.

“That is not the objective,” I reminded her. “Our task is to obtain a means of contact for my mother to use when she wants to communicate with Reuben Hoenig. If his circumstances are acceptable to him at this moment, we have no reason to interfere with them.”

Ms. Washburn put down her glass of white wine. “Samuel, your father is being held hostage by Kaplan, maybe by force. Don’t you want to help him?”

I realized that many people would be driven by emotion under these circumstances. There are blood ties, I am told, that supersede those of history and incident. I did not feel an obligation to a man who had left my mother with a young son who would be difficult to raise. Perhaps more sessions with Dr. Mancuso focusing specifically on this area would produce something, but there was no time for that now, and Dr. Mancuso was almost three thousand miles away. Trying to achieve a breakthrough would be impractical.

“I see nothing from which Reuben needs to be extracted,” I said. “He came with Kaplan willingly, from all indications. He left without resisting physically or verbally. What is interesting is that Kaplan considers him invaluable and would not let us take Reuben away.”

“Why do you think he did that?” Mike asked.

Mike is a veteran of the United States military who came home to New Jersey after several tours of duty and bought a Toyota Prius to convert into a taxicab because he does not like to stay in one place very long. We met at Newark Liberty International Airport when I had seen Mother off on a trip to visit her sister Aunt Jane in Colorado. Mike’s professionalism—and the fact that his taxicab had never been occupied by another passenger before me—had impressed me and we had eventually become friends. Mike also has a very keen mind that he needs to keep occupied because memories of his wartime experiences are troubling and he prefers to focus on other things. When I have issues involving human interaction, I often consult Mike.

Ms. Washburn has said she thinks it’s odd that I do not know Mike’s last name but that has never been an issue.

“I believe based on the behavior we have seen that George Kaplan is running an illegal business of some sort from the house we visited in Reseda,” I began. “It is a business lucrative enough that people even casually associated with it can be given packages of forty thousand dollars simply on arrival. Because Kaplan seems to require Reuben Hoenig’s presence I will venture to speculate that Reuben is in some way an integral part of that business. Kaplan can’t afford to lose Reuben. So he might be administering some medication to keep Reuben pliable and that could be enough to squelch any impulse he might have to leave. But much of this is simply guesswork. We don’t know enough factually yet.”

“We have a day and a half,” Ms. Washburn reminded me, “unless we decide to extend our stay.”

“That is not feasible professionally or financially,” I answered. “I must be back in the office Monday morning.”

“Plus, you don’t want to be out here any longer than you have to,” she countered.

“That is true, but it does not make the other factors less so,” I said.

“It brings me back to my original question,” Mike said. “What do we do now?”

“I think the most effective way to attack the question is to investigate George Kaplan and his business,” I told him. “This will require a good deal of online research I will do in my hotel room tonight. I imagine there will not be much available about him on simple Google searches; covert businesses will be on other areas of the web.”

“Can I help with that?” Ms. Washburn asked. She used the word can correctly, in that she was asking whether her expertise would be helpful in the research.

“I believe your talents are best suited elsewhere,” I told her. “We also need to ascertain whether Reuben Hoenig actually appropriated the name George Kaplan on his move to Southern California, or whether the man we know as Kaplan is actually someone else. The personnel records from Mendoza Communications have shown us that something happened, but we can’t be clear on what it was. If we discover the current George Kaplan’s real name, we might have some insight into his practices and that could give us some inroads to retrieve contact information for Reuben Hoenig.”

“You never refer to him as your dad,” Mike noted.

It was a point I had addressed before, but never in his presence, so I tried to ignore the slight feeling of irritation I had experienced. “There is no utility in speaking that way,” I said. “I’ve never known a father.”

Mike did not react but seemed to think it over.

“Maybe we should work together in your room,” Ms. Washburn suggested. “It’ll be more like the way we operate at Questions Answered.”

I realized she was attempting to re-create a comfortable work environment for me. But there was something unsettling about being in a hotel room alone with Ms. Washburn that I could not accurately identify. Since I was not able to analyze my feelings I decided to ignore them. “Perhaps that would be a good idea,” I said. “Mike, we don’t have a computer for you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he told me. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Just us, then,” Ms. Washburn said. She looked at me. “You ready?”

I have never been uncomfortable with Ms. Washburn, which is a statement I do not make lightly. I am uncomfortable with almost every person I have ever met. Even Mike, whom I consider a friend, emits an air of incredulousness that sometimes leaves me slightly anxious, wondering if I have said or done something inappropriate. Ms. Washburn has always been unconcerned with pointing out when my behavior is somehow outside the norm and that actually puts me as close to at ease as I can be.

Since I could not accurately analyze the feelings I was having, I saw no way to object to Ms. Washburn’s plan. We made plans to meet in my hotel room in twenty minutes to do our research.

Perhaps she was correct and the surroundings would make no difference. It would be similar to our work in the Questions Answered office. There was, indeed, no factual or measureable reason that would not be the case.

But I could not completely banish the slight queasiness in my stomach and the tantalizing feeling that there was something, just out of conscious thought, that was causing my heightened sense of danger. And I realized that my business relationship with Ms. Washburn was the thing I was afraid of losing.

I had explored the new hotel room when we had arrived and set up in exactly the same way as I did in the Canoga Park hotel. This room was slightly larger and cleaner and did not have the overpowering odor that had permeated the other. It was possible, I decided, that this room had been designated as a non-smoking accommodation much less recently than the other.

Ms. Washburn knocked on the door at precisely the time she had said she would, knowing my interest in remaining prompt and my distaste for surprises. She was carrying the bag in which she transports her laptop computer.

“Where should I set up?” she asked, seeing I had opened my MacBook on the desk provided by the hotel. “On the bed?”

“No,” I said. “There is a small sofa near the coffee table. That might be better.”

“Oh yeah,” Ms. Washburn said, looking farther into the room. “The loveseat.”

“It is a convertible sofa if an extra bed is needed by the guest,” I corrected her.

She smiled and sat down on the sofa. She removed her laptop computer from the bag and opened it on the coffee table. “If I had a phone on the table, I would feel like I was back at Questions Answered,” she said.

That was confusing. “This room does not resemble our office,” I pointed out.

“You’re right.” There was no explanation forthcoming.

I decided to immerse myself in the research. I began with some backdoor search engines I have discovered that find things most casual users will not find. I began with the words Kaplan Enterprises and, in addition to the same items I had found in more casual searches before were six thousand four hundred and seventy-eight new links concerning George Kaplan and his business practices.

Many of them were false leads, as a cursory glance at the list revealed. Some were simply not about George Kaplan at all but dealt with other people who shared the surname. Others concerned themselves with businesses whose names included the word Enterprises and had a mention of someone with the name in a related news article, blog post, or website.

This process of reduction brought the total of new hits to less than three hundred. What was left included references to Kaplan Enterprises purchasing properties in the area, but not so many that it would indicate an enormous financial outlay.

Perhaps this would be a good time to re-examine the issue of kissing with Ms. Washburn. That thought occurred without any direct process. It might be a way to reduce the tension I was feeling with her in the room, something I had never experienced before. On the other hand, even considering the idea of broaching the subject increased my anxiety noticeably. I felt a band of perspiration form around my hairline. I shook a bit without being able to reduce the effect despite knowing it was coming.

On second thought, this might not be the right time or place. Back to the research.

“I’ve got something,” Ms. Washburn said at that moment. “I don’t think it’s something big, but it’s something.” She gestured to me indicating I should come to the sofa and sit beside her. “I’m plugged in,” she said, pointing to the power cord she had attached to her laptop computer and the wall socket near the sofa.

“Is it about the possibility of a zoning issue on the building in Reseda?” I asked.

Ms. Washburn shook her head negatively. “From all I can tell, that’s a dead end,” she said. “Nothing’s been filed and no complaints have been made. I don’t think it’s anything.”

I stood and walked to her makeshift workstation. She gestured to the seat beside her and reluctantly I sat. I could not stand behind the sofa, which was against the wall, nor could I expect Ms. Washburn to turn her computer toward me when she needed access at the same time as I did.

She showed me the screen. She had navigated to a web page for the United States Department of Labor, which I found immediately interesting. It was not something I would have considered myself. Ms. Washburn proved herself valuable to Questions Answered with virtually every action she took.

“The individual employment records for Mendoza Communications didn’t show me anything new,” she said. “So I decided to see if the government had any public records showing complaints in their hiring practices, see if there were any legal actions that indicated this name-change thing was something they do on a regular basis.”

“Does the government make those records public?” I asked. Sitting this close to Ms. Washburn was undoubtedly distracting me but the question remained unanswered and the information she was giving me definitely had some bearing on our work.

“They have to if they take legal action,” she said. “But as far as I can see they never made a complaint against Mendoza.”

“I don’t understand,” I told her. “If there are no complaints, what information is there to be had?”

“There are no complaints against Mendoza,” Ms. Washburn answered, “but there are complaints against other companies that deal in radio and television advertising time. In fact, there are seven complaints against them, and they are from all over the country. Portland, Oregon. St. Louis, Missouri. Boca Raton, Florida. And yes, one filed in Reseda, California.”

“That is somewhat interesting, but probably not very unusual,” I said. “Any industry will have some employment complaints filed against companies on a regular basis, I’d think.”

“That’s right, but I wasn’t searching for complaints in the advertising time business,” Ms. Washburn said with a sly smile. “I was running a search for the name George Kaplan.”

I took a moment to process what I was being told. “You’re saying there are seven complaints about companies buying and selling advertising time and they were all filed by George Kaplan?”

“Bingo.”

That last word was not a reference to the game played in many churches and social clubs, but a statement that I was correct in what I had surmised. “What is the time frame involved in the complaints?”I asked.

“I didn’t look back very far. They all took place within the last four years.”

My mind raced a bit. “So it’s very unlikely that the man we know as George Kaplan filed all the complaints himself.”

“That’s right. It appears there are a number of George Kaplans running around the country being hired and fired unfairly,” Ms. Washburn said.

I sat back and stopped thinking about kissing her for the moment. “Bingo, indeed,” I said.