For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,12

must be a doozy.” Imagine a police chief who uses the word “doozy.” Luckily, the man pumps iron every day of his life, and has a chest the size of a five-drawer dresser, so everyone is afraid to call him on it. He took a long gulp of his coffee. “What is it?”

“Madlyn Beckwirth.”

Dutton’s mouth tightened down to a slit in his face. His eyebrows threatened to meet in the middle. And his eyes actually closed, as if he were grimacing in pain. It startled me, and I leaned forward just a bit. Quick as a flash, Dutton reached over and grabbed the chocolate frosted out of my hand. Hell, I would have just given it to him.

“Why are you bothering me about Madlyn Beckwirth?”

“I’m writing about it.”

“Why, did she take the stereo system with her when she left?” It’s good to have a funny police chief. He must keep the criminals in stitches —maybe laughs them into confessions. I knew for a fact he’d never drawn his gun on anyone in his life.

“The Press-Tribune assigned her to me. I’m looking into her disappearance.”

“You’re kidding.” I sat and looked at him.

“Would I have brought donuts if I were kidding?” I tried to look intense, but that’s hard to do with a hot chocolate mustache.

“Aaron,” Dutton said, “Madlyn Beckwirth probably ran out on her husband because he’s an insufferable twit.” Even the cops in Midland Heights sound like college professors. Can you imagine a cop at the 23rd Precinct in New York City saying “insufferable twit”?

“Probably. But he doesn’t think so.”

“They never think so. It’s part of what makes them so insufferable,” Dutton said.

I took a bite of the cruller. Dunkin’ Donuts hadn’t lost its touch. “Well, there’s more.”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. More what? More donuts?” He looked hopefully in the bag, but all he found were packets of artificial sweetener and about fifty-eight napkins.

“You really are a carbohydrate addict, aren’t you? No, not more donuts. More about Madlyn Beckwirth.”

“Oh yeah?”

I told him about the prior evening’s threatening phone call, and I saw my friend Barry become Chief Dutton of the Midland Heights Police Department. He sat back and listened, absolutely all attention. If I could get Ethan to listen like that in fifth grade, I could start filling out his application to Princeton tomorrow. Dutton put his fingers together, like he was going to show me the church and the steeple, and put them to his nose. When I got to the end of the phone conversation, and my attempt to trace it, he stood up.

“Outside the area? Maybe I can trace it here. Let me get Verizon to send over your phone records from last night. Maybe we can find out who made that call.” He looked at me, frowning. “Were you going to tell me about this?”

“I just told you, didn’t I? And I made the appointment to see you before it happened. I knew I’d be here this morning.”

He didn’t like it, and neither did I. The only people who knew for sure that I was looking for Madlyn Beckwirth couldn’t have made the call, and the idea that, by finding her, I’d be killing her just flat-out didn’t make sense. I asked Dutton what the cops had been doing to locate her after Beckwirth reported his wife missing.

“Well, he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with help, you know. Won’t let us talk to his son. Doesn’t want to let us into his phone records. He ‘doesn’t see what that has to do with this.’ He’s convinced somebody just up and snatched the woman out of her bed at two o’clock in the morning while he slept.”

I nodded. “So you sent a detective over. Westbrook?”

“It’s a small town, Aaron, and a small police force. You think I’m loaded with detectives around here? Beckwirth wouldn’t talk to me, so yes, I sent Westbrook.”

“Is he around?”

Dutton picked up his phone and pushed a button. “Marsha, ask Gerry to come in here, would you?” He put down the phone and looked at me. “You take it easy on him.” A pause. “So you come in with two donuts.”

“Three.” I waved the other half of my cruller at him. He had inhaled the chocolate frosted, and probably was thinking about pulling his gun on me for the rest of the cruller. I bravely stuck it out, and had it just about finished when Westbrook walked in.

Gerry Westbrook had spent twenty-five years as a Midland Heights cop. It took twenty-two of