For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,13

them to make detective. His shift to plain clothes was so impressive—to him—that he actually wore his shield on the outside of his jacket. And not just on the job, either—at the movies, in the supermarket, at the florist, wherever. If his I.Q. were as large as his hat size after the swelling of his head, he’d have been the greatest detective in history.

He was of average height, making him taller than me, and needed to lose fifty pounds, so at least I could feel superior in the waistline. He also had lost almost all his hair, and was doing that Larry Fine thing with what was left. I, of course, have every follicle I started out with, although some of it is not the original color. Westbrook grunted in my direction as he came in.

“What’s the electronics press doing here, Chief? We installing a big-screen TV in the squad room?” The level of wit in a room always rises when Westbrook leaves.

“You have to have a squad before you can have a squad room, Westbrook,” I told him. “Of course, if you gain another couple pounds, you might qualify as a squad all by yourself.”

Dutton stifled a chuckle. Westbrook would have reacted to the fat joke, but he was trying to sneak a peak inside the Dunkin’ Donuts bag to see if there might be some powdered sugar he could lick up.

“Gerry,” Dutton said, trying to re-establish some sort of professional tone, “Aaron is working on an article about the missing persons report you took the other day.”

“Bulworth?”

I groaned. “Bulworth is a movie with Warren Beatty, Gerry. This is Beckwirth. Madlyn Beckwirth.”

“Yeah, yeah. Beckwirth, Bulworth. . . what’s the difference?”

I looked at Dutton. “Is it any wonder the case isn’t solved yet? With Inspector Clouseau here working his usual magic, it’s a wonder more people aren’t missing.”

Westbrook’s face turned red, matching his nose. “You’re gonna be missing in another minute, pip-squeak!” I think he would have lunged at me, if he were capable of lunging, but the extra fifty pounds made it more like a lumber than a lunge. Pip-squeak?

Dutton said, “oh, sit down, Gerry.” Westbrook lost his bluster and sat in the chair next to me. But he moved it a few inches away, so our sleeves wouldn’t touch on the armrests. I was hurt, but I managed not to show it.

Dutton leaned across his desk and pointed a finger at Westbrook. “You’re going to cooperate fully with Aaron on this, Gerry, or I’m gonna know about it. Is that clear?”

Westbrook flapped his jaw a little, but nodded. Then Dutton pointed his finger at me. “And you, Mr. Tucker, are going to be respectful of my detective at all times, or I will bring the full power of the legal system to bear on you. Is that clear?”

I blinked, but managed “sure.”

“Good,” said Dutton. “Now, both of you get the hell out of my office.” He pointed toward the door.

Westbrook managed to extricate himself from the chair, while I contemplated how a system of pulleys and chain-hoists might be more efficient. He walked out first, and I turned at the door to face Dutton.

“The full power of the legal system?” He chuckled. “That’s right. I’ll tell your wife on you.” You gotta love funny cops.

Chapter 9

Gerry Westbrook knew roughly as much about Madlyn Beckwirth’s disappearance as I know about Organic Chemistry, and that’s a course I assiduously managed to avoid in high school.

Westbrook had faxed the State Police and the surrounding cops about Madlyn, checked the morgue and the hospitals, and then gone out to Denny’s and forgotten the whole thing.

After the necessary 30-second conversation with Westbrook to find this out, I walked out of the police/fire building and inhaled as much air as my little lungs could hold. We’d been experiencing typical March weather—one day of unseasonable warmth, followed the next day by a slap in the face of late-winter chill. This was one of the warm days, so I decided to walk to Gary Beckwirth’s house from the police station.

I had stuck the cell phone in my jacket pocket on the way out. Flush with a $6,000 paycheck sent me by the online service of a cable entertainment network, I had bought myself a wireless phone a couple of months before. Abby had had one for a few years already. Since I’d covered the wireless industry for years, I got a deal. I was still trying to figure out how to pay the monthly rate, but