For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,16

said. “The first thing I have to do is talk to your son.”

The businesslike frown and impersonal tone came back to Beckwirth. He picked up a croissant from—I swear to God—a silver tray on the coffee table, and took a bite. Apparently, he could shift gears easily, too. I considered taking myself in for a tune-up. “Joel? That is your son’s name, isn’t it?” I said.

He ignored me. I was getting used to being ignored. “Joel is very upset by his mother’s disappearance. I don’t think he would be very helpful to an investigation.”

“All right, we’ll wait a little while on Joel.”

Beckwirth stood, to better intimidate me. It wasn’t working, largely due to the croissant crumbs on his shirt. “I don’t think you understand. I don’t want you to involve Joel at all. Besides, there’s no reason to talk to Joel. This is a case of kidnapping, and it’s tied to the campaign for mayor. Joel has nothing to do with it.”

“You think that people would resort to abduction over a $20,000-a-year part-time job?”

“You have no idea, Aaron. The corruption in this town is rampant. And the other side will stop at nothing to keep what they have.”

The other side? I wasn’t interested in playing this role. I wasn’t interested in being in this movie. I had no response to the torrent of clichés he had just tossed at me.

“When do I get to talk to your son, Gary?”

“I just don’t see the point to that,” he said, his face impassive.

I stood. Two could play this standing-up game. My intention, however, was not to intimidate Beckwirth. My intention was to leave.

“Mr. Beckwirth. . .”

“Gary.”

Oy gevalt. “Mr. Beckwirth,” I began. “I’m a reporter following a news story. I’m under contract to the Central New Jersey Press-Tribune to investigate, and write about, the disappearance of your wife. I’m under no obligation to you whatsoever. So we’re either going to proceed by my rules, or I will go home, call my editor, tell him I’m unable to find out anything, and your wife will remain missing. Until such time as the police find her, which in all probability they will. Now. Am I going to get to talk to your son, or am I going to turn down the assignment and get back to something I know how to do?”

“Joel isn’t here.”

In retrospect, I don’t know why I didn’t go for his throat at that moment. I certainly wanted to go for his throat. It would have made me feel better. It would have been the right thing to do. Probably visions of arraignments and prison terms danced in my head. I’ve not been married to an attorney all these years for nothing, after all. In any event, I didn’t give Beckwirth the throttling he deserved.

I didn’t even ask why he hadn’t mentioned his son’s absence throughout this conversation. I merely stared at him a moment, hoping my eyes would convey contempt and astonishment at his behavior, and pressed on.

“Fine,” I said a little too forcefully. “I’ll talk to him later.” I didn’t give Beckwirth time to interject. “Now, may I see your last three months’ worth of phone bills?”

Beckwirth put down the croissant and turned away to look out the window. I half expected him to walk to a wet bar and pour himself a brandy from a crystal decanter, like they do on all the soap operas when the director can’t think of any other way to communicate tension.

“I don’t see what benefit that would have,” he said.

I turned and left.

Oy gevalt.

Chapter 10

“So this guy wants you to find his wife, but he doesn’t want you to ask questions or anything. Is that it?” Jeff Mahoney stuck another shim under the screen door we were both holding up, and tapped it in with a hammer. It stayed, and we each went to work on a hinge, screwing each into the door jamb. “What, are you supposed to throw a dart at the map and start looking, or drive up and down the Turnpike yelling her name?”

Mahoney has been my best friend ever since he wore sneakers to our senior prom. He’d lost a bet to me at the high school cafeteria lunch table (it hinged on the name Gummo Marx, but that’s a whole other story), but I had never intended to hold him to it. Prom night, he showed up in a cream-colored tuxedo, light green shirt, brown bow tie, and high-top Converse tennis shoes (it was the ‘70s—get off