and called Barry Dutton. Marsha answered the phone, and I told her it was important. Dutton immediately picked up.
“What’s going on?”
“There’s a guy in a blue minivan, I think a Plymouth, following me on East Second Avenue.”
“What are you driving, the minivan or the car?”
“I’m on foot.”
“You’re on what?”
“Feet. In my case, often used along with the adjective ‘flat.’”
“You’re telling me that you’re walking through Midland Heights and somebody’s following you in a car?”
“You didn’t get to be chief of police just because you’re handsome, did you, Barry?”
He made a sound like a balloon slowly dying. “How fast is this guy driving if he can stay behind someone on foot?”
“Maybe he’s just worried about getting a ticket from the Midland Heights cops. I hear you guys are racially profiling speeders.”
The sigh turned into a groan. “Rachel Barlow?”
“Just spent the morning with her. It was swell. She offered me coffee four times. By the way, she also thinks Madlyn’s been murdered.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t get all atwitter over Rachel Barlow’s crime-fighting instincts. Let’s stay focused on your, um, alleged assailant there. You sure he’s following you?”
“Barry, there’s nobody else on the street, and this guy is staying behind me by driving three miles an hour. Either he’s thinking of buying all the property on East Second, or he’s following me. What should I do?”
“Can you get a license plate?”
I tried a sideways glance. “I don’t want to let on that I know he’s there. Should I stop and look?”
“You don’t have a mirror, do you?”
“Oh yeah, let me whip out my compact.”
Barry’s balloon let some more air out. He was clearly wondering if he should actually help me escape. “If you didn’t know he was there, you’d be even stupider than he is. Stop and look.”
So I stopped and looked. And of course, that was the moment the minivan decided to take off at 60 miles an hour in the direction of Park Street.
“Was that sound I just heard the minivan accelerating at a great rate of speed?” Barry asked.
“Lord, you are a great detective, Chief. It was too hard for me to get the whole plate, but I got Thomas-Victor-seven. And there can only be one minivan doing sixty through this town’s streets. Maybe one of your crack officers can track down this dastardly villain.”
“Maybe. But only if he’s black.”
“I thought you had to say African-American.”
“I am African-American! I can say ‘nigger’ if I want to! Aaron, get over here as fast as your little white feet can carry you, okay?”
“Gotcha, you racist. I’m five minutes away.”
“And Aaron?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t call me Chief.”
Chapter 13
Gerry Westbrook was already in Dutton’s office when I got there, wearing a tie that looked exactly like the Formica top of a diner table from the ‘50s. I’m pretty sure there was a shirt under it, of a clashing pattern, but the tie was so wide, it was hard to tell. Westbrook had last seen the inside of a clothing store when John Travolta was staging his first comeback.
I figured the best way to deal with Westbrook was to ignore him, so I spoke directly to Barry. “Did your guys find the minivan?”
“In this town, you want us to find one minivan?” Dutton smiled. Westbrook scowled, probably because I hadn’t offered to polish his detective’s shield when I came in.
“You’re telling me you couldn’t find. . .”
“We found it,” Barry said. “The plates are stolen. We’re tracking the ID number. And the van was empty when we got to it.” Dutton sat back in his chair and every once in a while flipped his eyes toward Westbrook, trying to remind me to include him in the conversation.
“Did you find anyone suspicious walking nearby?”
“Gee, Tucker, you gonna tell us how to do our jobs now?” Westbrook decided that if I wasn’t going to include him, he’d include himself. As usual, he did so with the subtlety of a tank battalion.
“Yeah, that’s it, Westbrook. I’m not concerned about someone following me down the street with possible intentions of harming me. No. What I’m worried about is hurting your feelings. Always a top priority.”
“When you have twenty years in on this job, Tucker. . .”
“I’ll be about six grades above you, Westbrook.”
“You little. . .”
Barry smacked his hands on his desk, palms down, to silence us, and it worked. He stood up, glaring at both of us.
“Do I have to separate you two, and write on your report cards that you don’t play well with others?”
“Sorry, Barry,” I mumbled.