For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,32

before she goes to bed, and there’s nothing here that’s holding me back.”

Beckwirth’s eyes were the size of silver-dollar pancakes. The irises looked like blueberries. A little maple syrup, and I’d have had one super-delicious snack right here.

“But, what about Madlyn?”

“I don’t know. What about Madlyn?” Beckwirth started to point a finger at me, but I cut him off. “If you’re really that concerned about her, and you really think I’m the best man to find her, then Gary, get the hell out of this room, and let me do my job.” I folded my arms and looked at him.

So did Joel. He was watching his father with a look of rapt fascination. Clearly, he’d never heard anyone stand up to Gary Beckwirth before, and he was enjoying it as much as a body slam from Sable. Well, maybe not quite as much.

Beckwirth spoke very softly and quickly. “I’ll be just outside,” he managed, and walked out. I turned toward Joel after the door had closed behind me. There was no keyhole for Beckwirth to listen through—I had checked. And because the house was old, there would be no listening through the door or the walls. At that very moment, Gary Beckwirth was no doubt cursing his homebuilder’s fine craftsmanship.

“So,” I said to the boy on the bed, who was now lying back on his pillows and grinning. “What do you want to talk about?”

“How did you do that?” His voice, now that it was actually producing words, was that strange combination that only occurs in the newly pubescent boy—deep and light at the same time.

“Do what?”

“Make my dad go away.”

“You saw,” I said. “I told him I didn’t want anything from him. If I don’t want anything from him, he has no power over me.” It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be thrilled with anyone teaching Ethan this particular lesson, but what the hell, Beckwirth was no friend of mine.

“Wow. Nobody ever does that.”

“Not even your mom? They don’t ever argue?” Am I subtle, or what? The kid neither curled up into the fetal position nor began to suck his thumb at the mention of his mother. You want to talk experienced interviewer. . .

“No.” Joel’s face closed. He started looking past me to the poster behind my head. I regrouped. I pulled out a chair from behind the desk. As a concession to the 21st century, the boy had been allowed a desktop computer, but used it, no doubt, for nothing but homework.

“Not ever? All married couples argue once in a while.”

He sputtered, a kind of laugh. “Married couples,” he said. “Argue.”

“Was your mom unhappy lately?”

“I dunno.”

“Would she say anything to you if she was?” I sat backwards on the chair, just a friendly guy asking friendly questions. Joel’s diamond-shaped face was doing its best not to look in my direction.

“Probably not.”

I concentrated on what Spenser would do in this case. Probably he’d go to his office and wait for a gangster to show up and explain the whole thing to him. Or he’d go down to the gym and work out with his friend Hawk while discussing whether Jersey Joe Woolcott was really better than Felix Trinidad.

Personally, I didn’t see how Spenser’s approach would help me here, but then, I’m not equipped to outpunch. . . well, anybody, to be completely honest. So I guess I couldn’t criticize the guy. Besides, he’s fictional, and that’s always an edge.

I decided on another approach. I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger, trying my best to look perplexed. Problem was, I also dislodged my left contact lens, and spent a couple of minutes blinking at Joel while he stared, mystified, at this insane man who had decided to come to his room and poke his own eyes out.

“Are you okay?” he asked, less out of concern than simple curiosity.

I stopped rubbing, and did my best to look like I was in deep despair. “I’m okay,” I sniffed, “it’s just that I’m. . . well, never mind. . .”

“You’re what?” He was hoping I was going to say that I was dying of an inoperable brain tumor, or distraught because his father was so much richer than me. He leaned forward, elbow on a knee, listening intently.

“I’m just worried about your mom,” I said. “I’m supposed to find her, and nothing’s going right.” I did my best to sound on the verge of tears, although my acting experience ended with “House of Halvah,” roughly the time Ronald Reagan