For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,39
efficiently dealt with by the cops. I lit out for the Barlow home. Removing my cell phone from my jacket pocket, I dialed police headquarters, where Marsha the dispatcher answered on the second ring.
“I know. I’m gonna have to join Cops Anonymous. Is Barry there?”
I picked up the pace just as a male bicyclist, a dog on his leash, passed me. The poor mutt was probably as winded as I was. “No, he’s out of the office meeting with the county freeholders. Aaron, are you okay? You sound like you’re running.”
The guy on the bike made a left turn, nearly julienning his dog with the rear wheel. “I’m all right, Marsha. I’m just in a hurry. When’s Barry coming back?”
“Not until after two.” Shit. It wasn’t even eleven yet. “You want to talk to Gerry?”
“No, I don’t want to talk to Gerry, but what choice do I have?”
Marsha chuckled in her deep-throated way, a guttural guffaw that indicated real amusement. “I’ll put you through,” she said.
I walked half a block while Westbrook made it all the way across his cubicle to the telephone, a distance of maybe three feet.
“Westbrook.”
“You don’t have to be so proud of it.”
There was genuine consternation in his voice. “Who is this?”
“It’s an obscene phone call, you dimwit. Gerry, it’s Aaron Tucker.”
I was getting used to people groaning when they heard my name on the phone, but with Westbrook, I actually took some pleasure in it. Getting groaned at by Gerry Westbrook was practically a red badge of courage. “What do you want, Tucker?” he said when he was done grimacing out loud.
“I want Bob Zemeckis’ private phone line so I can pitch him a script,” I said. “But I’ll settle for some information on the Beckwirth case.”
“And why should I even bother telling you anything I know?” He did his best to sneer.
“Because, in the extremely unlikely event that you do know something, your chief has made it very clear he will not be pleased if you withhold it from me,” I explained patiently. “And because, in the extremely unlikely event that you do know something, you probably don’t understand it, and I can explain it to you in terms you might be able to absorb. I have a seven-year-old, and she used to have the same trouble you do.”
I made a left turn onto North Seventh Street and tried to remember which house was Barlow’s. It was brown, I was pretty sure.
“You’re a real riot, Tucker,” Westbrook said, in his imitation of wit. Jackie Gleason could have taught him a couple of things about delivery, if he didn’t have the disadvantage of being dead. And he was still funnier than Westbrook. “How about you tell me what you know, and then maybe we can trade.”
“You’re eating an eggplant parm sandwich right at this moment— that’s what I know,” I said. “Now, tell me if you searched the area of undeveloped land to the north of Beckwirth’s house the morning you got the call.”
“Why would we do that?”
I’d figured as much. “Because you’re the police, Westbrook, and you’re supposed to investigate possibilities. I have a witness who saw a minivan tear-assing around that bend at the time Beckwirth supposedly went missing, and the witness may have seen this minivan hit something, or someone, that fell down that embankment. So how about you get somebody over there to look?”
Westbrook rumbled like an oncoming thunderstorm. “You want to tell me who this witness is, Tucker?”
“No, I really don’t. This person may need protection at some point, and I’d just as soon you didn’t know the name. You might trip over your tie on the way into the safe house and set off the alarm.”
“Very funny.”
“Oh, and while you’re at it, get somebody to check the front bumper of that minivan that was tailing me. If it’s the same one, there may still be some blood or cloth or something from Madlyn Beckwirth on it.”
“Anything else, Boss?”
“Nah, that oughta do it for this shift. Afterward, you can go out to the Salvation Army Thrift Shop and buy yourself a new sports jacket and tie. See ya, Westbrook.”
As I approached Barlow’s house (which was, in fact, green), I started to close the cell phone, but heard Westbrook call my name again, and reopened it before the connection could be broken.
“Hey, Tucker!”
“Yeah, what is it, Gerry?”
“How’d you know about the eggplant parm sandwich?”