For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,4
I’m just asking.”
For a moment, his face darkened, his eyebrows lowered, and his voice gained authority. This must be the Beckwirth his employees saw. “My wife did not leave me, Aaron. She was taken away against her will.”
This time it took me a moment. “She was kidnapped?”
“Exactly. She was kidnapped. And I want you to find out who did it, and why, and get her back.”
I pretended to take another sip of coffee. Lord, that stuff smells great, but it tastes foul. “Gary, this really isn’t my line of work. What you need is. . .”
“Don’t tell me about the police, Aaron,” Beckwirth said with a voice that must cause young stockbrokers, or whatever the hell he is, to tremble in their boots. “I’ve spoken to our esteemed chief of police, and he’s barely raised a finger. The lazy bastard sends out a fax to other police departments and thinks that’s going to get my wife back. An affirmative action appointment if ever I saw one.” Barry Dutton is African-American.
“If you think the police aren’t doing enough, Gary, get yourself a private investigator.”
Beckwirth smiled his best “aren’t-we-all-friends-here” smile and leaned toward me. “I’ve got something better. I’ve got you.”
“I’m not better. I’m worse. I write articles about cellular phones for a living, Gary. If my wife didn’t have a full-time job, I would be considered indigent.” I figured the allusion to money would impress him.
Once again, I had underestimated the depth of Beckwirth’s fantasy life. “You know investigation, Aaron. You’re an investigative reporter.”
“Was. I was an investigative reporter. I used to be a teenager, too, but that doesn’t mean I can come up with a cure for acne.”
He got up and sat next to me on the couch. In another minute, I might have to scream and otherwise fight for my virtue. Beckwirth’s tone was hushed and intimate. I searched the coffee table for a butter knife, or something I could use to fend off his advances, should it come to that. I found nothing. Just to give myself something to do, I picked up the cup, with two sips taken out of it, and made a big deal out of “freshening” it with hot coffee. If I had to drink the whole thing, I’d be a raving caffeine addict by lunch.
“You know the tricks, Aaron. You know who to call. You know where to look. You can find my Madlyn and save her from these people.”
“Gary, I have trouble finding my car keys in the morning. I don’t know how to save anybody. Try and listen to me. I’m a freelance writer. I send query letters to editors, they give me assignments, we agree on a rate, which means they tell me how much they’re going to pay me and I say ‘okay,’ and then I call people up and ask them questions. When my deadline’s approaching, I write up the information the best way I can and I send it to the editor, who then does whatever he wants to it, and prints it in a magazine or a newspaper. That’s what I do. I don’t save people, I don’t find missing wives. It’s not that I don’t want to help you. I just don’t have any idea at all what to do. You understand?”
He stared into my face, wheels turning in his head. Then Beckwirth decided on a strategy. He drew a deep breath and sighed painfully.
“Fine. Don’t help me. Let me live through this experience alone, with no one to end my suffering and no chance of bringing my Madlyn home.”
“Gary, doing an impression of my mother isn’t going to help. I told you. I’m a freelancer. I do freelancer stuff. Look in the Yellow Pages, find a detect. . .” I stopped just from the expression on his face.
Beckwirth’s face was made of stone. But it started to crack, and tears began to fall silently from his eyes. I felt like I was telling Charlie Brown that Snoopy had been run over by a bus. Beckwirth stood, turned, and walked out of the room.
I guessed the job interview was over. So I left. Outside Beckwirth’s house, a sixty-ish woman walking her dog scowled at me as I headed back to my minivan. Probably thought Gary and I were having an illicit liaison.
Chapter 4
It was after noon when I walked through the front door of my own house. The place was in its usual state of disarray. Ethan had left his socks the night before on