For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,58
printing information I told you in the course of a private conversation? Don’t the words ‘off the record’ hold any meaning for you?”
My face tightened a bit at that one. “Oh come on, Barry,” I said, and this time I didn’t stop when he shook his head. “I’m happy to speak to folks off the record, and I respect that whenever someone asks me for that arrangement. But you never said a word about our conversation being on background, and you know it.”
Barry stole an embarrassed glance at the woman, and pointed at the newspaper. “When we spoke last night,” he said more quietly, “you never said this was an interview for the newspaper. I didn’t know I was talking to you as a reporter.”
“What did you think—that I’d had a sudden change of heart and went into the upholstery business? Come on, Barry, admit it. You assigned Inspector Gadget here to the Beckwirth case because you didn’t think it was a big deal, and frankly, neither did I. But I beat you to her, and when it turned out to be a murder, you felt foolish. Now, you want to take it out on me because I reported all that in the newspaper.” I turned on a dime and extended my hand to the woman, who clasped it professionally. “He’s never going to introduce us,” I said, nodding in Dutton’s direction. “I’m Aaron Tucker.”
“Colette Jackson,” she said. “Atlantic County Prosecutor’s office.”
“I figured,” I told her. I gestured to Barry. “He doesn’t usually get anybody that well dressed here.”
Westbrook cleared his throat, which I guess was his subtle little way of saying he was about to speak. It sounded like he was going to spit, and I involuntarily ducked.
“What’re you gonna do to him, Chief?” he asked, the impatient child waiting to see what punishment the older sibling is going to get for pinching.
“What can he do?” I answered. “I haven’t broken any laws.”
“You didn’t call me when you heard from Madlyn Beckwirth,” Gerry said. “That could be considered obstruction.”
I shot a glance at Colette Jackson, who was pursing her lips like a librarian getting ready to shush someone. “You didn’t call me with the information about the minivan or the area outside the Beckwirth house,” I told Westbrook. “Did you find out anything, or did you spend your whole shift at the all-you-can-eat buffet again?”
Before Westbrook could even begin to react, Barry Dutton sat down, rearranged his face into a peaceful expression, and said, “tell him, Gerry.”
Westbrook wanted to slug me, but his arms probably couldn’t reach past his own belt, and besides, all us alpha males in the room were showing off for the lady visitor. So he cleared his throat again and folded his hands on what would have been his lap, if he’d had one.
“There was no debris of any kind on the bumper of the minivan you say was following you,” said Westbrook. “As for the undeveloped property next to the Great Big House, which by the way also belongs to the Beckwirths, it’s impossible to say. It’s been almost two weeks, and it’s usually just broken sticks and garbage, anyway.”
“Now,” Dutton interrupted, “you tell us what you know.”
I sighed. “Oh come on, Barry,” I said. “I told you everything last night. I told it to the troopers about sixty-eight times last night. I’ve said it so many times I could recite it by rote, like I did at my bar mitzvah. I’m thinking of putting it out on CD.”
“But Ms. Jackson hasn’t heard it yet.”
Colette, to her everlasting credit, stood up and said, “I’ve seen the reports of the state troopers, Chief. I don’t need to hear Mr. Tucker tell the whole story again.” When she saw me smiling, though, she added, “Still, I do have a few questions.” I believe I saw Barry Dutton grin a little as my face tightened. I nodded.
“Mrs. Beckwirth was probably dead a little less than two hours when you found her. She was wearing, according to the troopers and your report, a black lace teddy and garter belt. Is that correct?”
I nodded. I think Westbrook wiped a little drool from the corner of his mouth, but he might have been thinking that lunch was coming in only three and a half hours.
“So we can assume that she was anticipating a lover, don’t you think?” Colette Jackson asked.
“I guess so,” I said. “She might have just worn that kind of stuff. . .” Colette’s face told me to