For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,64
me to quit, so I feel like I have to keep at it.”
“And you don’t have anybody paying you for it, right?” he said, not needling now, just clarifying.
“Right.”
“Well, it’s obvious you have to investigate further. They’re trying to keep you from finding out something.”
He pitched the ball back at me, and of course it landed right in my unmoving hand, chest high. And I was easily ten feet away on a low sofa. That’s what I hate about Mahoney. He never loses his touch.
“Who? Who’s trying to keep me from something? And what? I don’t have any clues. I have nowhere to go.” I tried tossing him a curve ball, and it bounced, but Mahoney still managed to scoop it up.
“Before you get the answers, you have to figure out what the questions are,” he said, and tossed another one that swerved directly into my hands. The swine.
“Oh thank you, Grasshopper, but I think I know what the question is. The question is, who killed Madlyn Beckwirth?” Now I managed one he could catch without moving too much. He nodded encouragement.
“No, you’re looking at too big a picture,” Mahoney said. “Look at the little things. Check out the pieces of the puzzle, not the whole puzzle. What things that you have found out don’t add up?”
I caught his next throw and held it, thinking. “That’s just it— nothing adds up. Somebody killed Madlyn after she left her bed and her house in the middle of the night and went to Atlantic City. What doesn’t add up? I could give you a laundry list of what doesn’t add up.”
He sat and looked at me, patiently. Like Master Yoda, he has the patience of the ages.
I let out a long breath. “Okay. In no particular order: Who called me to warn me off looking for Madlyn? Why do that? Why does the phone number match the cell phone of a little old man in a greenhouse in Emmaus, Pennsylvania? Who sent somebody to follow me in a minivan, and why? How come Madlyn decides to call me out of the blue, and why is she killed immediately thereafter?”
Mahoney closed his eyes. I considered smoking him one at that very moment, but he’d probably just put up his hand and catch it out of reflex, and I’d be even more outclassed. Then he wrinkled his brow, and I sat back. Here it came.
“What’s interesting,” he said, “is that all the clues in this story seem to center around an outside party.”
“Who?”
“You. Whoever killed Madlyn spent an awful lot of energy trying to keep you away. What does that tell you?” I tried a new gambit, and rolled the softball across the hardwood floor Mahoney had sanded and refinished. The ball rolled straight, with no bumps. Naturally.
“That I have an inflated sense of my own importance,” I suggested.
Mahoney smiled because he is smarter than me. “No. What’s interesting is that the biggest concern of the person—or people—who killed Madlyn Beckwirth is that you don’t find out about it,” he said. “Every move they made since she disappeared seemed to be designed to keep you away—not to keep the cops or her husband away—but you.”
I waited, but nothing more came. “So, what does that tell us?” I said.
He picked up the softball and examined it. “This one isn’t as good as the old one,” he said. “Too rubbery.”
“Jeff,” I said, “what does all that tell us? Am I in danger from these people, too?”
“Only if you get close to finding something out,” he said.
“Well, then I have nothing to worry about.” He added zip to his throw this time, and my hand stung when I caught it.
“People kill other people for two reasons,” Mahoney offered. “Sex or money.”
“Kay Scarpetta teach you that?” I asked.
“Nah. She just deals with the dead body. She’d tell you what was in the intestines. I’m telling you. Sex or money.”
“Either one of which could apply here,” I said. “Madlyn was expecting something more than croissants from her room service, if you know what I mean. And Gary has piles of cash.” I threw the ball back, harder, and he caught it as if it were a Nerf ball.
Mahoney grumbled. He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “I want some potato chips,” he said. “You?”
I shook my head. The ice cream soda had been bad enough. But there had also been a brownie in the morning. I would have to do six thousand sit-ups to burn it all off—tomorrow.