For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,68
cards.
New Jersey driver’s licenses don’t necessarily have photographs of the driver in question attached. So I went into my wallet, took out my only photo ID, which happened to be my membership card for the local YM/YWHA, and held it up in front of the cop at the door. “Press,” I said. He stepped aside, and I walked in.
The place was in shambles. Police call the process of going through a residence for evidence “tossing,” and that is exactly what it is. Every drawer, every cabinet, every closet door in Beckwith’s mansion, was open. Items of clothing were strewn about the floor, next to tennis rackets, books, umbrellas, videocassettes (I knew Beckwirth had a VCR somewhere!), towels, and all the packaged food in the kitchen. But for the fact that the videocassettes were all ballet and opera performances, it looked like my house.
The only other difference was the police. I didn’t see Barry Dutton, but I knew he had to be there somewhere. Westbrook was probably in the house, too, wedging the uniformed cops into corners and stumbling over valuable evidence, rendering it unusable.
I saw at least four uniforms, not counting the one at the door. State troopers were, well, trooping through, and a couple of plainclothes detectives I hadn’t seen before were loitering in the living room, talking to each other.
Colette Jackson was in the room off the living room, downstairs from where Gary Beckwirth had “advised” me to return to his house only if I had cheerful news to report. This was not a day for cheerful news. Gary hadn’t had many of those days lately.
I walked over to Colette and waited while she told one of the uniforms to make sure to dust the master bathroom for prints and to tag and inventory the contents of the medicine cabinet. The trooper nodded, suppressed the urge to salute, and headed for the stairs, double-time.
“There must be some serious evidence for all this to be going on less than forty-eight hours after the crime itself,” I said by way of a greeting.
Colette smiled the smile that will one day get her a state judgeship, and said, “we believe we have sufficient evidence to get an indictment, and a conviction, Mr. Tucker.”
“And that evidence would be. . .”
“I see absolutely no reason to release that information to the press right now,” Colette said. “Besides, if I recall correctly, you have no media affiliation as of this moment, do you?”
A low blow, calling me a freelancer like that. “I understand a weapon was found. Was it here in the house?”
She didn’t like at all that I knew about the gun. And she didn’t like not knowing that I knew. That meant someone had told me something, and now she had to determine who that might be. To protect my source, I’d have to make sure to let Barry Dutton show his natural contempt for me when he was in Colette’s presence.
“I don’t recall saying anything about a weapon, Mr. Tucker.”
“I didn’t say you said it. I asked if it was found here.”
“I can’t confirm or deny any information at this point. You can call my office tomorrow morning if you like.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to tell me all about it, if you’re actually in the office when I call,” I said.
“Count on it,” she answered, and walked toward the main staircase, where a group of men was descending from the second floor.
In a cluster were three troopers, Dutton, Milt Ladowski, and Dan Crawford, a uniformed Midland Heights cop I recognized. In the center of the cluster was Gary Beckwirth, wearing the scariest expression I had ever seen on a human face.
He was smiling.
Beckwirth had the wide, satisfied grin of a child who has just mastered “Chopsticks” on the piano. With all the law enforcement personnel gathered around him, each saying something at the same time, all wearing tense expressions and stealing glances at the front door, Beckwirth was resplendent in handcuffs and a beatific smile. It was a chilling look—something you see imprinted on the insides of your eyelids for days afterward.
“Gary,” Ladowski was saying, “I’ll have you out in two hours. Just stay quiet and calm, and we’ll make sure that you. . .”
“Watch your step, Mr. Beckwirth,” one of the uniforms said, and Gary paid him as much attention as he seemed to be paying to Ladowski. It was a wonder he didn’t trip over the bottom step.
Colette Jackson tried to stand in front of me and block