For Whom the Minivan Rolls: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,8

had a son.

The little Nazi—pardon me, Joel—was born when Gary was just starting to earn bonuses on Wall Street, and was toilet trained roughly when his dad was getting into the computer end of the biz. By the time Joel was in second grade, his father, already a very rich man, continued to provide venture capital to online businesses and invested heavily in web-related companies. He had a good eye for a coming windfall, and generally got himself caught up in the breeze. He also had the rare ability to know when to get out before the roof caved in.

Madlyn, meanwhile, was doing the housewife thing, and happily, according to her husband. She had precipitated the move to Midland Heights five years ago, just about the time Gary had hit the online jackpot. She doted on her son, according to Milt, but couldn’t have any more children because of damage done to her uterus during Joel’s delivery. In the womb, the kid was already making sure nobody would have it as good as he had it.

This had gone on for 14 years, until now. Gary was rich, Joel was rigid, and Madlyn was gone.

If I’d had to guess, my instinct told me she’d tired of life with Gary and Joel and decided to move on. But who moves on at two o’clock in the morning on an entirely ordinary Monday? Nobody in town seemed to know anything about tension in the Beckwirth house, Milt concluded.

I had to start somewhere, so I decided the first order of business would be to talk to Joel. Kids see and hear more around the house than their parents give them credit for. Maybe I could grill him long enough that he’d have to sweat a trip to the bathroom. Give him a taste of his own medicine. I’d have to have Milt call Gary and make sure I could talk to everyone I needed.

First, I called Barry Dutton at borough police headquarters. Luckily, he knows my name, and took the call. Any other reporter calling the chief would have gotten the message taken, and a call-back sometime around seven, when the chief was done for the day and the reporter, in all likelihood, would be at home, covering a municipal meeting, or catching a quick dinner.

Dutton was in the middle of something, so I asked if he’d be around the next morning, and he said he would. I told him I’d bring the coffee and donuts, and he said to stop making cop jokes. I didn’t tell him my coffee would be hot chocolate. Ruins the macho image.

It was just about six, and I had to start thinking about dinner. I do most of the cooking for the kids, since my wife is the commuting breadwinner and the kids get hungry early. I’ve learned, painstakingly, over the years, to make macaroni and cheese. Out of the blue box. She does most of the cooking for the adults, since she is a good cook.

That was another reason I couldn’t be a private investigator. I know about cooking what Dr. Seuss knew about the Great American Novel—how to do it for kids. You read enough mystery books, you find that cooking is practically a pre-requisite for a gumshoe. Spenser cooks for himself and Susan Silverman, usually something involving lamb and champagne, and they invariably have sex while the lamb’s in the oven, which is a suggestive image, I guess. What do you want from a guy with no first name?

Elvis Cole is always making venison for himself and Lucy Chenier, but his partner, Joe Pike, is constantly crashing the party, and that means Elvis has to switch to something vegetarian. So all your big detectives cook. Probably Sherlock Holmes could make a steak and kidney pie that would knock your eyes out.

I put a large pot of water on to boil. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was making for the kids, but hot water is the basis of virtually everything they eat.

One of the problems with Asperger’s kids is that they tend to have somewhat limited menus. Some will eat the same thing, at the same time, every day, just like Woody Allen and Alfred Hitchcock. Others, not being famous filmmakers, are not indulged quite this completely, and will accept two or three variations on a theme at any given meal. That’s the way Ethan is. So my creative choices here were somewhat limited.

I took out some boneless chicken breasts from the meat compartment of