A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,15

moved on to the next scandal inside your Belt Buckle.”

“Beltway.”

“Whatever. You’re not covering the story yourself, anyway. Besides, you know as well as I do that I could get all this information off the Internet in about 20 minutes if I wanted to. But you’re faster, and more fun to annoy.” College friends were just made to needle. You didn’t know them in years that were as embarrassing as your high school friends, but you still have plenty of blackmail material that their present employers, spouses, or children would find interesting.

Davis sighed. “Oh, all right. It’s nothing you wouldn’t get from reading USA Today tomorrow.”

“Make up your mind.”

“Funny. When you grow up, maybe you can write comedy. Okay. The chief investigator for the D.C. cops is Francis Xavier McCloskey, known in these parts as Fax McCloskey because nobody ever actually sees him—they just get his messages from their fax machines. Fax works out of the Capitol area headquarters, and I’ll give you the number once I dig it out. But you won’t get Fax on the line, anyway.” Once you get Davis going, you don’t have to work very hard. He does it all for you.

“Who will I get on the line?”

“Sergeant Mason Abrams. You’re better off with him, anyway. He’s the administrative sergeant in the homicide division, and he’ll know what’s going on, even if Fax is the one doing the actual investigation.”

“So, why don’t I just go to Abrams first?” I asked.

I could hear the condescension in Davis’ voice. “Because then Fax won’t be able to show you what a busy guy he is by passing you off to Abrams. Besides, this way you’ll get on his fax list, and you’ll be getting messages from him when we’re at our 50-year college reunion.”

“Which should be a couple of weeks from now.”

“Awwwwwwwww. Feelin’ kinda down, Aaron?” Davis had as much tolerance for self-pity as he did for sloppy lead paragraphs or unattributed quotes.

“Just tired. Thanks for the help, Mitch.”

“We live to serve.”

He gave me the phone numbers I needed, grumbled again about the state of journalism in America today, and got off the phone. I hung up and looked in on my children. Ethan had written his poem, in his barely readable scrawl, and had moved on to the most important thing in his world, his Play Station. He would be totally devoted to Play Station 2, but we insist on his paying for such things himself, and $200 is hard to come by when your allowance is $5 a week, especially if your parents frequently forget to pay up.

Leah was bent over the kitchen table, which was covered with papers. A pencil she had sharpened almost to the point of a surgical instrument was in her hand. Tears were splashing down her cheeks, but she was silent.

“What’s the matter, Puss?”

“I CAN’T DO IT!” she screamed, and put her head down amid the papers. I’ve seen this particular soap opera before, so I adopted my best Robert Young “Father Knows Best” manner (although I didn’t have time to change into a sweater with patches on the elbows or learn to smoke a pipe).

“Can’t do what?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

“THIS!!!!” She waved a worksheet at me. From this distance, and with the violent shaking she was giving it, I would have found it easier to read a sheet in ancient Aramaic. But I was willing to believe it was related to mathematics in some way.

“What are you supposed to do?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Oh, that. I snatched the sheet out of her hand when it came by my face again. It contained all of three word problems.

“Have you read this?”

“YES!” she screamed, and flung her head back in what she thought was a melodramatic gesture. It looked more like a supermodel tossing her hair back.

“I’ll bet you didn’t. Look, what do the instructions say?” I admit it, my teeth were pressed together pretty hard. It’s easier to maintain my calm with Leah than with Ethan, but a temper’s a temper. And I have one.

Surprisingly, she decided to give up the soap opera act and actually do what I’d suggested. “Each of these problems has a fraction in it,” she read in a singsong voice. “Decide which number is the denominator and write it in the space below.” Leah’s eyes widened and she pointed an accusing finger at the paper. “See? They want me to do fractions!”

“No, they don’t,” I said. “You could if you had to, but that’s