A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,35
making phone calls this morning. I’ll have patrols drive by your house at night, and alert the police in Roseland to stay near her office. Don’t worry, Aaron. Abby’s going to be just fine.”
Chapter
Twenty-One
The window guy, who showed up exactly when he said he would, took a look at the 35-year-old specimen that had been decimated by someone’s pitching, and you could almost see the dollar signs roll up in his eyes, like in an old Warner Brothers cartoon.
“Before you quote a price,” I advised him, “take a look at the rest of the house.”
He did, and seeing the dilapidated surroundings, the laundry on every available piece of furniture, the socks on every square inch of floor and the water damage in the living room ceiling, the dollar signs were replaced by cents symbols. His face fell.
“Don’t feel bad,” I said, “I know some people who have money. Maybe I can recommend you.”
Window Guy brightened a bit, made a show of measuring everything in sight, and then delivered the knockout punch: an estimate of $2,000. After I came to, I told him we’d give him a call and sat down to think.
In the meantime, I decided I couldn’t interview the parents of possible stink bomb offenders on the basis of a guess, so I put off that task, although I knew I’d have to do something to help Anne Mignano, and soon. The previous night’s Board of Education meeting, according to the local paper, had been “tumultuous,” with “residents asking for explanations as to the discipline problem in the Buzbee School.” One mother was quoted as saying she was “afraid to let my son go to school anymore.”
In other towns, where the lack of discipline in a school leads to shootings, stabbings, and beatings, that quote would have been understandable. In Midland Heights, where there hasn’t been a serious injury in a school since the janitor slipped on a wet floor and broke his arm in 1995, the pressure building on Anne was just plain silly.
Problem was, I had no idea who might have thrown a stink bomb into the girls’ locker room, the gym, or the boy’s restroom, nor did I know why bringing the culprit(s) to justice would make a difference. Besides, it was too late to go to the playground and sniff everybody who looked suspicious. If I could interview every child in the school, I could come up with a theory, after four or five weeks. But the way things were shaping up, it looked like I had only a few days more to detect things. I didn’t really believe that Anne would lose her job, but I was certainly in danger of having failed a friend, and that doesn’t sit well with me.
Meanwhile, Stephanie Jacobs had not called me back after I’d alerted her to a possible arrest warrant coming her way. That was odd, but I could take comfort in the fact that, on none of my usual web sites had I seen news of Steph being arrested. I assumed the cops would wait until she got back to D.C., if only because Stephanie was a very low risk for flight.
It didn’t make sense that the cops were moving on Steph this quickly, unless they had some overwhelming evidence, like a fingerprint, a witness or. . .
Sitting behind my desk, looking at the Bullwinkle clock tick by the seconds, it hit me. I picked up the phone and speed dialed Abby in her office.
“Abigail Stein.”
“Say it again. You know how your voice affects me.”
“Robert,” she said with an annoyed tone, “haven’t I always told you not to call me at the office? What if my husband found out?”
“That’s very amusing, dear,” I told her. “When I’m dying and my life passes before my eyes, I’ll be sure to include this highlight.”
“Do you get to hire an editor for that?”
“Abby, how expensive is analyzing DNA evidence?”
Her voice moved from playful to professional in a smooth glide, as opposed to mine, which tends to change moods with all the subtlety of Godzilla dancing “Swan Lake.” “Very expensive. It would only be used in a high profile case.”
“Like, for example, Stephanie Jacobs and Crazy Legs?”
“Right. Those cops are being watched by the Fox News Channel twenty-four hours a day. If they haven’t come up with something to report by lunch, they could be under pressure to resign by dinner. You can believe they have all the resources they need.” My wife has the attorney’s ability to be