A Farewell to Legs: An Aaron Tucker Mystery - By Jeffrey Cohen Page 0,53

dead?”

“I can think of hundreds of people who are thrilled that he’s dead. On both sides of the aisle, by the way. Either because he was such an incredible impediment to progress, or because it leaves a big spot open that some reactionary idiot will want to assume. Decent conservatives considered him an embarrassment.”

“Can you think of anyone who actually has the guts to kill him?”

“In this town? Not really.”

I stood up. “Thank you so much for your time, Madeline. I appreciate your talking to me.” I turned the recorder off and approached her. “I hope you’ll take my hand.”

She stood and accepted it, smiling. “Yours? Anytime, Aaron. You’re a delightful change of pace from the usual Washington reporter.”

“That’s because I’m from New Jersey.”

Crosby grinned wider. “A much misunderstood state. Really quite a lovely place to live, in spots.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Madeline.” I turned to leave.

“Aaron,” she said, and I stopped on my way to the door. “I’m curious. You didn’t ask me. . .”

“I didn’t ask you what?”

“If the allegations Gibson made were true.”

“That’s right,” I said, “I didn’t ask.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I considered that for a moment. “Because it didn’t make any difference to the story I’m writing, so it’s none of my business.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Aaron,” she said. Crosby’s smile was ear-to-ear now.

Chapter

Six

I met Abby and the kids at the Air and Space Museum, where we saw the “Spirit of St. Louis,” Orville and Wilbur Wright’s plane (“The Kitty Hawk”), and my personal favorite, the original “Star-ship Enterprise.” History is different things to different people.

After lunch, my family and I went our separate ways. They headed for the Capitol Building, and I headed for a police station near the zoo.

On arriving, I went through the required ritual. I asked for Lt. McCloskey, was told he was held up in meetings, and was passed on to Sgt. Abrams. Which was where I’d intended to end up, anyway.

Mason Abrams turned out to be a compact man, maybe five foot eight (which still puts him a good couple of inches taller than me), built something like a strong chimp, all chest and arms. I’m built more like a walrus, all flippers and tusks.

He stuck out his hand when I introduced myself, and I took it. I’d felt badly about the way our relationship had begun, but Abrams seemed not to hold a grudge. I said I had more specific questions about Gibson’s murder, and Abrams immediately gave me the company line.

“All I can tell you is that the investigation is ongoing. Any details are being held back to aid in the investigation of this crime.”

I stopped a moment, raised my eyebrows, and exhaled. “You let me drive for six hours with two children in the back seat to tell me that?”

“That’s right,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the same exact thing in the coffee shop at the corner in ten minutes.” I nodded, shook Abrams’ hand, and left.

It took only five minutes for him to get to the coffee shop, where he didn’t tell me the same exact thing. “You wouldn’t believe the level of security they’re throwing over this thing,” he said. “I’ll bet the Kennedy assassination didn’t get this kind of a shut-down.”

“True, but that took place in Dallas.”

“That’s what they’d like you to believe.”

Abrams ordered a coffee, this being a coffee shop. I opted for Diet Coke, since I sincerely thought of it as a Diet Coke shop. As soon as the waitress left the table, he started to talk in a hushed tone. I eschewed the recorder and took notes.

“There was just the one stab wound, in the chest, through the heart. A lovely job, well planned and executed, you should pardon the expression,” he said. “The knife was a standard kitchen knife, manufactured by Gerber as part of a set. No fingerprints. A box with the rest of the set, also no fingerprints, was found in a trash can about a block from the apartment. It had, in all likelihood, been purchased in a Hoffritz store about five blocks from the apartment, though the only similar set the shop sold within 24 hours of the murder was a cash transaction, and the clerk doesn’t remember the purchaser. They sell seven or eight sets a week, usually.”

“No prints at all in the apartment?”

“Oh, no, there were tons of prints. Gibson’s, our own Ms. Braxton’s, of course. A couple of other boyfriends of Ms. Braxton’s—don’t bother, they