Abby stood up and walked into the kitchen. I followed, because there’s no point in trying to get her to stop going somewhere, and she generally has a good reason. Turned out she did this time, too, as she reached under the sink for the garbage bags. She was going to throw the glass and splintered wood away.
“Wait,” I said, and went into the closet for the contractor garbage bags, which are heavier and less likely to be torn by broken glass. “Did you hear any of what I said?”
“Of course.”
“So?”
She turned to me and did a perfect imitation of the face Leah puts on when she’s in her “I’m-about-to-become-a-pre-teen-and-boy-are-you-annoying” mood. “I’m thinking!” Abby fussed, and we both chuckled.
This time, she followed me back into the living room, and we started the process of separating the wreckage the rock in our window had caused from the wreckage that normally makes up our living room. I was already thinking about how to cover the pane of glass that had been damaged until repairs could be made, and decided that cardboard and duct tape were the way to go.
Abby exhaled, which I took to be a sign the thinking was over and she had something to say. And sure enough, she said, “You’re right. It doesn’t make any sense that they’d come after you as opposed to any of the other reporters. So there’s only one explanation.”
Intrigued, I looked up, and came close to cutting off my left pinkie on jagged glass. “Really? What?”
Abigail frowned, and spoke quietly. “They must be coming after me.”
Chapter
Nineteen
You have to understand, it was now after two in the morning, and my mind wasn’t firing on all cylinders. So I gaped at her for a few seconds, and not in the way I usually do.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have heard you wrong. I thought you said they were coming after you.”
“I did,” she answered, and I noticed she hadn’t met my eyes for a while. “That’s the only logical explanation.”
“We need a broom,” I told her, and got up to get one. Abby stared at me as I left the room, went into the same closet where I had gotten the bag, and emerged with a broom and dustpan. I came back into the living room, and she was still staring.
“Don’t you want me to explain?” she asked.
I began sweeping up the smaller pieces of glass. “I’d be willing to bet fifty bucks you can’t,” I said. “What the hell do you mean, the only logical explanation is that people are coming after you?”
Abby sat down on the stairs again and got a dreamy look on her face, as if she weren’t actually there in the room with me. When she spoke, it was as if she were talking to herself.
“I had a case a couple of months ago, a guy who shot his girlfriend and left her in an alley,” she began.
“I remember,” I told her. “The pro bono case you were assigned. She was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, but she’s okay now, right?”
She didn’t appear to have heard me. “The girlfriend had to have four separate surgeries, but she’s mostly all right. But the client, the shooter, went to jail.”
“You lost the case.”
This time, Abigail heard me, and her face sharpened. She met my eyes for the first time in a number of minutes. “It had a lot to do with the fact that he was really, really guilty,” she said. “When six people see you shoot somebody, it’s hard to say you were actually at the Dairy Queen.”
“Sorry.” I dumped the last of the glass into the bag and put the broom down.
“It’s okay,” she said, dismissing my apology with a wave of her hand. “Anyway, he got six years. But he got himself another lawyer, and he’s appealing the decision. The client—his name is Preston Burke—is out on bail.”
It took me a second. “And you think he’s out to get you for losing his case?”
“I got a letter at the office last week from him, and while the language wasn’t direct enough for me to file a complaint, it was obvious he blamed me for his conviction.”
“Yeah, clearly it was your fault he shot his girlfriend. You shouldn’t have made him do that,” I said. I sat down next to Abby on the stairs and put an arm around her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know. You were all caught up in this thing with Ms. Cleavage, and I didn’t. . . I don’t know. . . lawyers get letters like that, but. . .” Abby looked at me, words failing her, and I held her close in my arms.
“It’s okay, baby,” I said. “We’ll deal with it together.”
Chapter
Twenty
The first order of business Saturday morning was to find someone who could repair what was left of our front window. It’s tricky, since the bow window was made of nine separate panes of glass in a tic-tac-toe design, and two of them, plus a piece of the frame, had been destroyed by the rock. I called a few of the names under “glass” in the Yellow Pages, and finally got one guy who agreed to come out and take a look. I almost had to promise him my firstborn male child to get that, but I figured Ethan probably wouldn’t notice the difference until it was time to pay for college.
Once that was out of the way, and I had patched up the window to keep some of the breeze out, I picked up the bag with the offending projectile in it and walked to police headquarters.
Barry Dutton wasn’t in yet, but his only detective, Lt. Gerry Westbrook, was. Just my luck. Westbrook had gotten into the police academy on a scholarship for the mentally challenged, and had conducted his long, undistinguished career on the police force with such excellence that it had taken him more tries to become a detective than it took Susan Lucci to win an Emmy.
I’m no snappy dresser, but Westbrook was wearing an outfit that would make Emmett Kelly blush: his sports jacket had kept Polly and Esther weaving for a week, and was so loud a plaid people shouted at Westbrook to be heard over it. I can’t describe his pants, because there are some things I make it a point never to look at, and the lower half of Gerry Westbrook is one of them. He couldn’t see his feet on his best day. But I know he was wearing shoes because I heard them squeak when he walked into Barry’s office to talk to me,
“What is it now, Tucker?” he said by way of greeting.
“What’s the matter, Gerry?” I asked. “Get up on the wrong side of the sty this morning?” His hand went to his left eye, as he misinterpreted the comment. Gerry is as quick-witted as he is stylish.
“What’s in the bag?” he asked. “Someone’s head?” Westbrook laughed, for reasons known only to him.
I dumped the rock onto Barry’s desk, and Westbrook, who is built a little bit like Lou Costello, only heavier, jumped back for a moment.
“Those lightning-quick cop reflexes at work again, huh, Gerry?” I said. “Don’t worry—it’s not loaded.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Where I come from, we call it a rock,” I offered. “This one came flying through my window at a quarter of two this morning. And look, it’s inscribed.”
Westbrook stared at the rock for a moment as if it were the Rosetta Stone and he was in charge of decoding it. Then, sheepishly, he took a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.
“It’s hell getting old, isn’t it, Gerry.”
“What does it mean, ‘you were warned’?”
“You’re the detective, you tell me. All I know is I got a strange phone call the other day, and this came flying through my window as soon as I turned my lights out last night.”
Westbrook actually ventured to touch the rock, and amazingly, it did not give off a strange radioactive glow, so he picked it up.
“I did my best not to get prints on it, but you go ahead, Gerry,” I told him. “You think we’re going to dust a rock that came through your window for prints?” he asked. “Probably some kids out on a joyride who wanted to scare somebody. Tucker, stop trying to be so important that the whole police department has to stop in its tracks every time you walk in.”
“Put on a couple of p
ounds, and you could be the whole police department,” I noted.
This witty banter threatened to go on for hours, but luckily, Barry Dutton chose that moment to reclaim his office. He walked in and looked at Westbrook, then at me, then at Westbrook, then at the rock. Barry stopped to read the nameplate on his office door.
“This is still my office, isn’t it? I mean, I didn’t get fired while I was out, did I?”
“The police are here. Thank god,” I said.
“See?” said Barry. “And they say we’re never around when you need us.”
“Once again, I’m proven wrong,” I said.
Barry sat down behind the desk, making it necessary for Westbrook to back up toward the window. “Chief,” he said through clenched teeth.
“What’s that you’ve got in your hand, Gerry?” he asked. “A geological specimen you brought in for show and tell?”
“It’s Tucker’s, sir,” was Westbrook’s hilarious reply.
I explained the situation to Barry, and he, in police chief mode, sat quietly and listened with complete concentration. I added Abby’s theory about Preston Burke, which earned me a snarl from Westbrook.
“You could’ve told me that part,” he said.
“I was waiting for someone who might be able to help,” I countered. “No sense asking the piano tuner how Mozart composed the symphony.” Westbrook’s eyes rolled back in his head as he tried to determine if that was an insult, but he didn’t have enough time. Barry, however, was deep in thought. “You think this guy is after Abby?” he asked. “Can I see the letter she got from him?” “I asked her to fax it to you this morning,” I told him. “Marsha might have it already.” Barry picked up his phone and pushed a couple of buttons. “Marsha, did we get a fax from. . . okay, okay. Thanks.”
He found the fax at his left hand, where it had been sitting the whole time we were in the room. I’d have chided Westbrook on his keen powers of observation, but I hadn’t noticed the damn thing, either. Barry read it over, and handed it to me. The letter read:
Dear Ms. Stein: (which right away I thought was odd—if you’re threatening someone, do you address them with “Dear?” Maybe Burke was being sarcastic)
I’m writing to inform you that I have decided to hire another attorney to represent me in my case. While I’m sure that this is disappointing to a high-powered lawyer like you, it’s necessary, since I don’t believe you were always concentrating fully on my defense during the trial. We were both distracted. This was reflected in the jury’s verdict, which, as you know, I consider entirely unfair and unjust.
I intend to proceed with my appeal under the advice of my new counsel, M. Robert Monroe of Hackensack, and will have no further need for your services. Still, don’t be surprised if our paths cross again sometime soon. I look forward to seeing you.
Sincerely,
Preston Burke
“What do you think?” Barry asked. Westbrook had been trying to read over my shoulder, but his breath smelled too much of salami (even at this hour) to allow that, and I turned away. Now, he grabbed the fax out of my hand.
“I don’t know,” I replied honestly. “It doesn’t exactly say he’s coming to get her, but it does make that veiled threat at the end. What do you think?”
Before Barry could answer, Westbrook piped up. “It’s nothing,” he said. “The guy’s blowing smoke.”
A second or two went by. I looked at Barry Dutton. “That’s good enough for me,” I said.
“Me, too,” he nodded. “I’ll start 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 absolutely cold-blooded about things, but she manages to do so without the abrasive edge that has earned most attorneys the reputations they so assiduously cultivate. She has a heart, and I get access to it. So I have given her mine.
“Are there
specific labs you have to go to for this stuff, or does every jurisdiction have a specialist of their own?” It pays to have someone close to home who knows the ins and outs of criminal investigations, particularly when you’re supposed to be conducting one, and you don’t know your ass from a garbage disposal.
“Actually, most of it gets farmed out to a few labs. I can look it up for you. . .” In my earpiece, I heard the rustling of papers and the opening of drawers, and eventually Abigail came back on the line. “The one they’d probably use is the same one the FBI uses, in Arlington, Virginia. It’s called HRT Forensic Laboratory.” She gave me the phone number.
“Thanks, you sex machine,” I said.
“I like to think I do better than a machine would,” she said demurely. “Aaron, did you talk to. . .”
“If you look out your window and see a cop car, it’s because Barry Dutton told them to put it there,” I told her. “There’ll be one near our house most of the time, too.”
“Thanks. I don’t like being afraid.”
“Few people do. Makes you wonder why they keep making those Friday the 13th movies.” I didn’t know how to make her feel better and stay serious at the same time. If anything ever happened to Abby—that is, something I didn’t want to happen to her—I would be absolutely adrift in the world. It’s selfish, but I need her to be alive and well.
“You saw the letter. What did you think?” she asked.
“Tell you the truth, honey, I could go either way with it. I think it’s best to be concerned, but I don’t know that we have to panic. He might not have meant anything by it at all.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Don’t worry,” I told her. “You have a big strong man to protect you.”
“Really? Is Mahoney coming over?”
“I love you, too,” I said, and hung up.
Chapter
Twenty-Two
A Farewell to Legs Page 9