A Farewell to Legs (12 page)

“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.”

T
he 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 pounds, 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.”

T
he 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.