A Farewell to Legs (20 page)

I was just about to do that when the last message
kicked in. “This is Preston Burke,” the whiny little voice said.
“I’m looking for Abigail Stein, but that was a man’s voice on the
machine. Am I calling the right number? I’ll call back.”

Thank goodness Abby didn’t hear that message, as she
was in the kitchen turning whatever dross we had left over into
something that would be magnificent to look at and delightful to
taste, much like herself. I stared at the machine a moment, then
dialed Barry Dutton’s home number.

“Dutton.”

“Barry, it’s Aaron Tucker. I just heard a
message. . .”

“Aaron. I wanted you to know, I heard on Friday that
the charges against Preston Burke had been dropped.”

My voice sounded like I’d been swallowing razor
blades again. “I
beg your pardon
?” I rasped.

“You heard me,” Dutton said. He actually sounded a
bit amused, the swine. “You’re gonna love this one.”

“I’d be willing to lay money I won’t.”

“Let me see if I can’t make you feel better,” he
said. “It turns out that Burke actually didn’t do it.”

“Wait a second,” I said, and put him on hold. I
beckoned to Abby in the kitchen. “Pick up on the wall phone,” I
told her. “Preston Burke’s charges have been dropped.”

“
What?”
She walked to the phone double-time
and picked it up. I pushed the button on my desk phone.

“Go ahead, Barry. Abby’s listening in.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. I got a call from the Bergen
County prosecutor on Friday. Turns out Burke really didn’t shoot
his girlfriend at all, just like he’s been saying.”

“That’s impossible,” Abby told him. “Six different
witnesses all saw him do it.”

“That’s the funny part,” Barry said. He waited, but
neither of us was in a laughing mood. “It turns out there’s this
guy, Waldrick Malone.”

“Waldrick?”

“Shut up, Aaron. I’m talking. Yeah, Waldrick Malone.
Same size as Burke, same general build, and—get this—same face.
People who have seen them side-by-side swear they could be twins,
but they’re not even distantly related.”

“Oh, come on,” Abby said. “You’re telling me these
two guys look so much alike that people standing in broad daylight
could-n’t tell them apart? People who knew Preston Burke thought
this Malone guy was him?”

“I’m telling you, Abby. I saw both mug shots, and
I
would have sworn it was the same guy.”

Abby sat in one of the kitchen chairs. “How could I
have missed this?” she said. How could she have missed it? How
could she have
found
it?

“Hold it, Barry,” I said. “So this guy looks like
Burke. Let’s say for the sake of argument he sounds like Burke,
too. How did he happen to get mad enough at Burke’s girlfriend to
shoot her?”

“That’s how the case came apart,” Barry said. “Turns
out the girlfriend was sleeping with Malone first. She’s known him
for a couple of years. They have one of those relationships where
he gets mad at her every once in a while and gets abusive, she
leaves, then comes back because she mistakenly thinks there’s no
alternative. Then one night, she’s in this bar and she meets
Preston Burke.”

“And she thinks he’s Malone,” I suggested.

“At first, but after a few minutes, it becomes
obvious he’s not. So now Barbara figures, hey. Best of both worlds.
She has a guy who’s a carbon copy of her boyfriend, but without the
violent tendencies. Problem is, after they’ve been together a
little while, Malone finds out about Preston Burke, too.”

Abby shook her head. “He never came for Burke,
though. He just went for the woman.”

“Ain’t that always the way,” Barry said. “He’s going
to punish her for wanting a better version of himself. And he’s
going to set up Burke for the crime. So he goes around to the bar
and a few other places for a day being Preston Burke. Letting
everybody see him as Preston Burke. And the next morning, he
collects Barbara outside Burke’s apartment.
She
can tell the
difference after a second, but by then, it’s too late. He drags her
into an alley after making enough noise to attract witnesses, and
shoots her.”

“Why didn’t she name Malone, and not Burke, in the
complaint?” I asked.

Abby knew why. “Fear,” she said. “She knew Burke
would never hurt her, but if she put Malone in jeopardy, he’d kill
her for real this time, right?”

“You’re good at what you do, Abby,” said Barry.

“Not good enough. I should have gotten this. No
wonder Burke was so mad at me.”

“You can’t be right all the time,” I told her.
“Nobody could have seen this coming.”

Barry’s voice sounded uncomfortable, like he was
intruding on a private moment. He cleared his throat. “Anyway,
Malone hears that Burke has been convicted, so he gets cocky, shows
his face a couple of times too often when Burke is in jail, and the
next thing you know, somebody’s calling the cops. The gun shows up
in his apartment. They’ve got fingerprints, everything. He even
confessed. I just wanted to let you know Burke is off the hook,” he
said. “I don’t know if you still have to worry about any more rocks
flying through your window, so I’ll keep the patrols coming by for
a couple of days, okay?”

“Thanks, Barry,” I said, and we hung up. Abby sat
down in a kitchen chair and stared for a long while. I looked at
her, walked over, and stroked her cheek. She took my hand and held
it.

“I hate screwing up someone’s life like that,” she
said. “I was so sure.”

“Don’t beat yourself up. You had all those
witnesses. Apparently Burke looks just like this guy Malone. That
happens once every millennium or so. And after all, Burke’s life
wasn’t ruined. He spent a few nights in jail That’s it. You did
what you thought was right, and you did try to defend him.”

“It’s just. . . I thought. . . I
could have. . .” She banged her fist lightly on the
table.

I knelt down to look into her eyes, but for the
first time since Ronald Reagan was elected president, I couldn’t
think of anything to say. Luckily, Ethan ambled in, assessed the
situation, and knew exactly what to say.

“Is dinner almost ready?”

It took a moment, but Abby sputtered, and started to
laugh. She reached an arm out for our son, and he let her hug him,
although he certainly didn’t understand why.

“What are we having?” he asked, figuring he could
compound the good cheer.

We stood there, me kneeling by my wife’s chair, her
holding our son with one arm for a few moments. Then she got up and
started making his dinner.

I went to check my email.

T
hat night, Abby and the
kids spent an hour on my computer in the den/playroom, surfing pet
adoption sites for available dogs that weren’t so big they’d need
their own wing added onto our house. Given her state of mind about
Preston Burke, it was hardly the time for me to tell my wife I
thought a dog was a truly awful idea for our family. And she knew
it. She didn’t know it was also a lousy time to mention that Burke
had called our house while we were away, and I wasn’t about to tell
her. By bedtime, they had at least twelve possible dog candidates,
and I had acid reflux.

Monday morning, I went to see Anne Mignano. I felt
she deserved a progress report, despite the fact that I hadn’t made
the least bit of progress.

Ramona, the school secretary, looked a little
surprised when I appeared in the office, and asked if there was
trouble with Ethan. I told her no, I was here to see Mrs. Mignano
on an unrelated matter, and Ramona’s eyes narrowed. There’s nothing
Ramona hates worse than gossip when she’s not in on it.

She didn’t have time to grill me further, however,
because Anne appeared in her doorway and waved me in. She didn’t
look happy, and what I was going to tell her wasn’t going to
lighten her mood any.

I sat down in the visitor’s chair and looked
unhappy. Anne sat in her desk chair, and didn’t look any cheerier.
We sat and assessed each other for a few moments.

“You don’t look like you’re here with good news,”
she started.

“I’m afraid not. Anne, I’m sorry.”

She stood up and checked again to make sure the door
was closed, which she knew it was. Anne started to pace, which is
something like saying that Jennifer Lopez is the shy, retiring
type. The words don’t go together.

“It’s not your fault, Aaron. There’s no way a simple
prank should cause this much pressure, anyway. I’m sure I’m just
being overdramatic.”

Hearing the word “pressure” from Anne Mignano was a
startling experience, like a punch to the gut when you weren’t
prepared for it. Anne usually handles pressure the way most of us
handle breathing. I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I just don’t have any leads to go on,” I said.
“Nobody saw what happened, or if they did, they aren’t going to rat
out a friend. You investigated it yourself each time, and now weeks
have gone by and the trail is cold. I’m just. . . I wish
I had something else to tell you.
Anything
else.”

The fact that I hadn’t actually interviewed anyone,
because I couldn’t think of anyone to interview, didn’t seem like
the kind of information I especially wanted to share at this
moment. Anne kept walking back and forth behind her desk, playing
with a rubber band in her hand. For someone as perfectly controlled
as she usually is, this was the equivalent of tearing her clothes
off and running naked through the hallways. I was actually
frightened.

“It’s not your failure, Aaron. It’s mine. I
appreciate your trying.”

So I was defeated, then. I’d let a friend down, and
it was going to cost her, if not her job, then something equally
precious to her—her dignity. It wasn’t exactly my finest
moment.

“How much time do you have left?” I asked.

“A day or two, but no more than that,” Anne replied.
“The board meets on Thursday, and they’ll expect a report by then.
I don’t really think they’ll terminate me, but they
will
give me a slap on the wrist in private, and everyone will know
about it before I leave the room. Besides, you know, my contract is
up next year, and in this town, the people will remember something
like this.”

She flopped down in her chair. I was starting to
wonder if maybe there were someone who looked exactly like Anne
Mignano, and was impersonating her now, because this woman’s
behavior was completely opposite that of the principal I knew.

Come on, it had worked for Waldrick Malone. For a
while.

“Well, don’t do anything until that meeting,” I told
her. “I have two days. I’ll come up with something.”

“Aaron. . .”

But I was already on my feet and at her door. I
nodded to Ramona on the way out, and now she was
really
steamed about not knowing what I was up to.

Halfway out the door, though, it occurred to me that
there was someone who might have some insight into the stink bomb
incident, and I might as well seek him out while I was here.

Reese McElvoy, the Buzbee School janitor (pardon me,
custodian), took any physical assault on what he referred to as
“his” school building personally. Reese had been employed as a
certified public accountant for a chain of tax-preparation
storefronts before the whole adding-and-subtracting thing got to be
too much for him, and he ditched it to work among children. He’d
never had any of his own, and didn’t have to pay for anyone’s
college tuition, so Reese and his wife could afford to live on what
he made in a civil service job as a janitor (pardon me,
custodian).

Oh. Did I mention his wife is CEO of a small
brokerage house?

I caught up with Reese near the gymnasium, which he
watches like a hawk to make sure no one scuffs the floor, which is
always freshly waxed. He was watching a class going on inside,
during which some fifth graders were playing Dodge Ball, and
looking concerned. Nothing scuffs a floor like Dodge Ball.

“Hey, Reese,” I said, and he turned his head for a
millisecond to see who was speaking. “How you doing?”

“How you doing, Aaron?” he said. “Would you look at
that kid? Black shoes. Running on my gym floor wearing black shoes.
And do they stop him? No. You know what that’s going to do to my
floor?”

“Maybe the kid can’t afford a separate pair of shoes
for gym, Reese,” I said.

He snorted. “In this town? Kid could probably afford
a separate pair of shoes for each class in the day.” I didn’t have
the heart to tell him my son’s shoes had needed replacing for a
month and a half.

“Hey, Reese, what do you know about this stink bomb
thing? Did they ever figure out who did it?” I had to protect my
source, and clearly, if “they” had found out, she’d know about
it.

He turned, looking me up and down for a second.
“That was the damnedest thing,” Reese said. “I couldn’t figure it
out.”

“Were you here each time?”

“Of course I was here,” he said, as if the idea of
the school being open without him was patently absurd. “I was near
the locker room when it happened, even. Heard some running as I
turned the corner. The girls inside were already screaming. Felt
like I let them down, you know.”

“You can’t be everywhere.”

“No, but I should have been there. Kids put their
trust in you, Mrs. Mignano puts her trust in you, you should be
able to protect. . .” It was clearly a personal affront
to Reese that some 10-year-old had decided to patronize the Kwik N’
EZ and have some fun.

“Anything you can tell me that might point me in a
direction?”

“Why, Aaron?” he asked. “You writing about it?”

“Maybe,” I said. (Sure. I’m writing about it. You’re
reading about it, aren’t you?)

“The first one was the gym,” Reese said. “That
wasn’t that bad, because it was just one bomb, and it’s such a big
room, with doors that open to the outside, it didn’t make that much
of a stink.”