Seventeen

Stephanie gave me a few names and phone numbers, including some of Legs’ political adversaries (of whom there was a large selection). Somewhere on the list was talk show host Estéban Suarez, with whom Legs had a very public argument not long before he died. Through Internet sources, I managed a few additional names. She promised to let me talk to her sons, and to Legs’ mother. When I asked about his brother, she said, “I don’t really know him very well. I can’t make any predictions.” Still, she promised to try.

When I got home from lunch, I changed back into my civilian clothes (which would have gotten me kicked out of even a classy McDonald’s) and checked on the answering machine, which was unblinking, and the computer, where there was a message for me on WUSS.

Peter Arnowitz, a novelist, occasional screenwriter (no credits on anything you’ve ever seen), and overall conspiracy theorist, had read my post about Legs. Pete is the kind of guy who has mysterious “sources” in every branch of the government, the movie business, law enforcement, and for all I know, the local 7-Eleven. He never divulges a source, and he’s never wrong. Ever.

Pete’s reply read: “I can’t confirm this, but I’m told through sources close to the investigation that the wife is the prime suspect. An arrest could happen within days. No physical evidence (that is, fingerprints) that I know of, but Gibson messed around so much they figure his wife has to be mad at him. What’s puzzling is why they’re looking to act so quickly. They don’t have anything to go on, and a thin case could get tossed in minutes by the wrong judge. That’s it for now. I’ll let you know.”

That’s Peter. He never even asked why I needed to know about the investigation. He probably knew already. Arnowitz more than likely had sources inside Snapdragon, or a bug on my phone. If he did tap my phone, I hoped he didn’t listen to the tapes. Pete is way too valuable a source to bore him to death.

I sent him back a message, private like his to me, thanking him for his effort, and moved on. I called Sgt. Abrams in D.C.

He actually answered the phone despite knowing it was me on the line. “What do you need now, Tucker, a free pass to the White House tour?” It’s nice to know when people are happy to hear from you.

“I hear you guys expect to arrest Stephanie Gibson within the next few days,” I told him. “Can you confirm or deny?”

There was a long pause. When somebody thinks you’re a drooling idiot and you sucker punch him with competence, it creates a delicious moment. I savored this one.

“I have no comment.”

“That’s the best you can do? Despite being what you consider a bozo, I get this far this fast, and you can’t do any better than ‘no comment?’ Geez, Abrams, I thought more of you than that.”

Perhaps I laid it on a little thick, because Abrams did not take my comments in the jocular spirit with which they were intended. “Do you have anything else to ask, Tucker, or is this strictly a call to annoy me?”

“Let me ask you this: how can you possibly be thinking of charging Stephanie when all you have are hunches and circumstantial evidence?”

“No comment.”

“You’re no fun, Abrams.”

He hung up. I suppose I deserved that. I made a mental note to make it up to him the next time we spoke, assuming he’d take the call.

Meanwhile, there wasn’t much I could do today, so I got back to work on the third act of the mystery, and was in tantalizing proximity to the end when the door burst open and Ethan walked in, singing to himself.

“How’s it going, pal?” I said.

“Comme ci comme ça.” In sixth grade, you get French lessons.

“Bon,” I told him, and was about to attack the keyboard again when Leah came in, with a grump on her face, as had suddenly become usual.

Before I could ask her about it, I was saved by the phone. The voice on the other end was somewhat hushed, but I recognized it. I’d been talking to it three minutes earlier.

“This is Abrams.”

“Yeah, listen, Sergeant, I didn’t mean. . .”

He cut me off as my daughter hung up her book bag and slumped into the kitchen for a snack. “I’m on a cell phone outside the building. How did you know about the arrest?”

I stuttered for a second, trying to absorb what he said. “There really is going to be an arrest? You have enough to do that?”

“Soon. And I need to know your source.”

“I can’t do that, Abrams. You know I can’t.”

Abrams sighed. He did know I couldn’t. “This is from the top, Tucker. Nobody knows about it. I’m not even sure I know about it. How do you?”

“The fact of the matter is, Lieutenant, I’m not even sure where I got the information from. It was from a friend of a friend, if you know what I mean, and that’s all I’m going to say. But, how soon? And what do they have to use for. . .”

“Soon. And I can’t tell you anything about evidence. You know I can’t.” He was right about that, too.

“Thanks for the heads up,” I told him. We both hung up.

Stunned, I tried to call Stephanie, but got no answer at her hotel. At least she hadn’t checked out yet. I tried her cell phone, and got voice mail. I left a message telling her it was urgent she call me before she left town.

I’d like to say that Steph’s plight dominated my every thought for the rest of the evening, but the truth is that my mind is far too egocentric to allow such a thing. I concerned myself with making sure Leah fed the gecko (something that had immediately become a chore after the first time she’d done it). I chose not to watch, since leaving live worms on a little dish and then watching something that must, to them, look like Godzilla show up to devour them was a little more than my delicate sensibility could handle.

After that, we had the daily tantrum over homework, followed by the making-up and post-tantrum hugs, then preparing dinner, celebrating the arrival of Abby, eating dinner, packing Leah off to her soccer game, talking to the other parents at the cold, damp high school field during said game (nobody there knew anything about the stink bombs, either), then back home, baths, showers, pajamas, brushed teeth, arguments about why one has to go to bed at the same time as the other despite the age difference, then a cuddle on the couch with my wife before she headed off to bed.

Through it all, my mind was occupied with something else. I had to get to “THE END” of that damn screenplay, so I sat down to complete my task at 11:30 p.m.

By 1:30 a.m it was pretty much done, and purged from my conscious mind. I’d pay for it in the morning, but I already felt better. The mystery had been solved, the wicked punished, the good rewarded, and most importantly, the words “FADE OUT” typed. I’d print out a copy in the morning and force Abby to read it the next night.

The computer went off about a quarter to two, and I headed for the stairs, with the lights out everywhere on the ground floor. Luckily, I know where everything is in my house, so I only stubbed my toe twice and tripped once.

But the moment my foot hit the first stair, I heard a jarring crash of glass and the sound of a car peeling away. Quick as a cat, I stood transfixed on the first stair, and gaped into my living room wondering what to do.

Amid the broken glass, a splinter of wood from the frame of what used to be our bow window and the usual clutter of remote controls, discarded socks, and forgotten toys, was a rock about the size of a softball, covered in a man’s handkerchief.

I shook off my initial stupor and walked to the rock, careful to avoid the shards of glass. Passing the side table, I picked up a pair of gloves I’d left there the previous March after the final snowfall of the season. No sense rushing these things—we might have gotten one of those freak blizzards in July you’re always hearing about.

I pulled on the gloves and bent down to pick up the rock. It was fairly heavy, and the handkerchief, it was now obvious, had been lashed to it with thick rubber bands. I eyeballed its trajectory from the street, and marveled at the thrower’s arm. The Yankees could use a guy like that for middle relief.

Written in permanent marker on the handkerchief were the words, “YOU WERE WARNED.”