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 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.”