Twenty-Two

I called HRT Forensic, and sure enough, was immediately told that any ongoing investigations were none of my business, that their activities were not a matter of public record, and that my voice sounded sexy. But I told the guy I wasn’t interested.

Barry Dutton called just before the kids normally get home from school. “I’ve done some asking around about your Preston Burke,” he said.

“He’s not my Preston Burke,” I told him. “As far as I know, I don’t have a Preston Burke.”

“Nevertheless. The State Police, the local police, no matter who you talk to, this was the one time the idiot actually got involved in anything violent. There’s no question he shot his girlfriend, but he hasn’t hurt anybody, neither before nor since.” This may be the spot to observe that few police chiefs in New Jersey, if not the nation, would have added that “n” before the “or.” Barry Dutton: criminologist, administrator, linguist.

“Does that mean I shouldn’t be worried about the rock through my front window?” I asked.

“No, it means that you can breathe a little easier, knowing this guy isn’t a repeat offender with deadly weapons. He’s out on bail, conducting his daily life.”

“Anybody know where he was at 1:30 this morning?”

“He says he was home asleep. Strangely, since the whole shooting thing, he’s had problems finding somebody to sleep with him, so he can’t give us an alibi.” Barry grunted a little, letting me know he wasn’t happy with the way this was playing out, either.

“Where does he live?” I asked.

“Teaneck,” said Barry. “Hell of a long way to come and throw a rock through somebody’s window.”

“No wonder he got here so late. Barry, explain to me why I don’t want to go talk to Preston Burke.”

“Because it might be the stupidest thing you’ve ever suggested to me, and you know that’s saying something,” he said immediately. “If it was Burke who threw the rock, and he is threatening Abby, you don’t want to get him mad. If it wasn’t Burke. . .”

“I don’t want to give him any ideas,” I finished his sentence for him.

“Exactly.”

“Suppose I was cagey, and didn’t tell him who I was or why I was there.” He could probably hear the wheels spinning in my head through the phone.

“Suppose I were from Krypton and could see through Halle Berry’s underwear,” said Barry.

“I might tell your wife on you,” I warned.

“Aaron, there aren’t words for how wrong it would be to go see Preston Burke,” Barry said.

“I guess.”

His voice became more intense. “Tell me you’re not going to see Preston Burke, Aaron.”

“Barry. . .”

“Tell me,” he said.

“I’ve got to go help Leah with her math, Barry.”

“Aaron!”

I hung up, but I felt really bad about it immediately after. So bad, I actually went and helped Leah with her math.