Six

I met Abby and the kids at the Air and Space Museum, where we saw the “Spirit of St. Louis,” Orville and Wilbur Wright’s plane (“The Kitty Hawk”), and my personal favorite, the original “Star-ship Enterprise.” History is different things to different people.

After lunch, my family and I went our separate ways. They headed for the Capitol Building, and I headed for a police station near the zoo.

On arriving, I went through the required ritual. I asked for Lt. McCloskey, was told he was held up in meetings, and was passed on to Sgt. Abrams. Which was where I’d intended to end up, anyway.

Mason Abrams turned out to be a compact man, maybe five foot eight (which still puts him a good couple of inches taller than me), built something like a strong chimp, all chest and arms. I’m built more like a walrus, all flippers and tusks.

He stuck out his hand when I introduced myself, and I took it. I’d felt badly about the way our relationship had begun, but Abrams seemed not to hold a grudge. I said I had more specific questions about Gibson’s murder, and Abrams immediately gave me the company line.

“All I can tell you is that the investigation is ongoing. Any details are being held back to aid in the investigation of this crime.”

I stopped a moment, raised my eyebrows, and exhaled. “You let me drive for six hours with two children in the back seat to tell me that?”

“That’s right,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the same exact thing in the coffee shop at the corner in ten minutes.” I nodded, shook Abrams’ hand, and left.

It took only five minutes for him to get to the coffee shop, where he didn’t tell me the same exact thing. “You wouldn’t believe the level of security they’re throwing over this thing,” he said. “I’ll bet the Kennedy assassination didn’t get this kind of a shut-down.”

“True, but that took place in Dallas.”

“That’s what they’d like you to believe.”

Abrams ordered a coffee, this being a coffee shop. I opted for Diet Coke, since I sincerely thought of it as a Diet Coke shop. As soon as the waitress left the table, he started to talk in a hushed tone. I eschewed the recorder and took notes.

“There was just the one stab wound, in the chest, through the heart. A lovely job, well planned and executed, you should pardon the expression,” he said. “The knife was a standard kitchen knife, manufactured by Gerber as part of a set. No fingerprints. A box with the rest of the set, also no fingerprints, was found in a trash can about a block from the apartment. It had, in all likelihood, been purchased in a Hoffritz store about five blocks from the apartment, though the only similar set the shop sold within 24 hours of the murder was a cash transaction, and the clerk doesn’t remember the purchaser. They sell seven or eight sets a week, usually.”

“No prints at all in the apartment?”

“Oh, no, there were tons of prints. Gibson’s, our own Ms. Braxton’s, of course. A couple of other boyfriends of Ms. Braxton’s—don’t bother, they both have perfect alibis, mostly being in bed with other girlfriends at the time.”

“This is an awfully friendly town,” I observed.

“We’re not the Deep South, but we are the South,” he drawled, saying “South” as if it were “Say-owth.”

“What did the autopsy reveal?” I asked.

“What do you think it revealed?” Abrams countered. “He was stabbed in the chest with a six-inch kitchen knife. He died. The end.”

“What time did the M.E. say Crazy Legs died?”

“Crazy Legs?”

Oops. “What time did Gibson die?” Abrams cocked his head to one side and considered me. “The M.E. didn’t have to determine time of death. Little Miss Flashdance was only in the shower for twenty minutes. So we know Gibson died between 5:15 and 5:35 p.m. Now, tell me about this Crazy Legs.”

So I did.

“You have an interesting history, Tucker,” Abrams said. “Nice of you to mention it before.”

“What good would my going to school a town over from Legs Gibson do to help the police investigation?” I asked.

“Any information is good information in my business,” Abrams said with a smack of self-satisfaction.

“Mine, too. Has Lt. McCloskey looked into the family’s finances yet?”

The waitress appeared with the beverages and slapped the check down at the same time. She slapped it down next to me, since she probably recognized Abrams and didn’t want to upset him with something so trivial as the bill.

Abrams watched her walk away, and it wasn’t in appreciation of her form. He began whispering to me after he was sure she was out of earshot.

“The finances are the reason I had you come down here,” he said. “I know you’re not one of the pack here, and so far, you’ve been relatively trustworthy.” “Next time I go to high school with one of your suspects, I’ll be sure to tell you, okay?” I said.

“Forget that,” he said. “Listen to what I’m telling you. The family finances are, so far, clean as a whistle. But we don’t expect that to last.”

I could feel my eyebrows meet in the middle. “Why not?”

“Because the books at People For American Values were so cooked we’re starting to suspect Wolfgang Puck was involved. So far as the financial guys can tell, the foundation bank account had been skimmed for over thirteen million dollars.”