For Whom the Minivan Rolls (11 page)

“How’s the Beckwirth investigation going,
Aaron?”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “Mr. Tucker’s in the john right
now. If you’ll hang on a moment. . .” I took the cordless
phone into the bathroom and flushed.

“Very amusing, Aaron.”

“Amusing, hell. I had shredded wheat for
breakfast.”

Milt allowed a long silent period to destroy our
fastpaced and sparkling repartée. No doubt he was trying to figure
out how to bill Beckwirth for the conversation.

“Beckwirth, Aaron. What’s going on with
Beckwirth?”

“Milt, your client and close friend is tying my
hands. He wants me to perform the ceremonial wife dance and have
her fall into his arms from the sky. He won’t let me talk to his
son, he won’t give me his phone records or his credit card bills,
and he won’t tell me anything about his marriage, other than it is
blissful as all get-out. Now you tell me, how do you think the
Beckwirth investigation is going?” I put my feet up on the desk and
waited. It was fun letting somebody else worry about this thing for
a while.

“This isn’t good, Aaron. Gary’s expecting me to call
him with progress.” I could picture Ladowski’s pinched face
frowning behind his $6,000 desk. Luckily, I could focus my mind’s
eye on the desk.

“What do you want me to do, Milt? Everything I’ve
turned up so far has been a dead end. But Barry Dutton
is. . .”

“I’ll get you in to see Joel,” said Milt.

“What?”

“I said, I’ll make sure Gary lets you talk to Joel.
Give me an hour.”

I gave him maybe ten minutes before he called back.
I was right. “It’s all set. But Gary has to be in the room with
him, and you only get fifteen minutes.”

“For crying out loud, Milt, I’m not asking for an
audience with the pope!”

He ignored me as only a man with a manicure can.
“You can do it today at three.”

“No, I can’t,” I said. “I have an 11-year-old coming
home after detention and a seven-year-old getting off the bus. If
Beckwirth wants, I’ll come over after dinner, when Abby’s
home.”

Ladowski grumbled a bit, but saw the logic in my
reasoning. Either that, or my voice told him that I wouldn’t budge.
Ladowski is an experienced mediator. “I’ll clear it with Gary,” he
said. “Be there at seven-thirty.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “And Milt?”

“Yeah?”

“Does Joel like barbecue sauce?”

There were pictures of professional wrestlers on
Joel Beckwirth’s walls, and that surprised me. In a house that had
no visible TV set (and no Nintendo or Playstation in Joel’s room),
I didn’t expect pictures of “The Rock” or “Stone Cold” Steve
Austin. I expected pin-up posters of Mozart or Pierre Cardin.

The room, except for the posters, was just like the
rest of the house—impeccable. No socks on the floor—no potato chip
crumbs, either. The bed was tightly made. The large boy sitting on
it was tightly wrapped.

Joel Beckwirth had inherited from his handsome
father only his blue-green eyes. In fact, judging from the picture
of Madlyn now prominently displayed on the piano downstairs, Joel
didn’t much resemble either of his parents. His face was mostly
chin, some forehead, and not much in the middle. He looked like
Humpty Dumpty in an Eminem T-shirt.

Gary ushered me into the room, speaking in hushed
tones, as if we were about to enter the presence of the great Oz
and should speak only when spoken to. He had informed me, through
tight lips, that Milton Ladowski had “strongly recommended” he
allow me to speak to his son, but that Joel was still “extremely
upset” over his mother’s disappearance and should be handled with
great care. I believe “kid gloves” were mentioned once or
twice.

I did my best to smile and fought a natural urge to
ask about Joel’s preference in fast-food toppings. “Hi, Joel,” I
said. Mr. Rogers couldn’t have been less threatening.

“Uh.” The boy was clearly a witty
conversationalist.

“You know why I’m here?”

“Uh-huh.” My God, the lacerating brilliance of it
all! I considered asking Gary if the boy had been to Professor
Henry Higgins for diction lessons. Once again, though, I forced
myself to remember the task that had brought me to this
Ozzie-and-Harriet-Meet-Goldberg place.

“You’re worried about your mom, huh?” Now he had
me
saying “huh.”

“I guess.” Words! Who could possibly have hoped for
more?

“Well, do you know why she might have gone
away?”

The boy’s eyes narrowed, and Gary stepped in before
he could say anything. “Do you really think it’s necessary to be
asking. . .”

Just what I’d been waiting for. “Gary, I’m here to
do a job. One which, as I recall, you were pretty set on me doing,
even when I told you I didn’t know how. Now, you’re either going to
let me do that job, or you can do it yourself. But if you leave it
to me, you must stand back and be quiet.” I glanced at Joel. Had
challenging his father’s authority at my very first opportunity
produced the desired effect? It had. Joel was grinning nastily.

But Gary wasn’t done. “I don’t have to listen
to. . .”

“That’s right, you don’t,” I said. “In fact, I’d
prefer it if you’d wait outside so I could talk to Joel
privately.”

Beckwirth positively gasped at the very notion, and
his face took on color, making him look like a remarkably handsome
strawberry. “I absolutely
forbid
it!” he shouted, and Joel
snorted, trying to suppress a giggle.

“Fine,” I said. “It’s been nice meeting you, Joel.
Good night, Gary.” And I headed for the exit. Beckwirth senior was
harrumphing even as I turned away from him. He came close to
actually choking on his own words when I placed my hand on the
bedroom doorknob and began to turn it.

“Where are you. . .
going?”

“Home. I’d like to see my daughter before she goes
to bed, and there’s nothing here that’s holding me back.”

Beckwirth’s eyes were the size of silver-dollar
pancakes. The irises looked like blueberries. A little maple syrup,
and I’d have had one super-delicious snack right here.

“But, what about Madlyn?”

“I don’t know. What about Madlyn?” Beckwirth started
to point a finger at me, but I cut him off. “If you’re
really
that concerned about her, and you
really
think
I’m the best man to find her, then Gary, get the hell out of this
room, and let me do my job.” I folded my arms and looked at
him.

So did Joel. He was watching his father with a look
of rapt fascination. Clearly, he’d never heard
anyone
stand
up to Gary Beckwirth before, and he was enjoying it as much as a
body slam from Sable. Well, maybe not quite as much.

Beckwirth spoke very softly and quickly. “I’ll be
just outside,” he managed, and walked out. I turned toward Joel
after the door had closed behind me. There was no keyhole for
Beckwirth to listen through—I had checked. And because the house
was old, there would be no listening through the door or the walls.
At that very moment, Gary Beckwirth was no doubt cursing his
homebuilder’s fine craftsmanship.

“So,” I said to the boy on the bed, who was now
lying back on his pillows and grinning. “What do you want to talk
about?”

“How did you do that?” His voice, now that it was
actually producing words, was that strange combination that only
occurs in the newly pubescent boy—deep and light at the same
time.

“Do what?”

“Make my dad go away.”

“You saw,” I said. “I told him I didn’t want
anything from him. If I don’t want anything from him, he has no
power over me.” It occurred to me that I wouldn’t be thrilled with
anyone teaching Ethan this particular lesson, but what the hell,
Beckwirth was no friend of mine.

“Wow. Nobody
ever
does that.”

“Not even your mom? They don’t ever argue?” Am I
subtle, or what? The kid neither curled up into the fetal position
nor began to suck his thumb at the mention of his mother. You want
to talk experienced interviewer. . .

“No.” Joel’s face closed. He started looking past me
to the poster behind my head. I regrouped. I pulled out a chair
from behind the desk. As a concession to the 21st century, the boy
had been allowed a desktop computer, but used it, no doubt, for
nothing but homework.

“Not ever? All married couples argue once in a
while.”

He sputtered, a kind of laugh. “Married couples,” he
said. “Argue.”

“Was your mom unhappy lately?”

“I dunno.”

“Would she say anything to you if she was?” I sat
backwards on the chair, just a friendly guy asking friendly
questions. Joel’s diamond-shaped face was doing its best not to
look in my direction.

“Probably not.”

I concentrated on what Spenser would do in this
case. Probably he’d go to his office and wait for a gangster to
show up and explain the whole thing to him. Or he’d go down to the
gym and work out with his friend Hawk while discussing whether
Jersey Joe Woolcott was really better than Felix Trinidad.

Personally, I didn’t see how Spenser’s approach
would help me here, but then, I’m not equipped to
outpunch. . . well, anybody, to be completely honest. So
I guess I couldn’t criticize the guy. Besides, he’s fictional, and
that’s always an edge.

I decided on another approach. I rubbed my eyes with
my thumb and forefinger, trying my best to look perplexed. Problem
was, I also dislodged my left contact lens, and spent a couple of
minutes blinking at Joel while he stared, mystified, at this insane
man who had decided to come to his room and poke his own eyes
out.

“Are you okay?” he asked, less out of concern than
simple curiosity.

I stopped rubbing, and did my best to look like I
was in deep despair. “I’m okay,” I sniffed, “it’s just that
I’m. . . well, never mind. . .”

“You’re what?” He was hoping I was going to say that
I was dying of an inoperable brain tumor, or distraught because his
father was so much richer than me. He leaned forward, elbow on a
knee, listening intently.

“I’m just worried about your mom,” I said. “I’m
supposed to find her, and nothing’s going right.” I did my best to
sound on the verge of tears, although my acting experience ended
with “House of Halvah,” roughly the time Ronald Reagan was first
elected president. (I believe that if an actor can be president,
there is no point in being an actor. But that’s another story.)

“Oh,” Joel said, disappointed. “Well, what have you
been doing to find her?”

“Well, that’s just the thing. I don’t know
what
to do. I’ve asked everybody she knows. Nobody can think
of a reason she’d leave.” Maybe
he
could, went the
inference.

Alas, the child was as good at reading inferences as
he was at witty exchanges. “Maybe somebody kidnapped her,” he said,
with definite relish in his voice. The relish reminded me to ask
him later about the barbecue sauce.

“Well, did you hear anything the night she, um,
disappeared?”

“Yeah,” he said, and then sat there, staring blankly
at me.

Yeah?
He’d heard something? There might be a
way to proceed from here? Somebody, especially this kid, was going
to
cooperate?
How could that be?

I waited a few seconds, nodded, and looked
encouraging. Then I realized that was all he was actually going to
say.

“
What
did you hear?” I asked a little too
forcefully.

“This scraping noise.”

“
What
scraping noise?”

“I dunno. It was late, and this noise woke me up.
Sounded like some metal, or something. Kept on going. Then there
was this really loud rip, and the sound stopped.”

“And you went back to sleep?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Right after the car’s brakes
stopped screeching.”

It suddenly occurred to me that this interview would
be much more productive if Bud Abbott were putting the questions to
the kid. He’d have way more experience in dealing with answers like
this: “Car’s brakes? WHAT car’s brakes, Lou?” “

“The ones that screeched right before the dog
started barking.”

“Dog? What dog?”

“Oh, you know, the one that started barking when my
grandmother fell out the window.”

“What? Your grandmother fell out the window?”

“Well, she was startled when she noticed the
fire.”

“Fire? What fire?”

“The one that got started when my uncle hanged
himself and knocked over the candle.”

“What? Your uncle. . .”

You get the picture. I shook my head to get back on
task. “You heard a car’s brakes screeching?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Real loud. I almost got up to see
what it was, but I went back to sleep instead. And when I got up,
my dad said
she
was missing.” Madlyn’s disappearance didn’t
seem to bother him as much as having been awakened in the middle of
the night. The way he said
“she,”
you’d think he was talking
about the maid.

“About what time of night was this?” I asked.

“I dunno,” Joel said. “Must’ve been around two or
three in the morning. Or four. I’m not sure.” He shrugged.

“Did your dad hear it?”

“My dad? He wouldn’t hear it if an elephant farted
in his bedroom.” Joel dissolved into hysterics at the graphic
word-picture he’d created. The tone of his chortling would have
triggered both anger and fear in an ordinary man in his forties. I
got up and opened the door.

Gary Beckwirth, to his credit, was not leaning in to
listen at the door. He was in the next room—his and Madlyn’s
bedroom, looking through a box of photographs he had strewn all
over the chenille bedspread. He had one picture in his hand, and
was silently weeping over it. I stayed in the doorway, unable to
decide whether to invade his privacy.

He solved the dilemma for me by looking up and
guiltily wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands. “Sorry,” he
said softly. I walked in and saw him put behind his back a
photograph in which Madlyn seemed to be wearing a wedding dress. He
straightened up like a soldier being brought to attention.