As Dog Is My Witness Read online

  “I thought it was important, Chief,” Westbrook said. He sneered in my general direction. “Tucker.”

  I barely recognized Westbrook. He had lost at least thirty pounds, which had the same effect on him as skipping dessert on Wednesdays would have on me. But he’d also spruced up his wardrobe. Westbrook’s suit jacket and pants actually matched now, and his tie, subdued and of normal width, complemented his outfit well.

  “Mom picking out your clothes in the morning, Gerry?” I asked.” You look spiffy.”

  Westbrook actually blushed while handing a file to Barry. He turned to me and said out of one side of his mouth, “Thank you, Tucker.”

  This wasn’t usual at all. Generally, Westbrook only took offense when he understood I was kidding him, which wasn’t often, but he never acted civil. I glanced over at Barry, whose eyes were alive with mischief, and he put a hand up next to his face and mouthed to me,” girlfriend,” and pointed to Westbrook.

  “Don’t be silly, Barry,” I told him. “Westbrook isn’t your girlfriend. You’re married . . . to a woman. I’ve met her.”

  “I’m saying he has a girlfriend, you plague upon the land.” Barry could get all biblical with the best of them.

  “No kidding! Who’s the poor afflicted lady, Westbrook?”

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” said Westbrook, already wilting under the hot lamps. “She’s just a friend who’s a girl.”

  “That’s not what Reggie told Veronica. And she told Jughead that Betty said Archie told her it wasn’t true,” I said.

  “What?”

  “So, who is it, Gerry? Who’s sweeping you off your feet with an extra large broom?”

  “You don’t know her.” Westbrook was truly embarrassed. I almost felt bad, but then I remembered it was Westbrook.

  I looked at Barry, who closed the file and smiled. “She works at the All-You-Can-Eat Buffet,” he said. “Her name’s Cyndi.”

  “You’re just in it for the free food, aren’t you, Westbrook?” But Gerry wasn’t biting, as it were—he took the file from Barry, nodded in my direction, and walked out.

  Barry and I stared at each other for a moment.

  “Westbrook’s no fun when he’s gettin’ some regular,” I said. And Barry started to laugh.

  After a few more warnings to watch my back (something that is as anatomically impossible as watching your head), Barry cut me loose to pursue my other investigation, the one involving the Mysterious Rental Car Saboteur. Mahoney had already alerted me to his position, which was in Union, near Galloping Hill Road.

  The car, a late-model Honda, had broken down in the center of an intersection called Five Points, where (strikingly enough), five relatively major roads come together. So there was a certain amount of time pressure until Mahoney got the car pushed to one side and the traffic began to flow again.

  I parked in the lot of the Galloping Hill hot dog stand, showing off my knowledge of the area’s fine cuisine and my natural ability to gravitate toward what’s bad for me. Mahoney saw me pull in, and called me on the cell phone.

  “Nice of you to help me push.”

  “I didn’t want to blow my cover in case The Mole was nearby,” I told him.

  “The Mole?”

  “What do you like better, The Chipmunk? Anyway, what’s wrong with this fine automobile? Cigarette lighter on the fritz?”

  He had the hood open and was peering inside, out of my sight. “Electrical problem. Loose wire. It’s tricky figuring out which one is the culprit because they’re all bundled together.”

  I sat back in the seat and kept the motor running. The temperature had gone all the way up to thirty today, but that’s not enough for me to do without a heater. “We have confidence in our man, though,” I told him.

  “I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” Mahoney said.

  “Why not?”

  “There isn’t a word to describe something that small.”

  He found the problem pretty quickly. I thought his speed had something to do with wanting to get his hands back in the warm van before they froze and broke off, but Mahoney claimed he was just good at what he did. Since I can’t actually change the oil on a car all by myself, I felt unqualified to argue the point.

  As he was driving away, with a promise of more to come in Eatontown, Mahoney said, “Keep your eyes open for The Mole. You never know where these pesky critters will appear.”

  Since I had managed to situate myself in a prime viewing area, and had equipped myself with a hot dog and Diet Coke from the fine people at the Galloping Hill stand (open year round), I was not at all concerned about the time I’d spend in the van by myself. I had Liz Phair, Fountains of Wayne, and Jonathan Edwards playing on the cassette deck, and settled back for a nice long stakeout.

  It was, however, not meant to be. Within five minutes of Mahoney’s departure, a light blue Plymouth Neon appeared on the side of the road. Normally, I’d have assumed the closest rental agency had sent its team out to retrieve the car, but there was something wrong with that theory.

  There was only one man in the car.

  A nondescript guy in jeans and a non-descript hooded blue parka got out of the Neon, didn’t even bother to look around to see if he was being watched, and walked directly to the Honda. He pulled from his pants pocket something small I couldn’t see, and proceeded to pick the door lock in about three seconds. But he didn’t get into the car—he just released the hood lock.

  The guy then walked casually to the front of the car. I couldn’t see into the engine, but it wasn’t more than ten seconds before he stood up again, closed the hood with gloved hands (that now appeared to have a tiny bit of grease on them, so he made sure to close the hood with his elbow), got back into the Neon, and drove away, all without missing a beat.

  I knew better than to go to the Honda. For one thing, I don’t know how to pick a lock, and besides, even if I could open the hood, I wouldn’t know where to look, and it didn’t matter. I could guess what he’d done. He’d pulled the ignition wire and made it impossible to start the car.

  I put my car into drive and followed the light blue Neon up Chest-nut Street toward the Garden State Parkway. Luckily, I had Mahoney on speed dial on the cell phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I’ve got him,” I said.

  The excitement in his voice was palpable. “Don’t lose him. Make sure you find out where he goes. I’ll go back to undo his undo.”

  “Don’t worry, Chief,” I said. “Agent 86 is on the case.” Some people don’t remember Get Smart, which is why TV Land was born.

  I thought The Mole was going to get on the Garden State Parkway, which would make it that much more difficult to follow him, since it’s easy to get lost among all the cars. But he didn’t. He drove past the GSP entrance and onto the Boulevard in Kenilworth, lined with businesses on either side. Therein lay the problem: it was only a two-lane road, and easier to be spotted. I was not an experienced follower, and I knew it. But so far, he hadn’t seemed to notice me, or he was so nonchalant I wasn’t picking up any signals.

  I wasn’t any more chalant, and did my best to make no sudden lane changes, to speed up, or to slam on the brakes. But at one intersection, with the Neon three cars ahead of me, he decided to gun it through a yellow light, and I couldn’t get across in time. I sat at the red, cursing myself silently (since I was still on the cell with Mahoney).

  “What’s going on? You’re quiet. You’re never quiet.”

  “Just give me a minute, okay?” The last thing I needed was to screw this up for Mahoney. First, I’d be letting down my closest friend, a man to whom I literally owed my life. Second, he’d never let me hear the end of it, and for the rest of the life would probably enjoy telling me how badly I’d screwed up.

  The light finally changed, and I cruised farther into Kenilworth, with the Neon out of direct sight. I scanned the parking lots on both sides of the Boulevard, and after about half a minute, Mahoney heard what he must have taken to be
a combination sigh of relief and groan of confusion. Because that’s what it was.

  The Neon was parked on one side of the Boulevard, a sharp left from where I was driving. The guy in the jeans and parka was not sitting in the driver’s seat, but I had memorized the first few letters in the license plate, and could confirm it was the same car.

  “What is it?” Mahoney sounded worried. “Tell me what you see.”

  “I found the car again.”

  “You lost it?”

  “Just for a second. I couldn’t run a red light to keep up.”

  “So keep following,” Mahoney said.

  “I don’t have to,” I told him. “It’s parked.”

  “Yeah? Where?”

  “In front of the local office of your rental company. I’m guessing, you understand, but I think the guy who’s been screwing up your work is a fellow employee.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mahoney and I agreed I should not confront The Mole in his office, since I really didn’t know what the man looked like, and would be hard pressed to identify him. Mahoney said he’d be over later to strategize, and I told him to bring our thinking softball. He said he would.

  So much was going on in my head that I felt overwhelmed. As I drove home, I tried to sort it out. Michael Huston was shot with an antique handgun by someone who knew about antique handguns. Justin Fowler had been arrested and charged with the crime, based on his possession of the murder weapon, knowledge of such weapons, and last but not least, his own confession.

  Then, out of nowhere, I’m beset by three large men who claim that a noted local gangster (reputed, of course) wants me to stop asking questions about Michael Huston’s murder. Why? Even if Justin didn’t shoot Huston, I hadn’t found anything out that would implicate Mr. Shapiro. If he hadn’t sent the three not-so-wise men, I’d never have even dreamed he was involved.

  But suppose he hadn’t sent the stooges. Suppose they were merely invoking the name of a feared figure in these parts just because they knew it would throw me off the scent. What scent? I had a good deal of nothing, and nobody could possibly have been worried that I’d turn something up.

  In fact, the only one acting strange in this affair (besides Justin himself, and he had any number of excuses) was . . . Karen Huston. It was clear from the beginning that Karen had some kind of strange bond with her lawyer, who didn’t want her to talk but let her talk briefly to me. Then, she lured him out of the room to tell me confidentially that she thinks Justin didn’t kill her husband. And when the lawyer came back in, she insisted Justin did kill her husband, and broke down enough to send me back out into the cold with absolutely no information whatsoever.

  All this, and I couldn’t figure out why someone from Mahoney’s company would be screwing up his repairs. Who gains when the company does badly?

  While I drove home, the thoughts bouncing around between my ears didn’t help. But I knew that once I got home, I’d have Howard and the Banshees to deal with, along with the kids, home at three with just another half-day of school before that dreaded time of the year, Winter Break.

  Teachers, administrators, and students, I’m sure, look forward to the time leading up to Christmas and through New Year’s Day as a welcome holiday, when batteries can be recharged and minds cleared, when pure recreation is the key and the spirit of goodwill to all men (women can clean up the gift-wrapping) is the focus of the season.

  Parents, however, particularly those who both work, look upon Winter Break as the Season of Inconvenience, when children must be accounted for during eight extra hours a day. We parents are used to sending the kids off and letting someone else worry about them for awhile. It is twelve long days of ennui for the children, unless the parents—who are used to tap dancing 24/7 anyway—have to work overtime to avoid that scourge of childhood: boredom. God forbid kids should ever have to fend for themselves and come up with their own entertainment. In the 21st century, parents are expected to keep the plates spinning on those poles for twelve long days, and heaven help us if one hits the floor.

  For Jewish parents, of course, winter break is also that magical time of year when we are barraged with reminders that we are different, that once again the world’s greatest party has omitted us from the invite list, and that images of jolly fat men in red suits will serve only to let our children know there’s something out there way better than what they get, and there’s no chance they’ll ever have it.

  Some compensate by buying a Christmas tree and calling it a “Chanukah bush,” which is roughly the equivalent of buying a Yugo, and by dint of calling it a Lexus, expecting it to grow an eight-cylinder engine and room for three more adults.

  Meanwhile, the ever-selfless TV networks help us out by making sure that not one minute of original programming airs in December (it’s not a sweeps month), filling every available minute with an incredibly lame Christmas special or any movie in which an oncoming snowstorm at the end is a good thing, so as to remind my children of what they’re missing. Television networks are licensed by the government as a “public service,” which is laughable.

  By the time I got home, I had convinced myself to back out of the Justin Fowler story. While $1,000 was not to be sneezed at, it wasn’t enough to risk my life over. Justin, one hoped, would be examined by any number of doctors, represented by a competent lawyer, and not railroaded by the criminal justice system.

  I was sure Lori Shery would understand—the minute I worked up the courage to tell her of my decision.

  Meanwhile, I checked the house to make sure the Stein family (minus my lovely wife) was absent, which it was. No doubt after the visit to the Guggenheim, Howard and Andrea would be treating their 15-year-old to lunch at a restaurant where Rudolph Giuliani and other prominent Republicans could be seen delicately masticating their salmon. If it were me, I’d have taken the kid to the Automat for a real New York dining experience, but it’s closed now. A shame.

  Warren and I luxuriated in the quiet house, knowing it wouldn’t stay that way much longer, nor be that way again for quite some time. I tried to explain Winter Break to Warren, but he got confused over the whole “no Jews at Christmas” thing, and I decided to wait until he grew up a little. Three-year-olds.

  Just when I was trying to work up the courage to call Lori, the phone rang. And the caller ID showed Lori’s number. The woman has about eight senses.

  “Aaron, guess what? I talked to Dr. Winokur, and he says there is some medical basis—”

  “Lori, hang on. Hear me out for a second. I may have to stop working on Justin’s story.”

  There was a long silence. “Do you have too much other work?” Lori thinks I’m in demand as much as Dominick Dunne. I said no, and told her about the scene on the street the night before.

  “There really is a Mr. Shapiro?” She sounded as shocked as I’d been.

  “So the police chief says. And I promised Abby I wouldn’t put myself in danger of getting killed again until at least New Year’s.”

  “Oh, of course, Aaron,” Lori said. “You can’t put yourself in that kind of danger. You have to stop investigating.”

  Well, that was a relief! “I was afraid you’d be mad at me,” I told her.

  “Mad at you? Like I could ever be mad at you. Really, Aaron!”

  I felt like a 20-ton anvil had been lifted from my shoulders. “I’m so glad you understand,” I said. “So we’ll have to let Mary know that I can’t help any more.”

  Silence.

  “Lori?”

  “Yeah. You’ll have to tell Mary you’re no longer investigating.”

  “That sounded an awful lot like, ‘What’s this we stuff, Kimosabe? ‘You can’t continue, either, Lori. If Mr. Shapiro can find me, he can find you, too.”

  More silence.

  “Lori . . .

  “Aaron, I can’t leave Mary and Justin alone in this. You know that. If this boy is going to be convicted because he has Asperger’s, how can I stand by and let that happen?”

&n
bsp; I stood up and started pacing. “You know perfectly well that I’m not going to leave you out in the cold to do this yourself, Lori. If you’re still in, I have to be, too.”

  “No, you don’t. I’m not trying to pressure you. You’re not the official Asperger’s Syndrome freelance writer, but I’m the co-founder of an Asperger’s group. I’ll destroy all my credibility if I don’t continue. People won’t ever be able to trust me.”

  I can’t describe the sound I made as a “sigh.” It was more in the area of “death moan.” “I’m not going to let you get killed so people will trust you more, Lori.”

  “And I’m not going to let you get killed to protect me. That would be stupid.” Lori has a talent for digging in her heels. She’s not big or heavy, but she can’t be moved when she doesn’t want to be moved—just like my children.

  “Okay,” I said, pacing. “Let’s agree on this. We won’t do anything obvious. We won’t attract attention. If something comes to us, fine, but otherwise, we won’t go out looking for trouble. How does that sound?”

  Lori took a long time to think about that. “Okay,” she said. “But if I can help, I’m going to help.”

  “Agreed. It’s just—” The call waiting beep, one of the more annoying sounds in modern life, went off in my ear. “Lori, I’ve got someone else calling. Hang on.”

  I pushed the “flash” button, which is so ineptly named I can’t begin to consider it (does the phone flash when you push the button? Case closed), and waited a moment. “Hello?”

  “Mr. Tucker? This is Karen Huston.”

  “Hang on, just for a second, Karen. Okay?” I pushed the “flash” button again, and got Lori.

  “Some times,” I told her, “it’s harder than others to be an agnostic.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  As a reporter, you want people to contact you. So, you give out a lot of business cards. As a freelancer, your business cards often (if not always) include your home phone number. This raises something of a privacy issue, but the pluses outweigh the minuses, and I continue to give out my home number in the hopes some misguided soul will call me with news or a paying assignment.