As Dog Is My Witness (14 page)

“Then we wouldn’t be able to ride together,” Andrea
said.

“And the problem with that is
. . . ?”

Howard looked at me. “This is a family vacation,
Aaron. We intend to spend it together as much as possible.”

“Isn’t this taking it to extremes, or do you also
follow each other into the bathroom?”

Howard winced. “There’s no need to be disgusting,
Aaron. And since you don’t have to be in an
office
. . . 

“Let me get my keys,” I snarled.

“
T
hey made you drive them
up there so they wouldn’t have to be apart for
ten minutes
?”
Barry Dutton, who looks like the box the United Nations building
came in, only with arms, shook his head. “Are you sure this guy is
related to Abby by blood?”

“If he didn’t look like Abby, I’d wonder if her mom
had a thing going with the mailman,” I said. “But they both
resemble their father—only Abby pulls it off better.”

“That’s not why you’re here, is it, Aaron?” Being
chief of police in Midland Heights meant Barry was overworked and
understaffed. He didn’t have time to waste, and besides, he’d
already eaten the Dunkin’ Donut I’d brought him.

“No. I wanted to let you know about a threat I think
I got last night.”

“More phone calls? Every time you get involved in one
of these murder cases, you start getting phone calls. J. Edgar
Hoover wouldn’t agree to check your phone records as often as I
have.”

“True, but which of you would look better in a pink
chiffon dress?”

“You’re right,” Barry said. “I don’t have the legs
for it. So who’s calling now?”

“No phone calls,” I told him, and explained about the
three men on the sidewalk last night. His eyes widened at the key
moment.

“Mr. Shapiro?” he asked. “That’s not good.”

When people hear you’re from New Jersey, they
automatically assume you know everyone in Organized Crime. The fact
is, I’d never even met anyone who claimed to know anyone in
Organized Crime, but I’d heard about Mr. Shapiro.

I looked at Barry. “You mean there really is a Mr.
Shapiro? I always assumed he was a myth, like the Jersey Devil and
compassionate conservatism.”

He shook his head. “There really is a Mr. Shapiro,
all right. And if he’s actually the one who sent these guys, you’re
on to something much larger than you thought, in which case, you
want off this one post haste.”

Hyman Shapiro was reputed to be the last of the
Jewish gangsters operating on the East Coast. He had begun long
ago, with Bugsy Siegel and Legs Diamond, and for all I know, Al
“The Knish” Rabinowitz. At one time, he supposedly owned the
biggest numbers operation in New Jersey, was active in illegal
drugs and prostitution, and ran the entire dry cleaning industry in
the tri-state area.

They also said he was directly connected to at least
28 murders over the years, but had never been arrested for so much
as jaywalking. He was so well insulated that people said his
wardrobe came courtesy of Owens-Corning.

“Maybe I do want out,” I told Barry. “I didn’t sign
up to butt heads with Mr. Shapiro. But in the meantime, do I have
to worry?”

“They warned you. If you heed the warning, seems to
me they’ll leave you alone.”

“So the chief of police is telling me to give in to
the threats of likely felons,” I said.

“No, your friend Barry is telling you to give in to
the threats of likely felons,” he answered. “The chief of police is
telling you to be very, very cautious until you’re sure they’re not
after you anymore.”

I was about to comment on the comfort level I’d
achieved from his advice, but was interrupted by a knock on Barry’s
office door. Without waiting for Barry to react, Detective
Lieutenant Gerald Westbrook opened the door and stuffed himself
through.

“A lot of people would expect a ‘come in’ or
something before they barged into their boss’ office,” Barry told
Westbrook.

“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.”