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help,
you know. Won’t let us talk to his son. Doesn’t want to let us into
his phone records. He ‘doesn’t see what that has to do with this.’
He’s convinced somebody just up and snatched the woman out of her
bed at two o’clock in the morning while he slept.”
    I nodded. “So you sent a detective over.
Westbrook?”
    “It’s a small town, Aaron, and a small police force.
You think I’m loaded with detectives around here? Beckwirth
wouldn’t talk to me, so yes, I sent Westbrook.”
    “Is he around?”
    Dutton picked up his phone and pushed a button.
“Marsha, ask Gerry to come in here, would you?” He put down the
phone and looked at me. “You take it easy on him.” A pause. “So you
come in with two donuts.”
    “Three.” I waved the other half of my cruller at
him. He had inhaled the chocolate frosted, and probably was
thinking about pulling his gun on me for the rest of the cruller. I
bravely stuck it out, and had it just about finished when Westbrook
walked in.
    Gerry Westbrook had spent twenty-five years as a
Midland Heights cop. It took twenty-two of them to make detective.
His shift to plain clothes was so impressive—to him—that he
actually wore his shield on the outside of his jacket. And not just
on the job, either—at the movies, in the supermarket, at the
florist, wherever. If his I.Q. were as large as his hat size after
the swelling of his head, he’d have been the greatest detective in
history.
    He was of average height, making him taller than me,
and needed to lose fifty pounds, so at least I could feel superior
in the waistline. He also had lost almost all his hair, and was
doing that Larry Fine thing with what was left. I, of course, have
every follicle I started out with, although some of it is not the
original color. Westbrook grunted in my direction as he came
in.
    “What’s the electronics press doing here, Chief? We
installing a big-screen TV in the squad room?” The level of wit in
a room always rises when Westbrook leaves.
    “You have to have a squad before you can have a
squad room, Westbrook,” I told him. “Of course, if you gain another
couple pounds, you might qualify as a squad all by yourself.”
    Dutton stifled a chuckle. Westbrook would have
reacted to the fat joke, but he was trying to sneak a peak inside
the Dunkin’ Donuts bag to see if there might be some powdered sugar
he could lick up.
    “Gerry,” Dutton said, trying to re-establish some
sort of professional tone, “Aaron is working on an article about
the missing persons report you took the other day.”
    “Bulworth?”
    I groaned. “Bulworth is a movie with Warren
Beatty, Gerry. This is Beckwirth . Madlyn Beckwirth.”
    “Yeah, yeah. Beckwirth, Bulworth. . .
what’s the difference?”
    I looked at Dutton. “Is it any wonder the case isn’t
solved yet? With Inspector Clouseau here working his usual magic,
it’s a wonder more people aren’t missing.”
    Westbrook’s face turned red, matching his nose. “You’re gonna be missing in another minute, pip-squeak!” I
think he would have lunged at me, if he were capable of lunging,
but the extra fifty pounds made it more like a lumber than a lunge. Pip-squeak?
    Dutton said, “oh, sit down, Gerry.” Westbrook lost
his bluster and sat in the chair next to me. But he moved it a few
inches away, so our sleeves wouldn’t touch on the armrests. I was
hurt, but I managed not to show it.
    Dutton leaned across his desk and pointed a finger
at Westbrook. “You’re going to cooperate fully with Aaron on this,
Gerry, or I’m gonna know about it. Is that clear?”
    Westbrook flapped his jaw a little, but nodded. Then
Dutton pointed his finger at me. “And you, Mr. Tucker, are going to
be respectful of my detective at all times, or I will bring the
full power of the legal system to bear on you. Is that clear?”
    I blinked, but managed “sure.”
    “Good,” said Dutton. “Now, both of you get the hell
out of my office.” He pointed toward the