Chapter One
"Do you like mysteries?"
Milt Ladowski sat behind what must have been, for him, his
cheap desk. For me, the real-wood monster with five
drawers would have been an unaffordable luxury, but Milt
is a high-priced attorney, accustomed to luxury. In his
part-time position as borough counsel for Midland Heights,
New Jersey, he had to accept an office in Borough Hall,
and this was the government-issued desk that came with it.
You had to go slumming to do work for your community. Many
are called; few chosen. Or was it the other way around?
"Yeah," I told him. "I love mysteries. I just got done
reading the latest Janet Evanovich. Why, do you want me to
write one?"
"No. I want you to solve one."
Well, that was a mystery in itself. You want somebody to
solve a mystery, you generally don't go to a freelance
writer. Nine times out of ten, you might want to consult,
say, a detective. Or a cop. Freelancers are more likely to
be consulted when your goal is to publish a thousand-word
feature about the dangers of cholesterol in the Sunday
health section.
"That's not really my line of work, Milt."
He nodded. "I know. But Gary Beckwirth insisted. He said
to call you, and only you."
"Beckwirth? Which one is Gary Beckwirth?"
"Beckwirth. You know. His wife is running Rachel Barlow's
campaign for mayor."
I stared blankly at him. I follow municipal politics with
the same enthusiasm I muster for the cricket scores from
Bath.
"Their son Joel is a patrol kid at the middle school," he
tried, seeing if he could jog my memory.
"Oh, is he the one that busted Ethan for going to the
bathroom without a hall pass?"
I remember everything that anybody has ever done to and
for my children. The little Beckwirth son of a bitch
hadn't even bothered to check with Ethan's teacher, and
he'd practically forced my 11-year-old to have an accident
in the corridor. Ethan had come home and locked himself in
his room with Pokemon Stadium for three hours after that
fiasco. Which is a half-hour longer than usual.
"You're going to take that to your grave, aren't you,
Aaron?" asked Ladowski. "The kid did what he thought was
the right thing."
"So did Lee Harvey Oswald. Okay, so that's Beckwirth. The
father looks like some guy off a daytime soap, right? And
the mother..."
"Madlyn is the mystery. She's been missing for three days,
and Gary's worried. She never goes anywhere without
telling him, and then in the middle of the night, Monday,
she vanishes right out of their bed."
My eye was distracted by a flier on Ladowski's desk that
mentioned the start of the Recreation Department's
baseball season. Ethan and Leah would probably both want
to play. They'd both want me to coach. That's three nights
a week, and Sundays, from early April until late June. I'd
look like a member of the walking dead by the time it was
over. I don't remember my parents coaching me in anything.
They took me to the games and watched me strike out a lot,
but coaching...
"Aaron?"
I was jolted out of my Dad-of-the-Year reverie. "I still
don't get why you're telling me about this, Milt. Did
Beckwirth go to Barry Dutton?"
Ladowski's mouth straightened out, making a perfect
horizontal line, showing his displeasure. His face didn't
look so good when it was smiling, so you can imagine. "Our
esteemed chief of police has made some inquiries. Gary and
Barry don't get along very well."
"That's the title of a children's book, isn't it? Gary and
Barry Don't Get Along Very Well, by Dr. Suess? Or was it
the Berenstain Bears?"
"You're very amusing."
"I'm a goddam riot, to tell you the truth, but I'm still
not a detective. So Beckwirth thinks the cops aren't doing
enough to find his wife. So fine. So go out and hire
yourself an investigator to, uh, investigate. And why are
you dealing with this, anyway? Did the borough hire you to
ask freelance writers why a woman gets out of bed in the
middle of the night and doesn't come back? Our answer is
almost always going to be ‘when's the deadline, and how
much per word.'"
Ladowski didn't like the way this interview was going, but
he had expected it. He'd known me a long time. Hell,
everybody in this town knew everybody else a long time;
half of them went to high school together. I'd been living
here nine years, and they still considered me the "new
guy." Nobody ever left Midland Heights. Except, it seemed,
Madlyn Beckwirth.
He stood up, to better emphasize the difference in our
height. In other words, he has some. I'm 5'4", and pretend
I'm 5'5" when I want to intimidate someone. Ladowski, on
the other hand, is about 5'10". But it's not like I notice
height.
"Gary asked me to look into it because I'm his attorney,
and his friend. I'm not handling this for the borough, I'm
doing it for Gary. He's too upset right now to deal with
people much. And he didn't want a detective; he wanted
someone who knows how this town works and the people in
it. We don't have any investigators in Midland Heights."
"No, but we have more social workers, therapists and
shrinks per capita than any other square mile of property
in the known universe. Come to think of it, a shrink would
probably be a better fit for Beckwirth right now than a
freelancer."
Ladowski sighed. He knew this was stupid, but his client
had insisted. "He wants someone who can be... discreet.
And when he heard that you've been an investigative
reporter..."
It was my turn to sigh. Loudly. "Oh, come on, Milt, that
was 20 years ago, and I only did it for six months. I
wasn't even a good investigative reporter. I was rooting
out bad cops for the Herald-News in Passaic, and I found
exactly one. The rest were so impressed with my work that
they refused ever to speak to me again, and I ended up
losing my job because I got scooped by two other papers on
a regular basis. I'd hardly call that a stellar
investigative record."
"Gary heard the word 'investigative,' and that's all he
needed," Ladowski said. His voice was calm, but he was
eyeing the window with the definite thought of throwing
himself out of it. Or me. Luckily, it was a first-floor
office. The borough couldn't afford a view for Ladowski,
either.
"This is stupid, Milt. I'm not a detective. I don't solve
mysteries; I read them. I write newspaper and magazine
features about electronics. You want to know about new DVD
players, I'm your guy. You want to find a missing woman,
you go to the cops or to detectives. I can't help Gary
Beckwirth."
Ladowski did the last thing I'd have expected him to do.
He smiled.
"Fine. You go tell him that."