A Farewell to Legs (18 page)

“Why am I seeing you, Mr. Tucker?”

“A question I’ve been asking myself all morning,
Your Honor.”

She chuckled. “You’re here investigating the murder
of Mr. Gibson, is that right?” I nodded. “Am I a suspect?”

“Hardly. Although you probably had the best motive
I’ve come across so far. No, Your Honor. . .”

“Oh, please call me Madeline. ‘Your Honor’ will keep
us here until Tuesday.” The sparkle in the eyes hadn’t been lying.
Madeline Crosby was a real human being.

“Thank you, Madeline. I’m Aaron.”

“And you were saying, Aaron, about how I wasn’t a
suspect, although you implied that I would be if I’d had any
nerve.”

She caught me off-guard with that one, and most
people have a hard time doing that in conversation. I stuttered for
a moment, and felt my mouth open and close.

Madeline Crosby laughed. It wasn’t a victorious,
“gotcha!” kind of laugh—it was genuine delight in having amused
herself. “Oh, not to worry, Aaron,” she said when she was finished
laughing. “I’m not going to bite you. I just couldn’t resist.”

“I’m glad to hear it. The fact is, I’m here for
background on um, Mr. Gibson, and since he built so much of his
reputation at your expense. . .”

Crosby sat back and sighed. “You figured that I’d
have something to say about him. Well, I do. Louis Gibson was an
asshole of the first degree. And you may certainly quote me.”

Well, I had my lead paragraph for the
Snapdragon
story right there, even if nobody ever found out
who killed Legs. When an almost-Supreme Court Justice calls someone
an asshole and
asks
to be quoted, you’re having a good day
as a journalist.

“How did you find out about his allegations to begin
with?” I asked.

“The fact is, I read them in the
Post
the day
after the
Washington Times
printed them, like everyone
else,” she said, shaking her head. “But I had been called by other
media as soon as the
Times
story broke. That, you must
understand, was such a confusing, whirlwind time. You hear rumors
that your name might be on the list, then you get them confirmed,
then you get the phone call from the President, and then your life
is immediately a matter of public record from beginning to end. So
I barely had time to think about the issues I thought were
important
, that I might be asked about. This article came
from out of the blue.”

I nodded. “Did you ever meet Louis Gibson?”

She smiled a bit and put her fingers to her eyes for
a good long rub. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. It was years later.
By then, Gibson was the head of that bogus foundation of his, and
he showed up at a fundraiser where I was speaking. He was there, of
course, to try and stir up the opposition, show that there was
dissent within the party, even though the only dissent in the room
was his, and he wasn’t a member of any party I’d ever join.” Crosby
opened her eyes again and caught me in her gaze. “He walked up to
me afterward and offered his hand. Can you imagine? If you have
strong enough convictions to sabotage someone’s career, the least
you can do is stick by them and refuse to act friendly toward her.
But, no. Here he comes with his cute little wife by his side,
putting out his hand, waiting for the photo op so he can show he’s
really a nice guy after all. Well, he wasn’t a nice guy, and I told
him in graphic terms what he could do with his hand.”

“In front of his wife?”

“To tell you the truth, she didn’t seem to mind,”
Crosby said. “I remember her chuckling just a bit at the
suggestion.”

“That’s not inconsistent with what I know,” I told
her. “Madeline, can you think of anyone who would want Louis Gibson
dead?”

“I can think of hundreds of people who are thrilled
that he’s dead. On both sides of the aisle, by the way. Either
because he was such an incredible impediment to progress, or
because it leaves a big spot open that some reactionary idiot will
want to assume. Decent conservatives considered him an
embarrassment.”

“Can you think of anyone who actually has the guts
to kill him?”

“In this town? Not really.”

I stood up. “Thank you so much for your time,
Madeline. I appreciate your talking to me.” I turned the recorder
off and approached her. “I hope you’ll take
my
hand.”

She stood and accepted it, smiling. “Yours? Anytime,
Aaron. You’re a delightful change of pace from the usual Washington
reporter.”

“That’s because I’m from New Jersey.”

Crosby grinned wider. “A much misunderstood state.
Really quite a lovely place to live, in spots.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Madeline.” I
turned to leave.

“Aaron,” she said, and I stopped on my way to the
door. “I’m curious. You didn’t ask me. . .”

“I didn’t ask you
what
?”

“If the allegations Gibson made were true.”

“That’s right,” I said, “I didn’t ask.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I considered that for a moment. “Because it didn’t
make any difference to the story I’m writing, so it’s none of my
business.”

“I knew I liked you for a reason, Aaron,” she said.
Crosby’s smile was ear-to-ear now.

I
met Abby and the kids at
the Air and Space Museum, where we saw the “Spirit of St. Louis,”
Orville and Wilbur Wright’s plane (“The Kitty Hawk”), and my
personal favorite, the original “Star-ship Enterprise.” History is
different things to different people.

After lunch, my family and I went our separate ways.
They headed for the Capitol Building, and I headed for a police
station near the zoo.

On arriving, I went through the required ritual. I
asked for Lt. McCloskey, was told he was held up in meetings, and
was passed on to Sgt. Abrams. Which was where I’d intended to end
up, anyway.

Mason Abrams turned out to be a compact man, maybe
five foot eight (which still puts him a good couple of inches
taller than me), built something like a strong chimp, all chest and
arms. I’m built more like a walrus, all flippers and tusks.

He stuck out his hand when I introduced myself, and
I took it. I’d felt badly about the way our relationship had begun,
but Abrams seemed not to hold a grudge. I said I had more specific
questions about Gibson’s murder, and Abrams immediately gave me the
company line.

“All I can tell you is that the investigation is
ongoing. Any details are being held back to aid in the
investigation of this crime.”

I stopped a moment, raised my eyebrows, and exhaled.
“You let me drive for six hours with two children in the back seat
to tell me
that
?”

“That’s right,” he said. “And I’ll tell you the same
exact thing in the coffee shop at the corner in ten minutes.” I
nodded, shook Abrams’ hand, and left.

It took only five minutes for him to get to the
coffee shop, where he didn’t tell me the same exact thing. “You
wouldn’t believe the level of security they’re throwing over this
thing,” he said. “I’ll bet the Kennedy assassination didn’t get
this kind of a shut-down.”

“True, but that took place in Dallas.”

“That’s what they’d like you to believe.”

Abrams ordered a coffee, this being a coffee shop. I
opted for Diet Coke, since I sincerely thought of it as a Diet Coke
shop. As soon as the waitress left the table, he started to talk in
a hushed tone. I eschewed the recorder and took notes.

“There was just the one stab wound, in the chest,
through the heart. A lovely job, well planned and executed, you
should pardon the expression,” he said. “The knife was a standard
kitchen knife, manufactured by Gerber as part of a set. No
fingerprints. A box with the rest of the set, also no fingerprints,
was found in a trash can about a block from the apartment. It had,
in all likelihood, been purchased in a Hoffritz store about five
blocks from the apartment, though the only similar set the shop
sold within 24 hours of the murder was a cash transaction, and the
clerk doesn’t remember the purchaser. They sell seven or eight sets
a week, usually.”

“No prints at all in the apartment?”

“Oh, no, there were tons of prints. Gibson’s, our
own Ms. Braxton’s, of course. A couple of other boyfriends of Ms.
Braxton’s—don’t bother, they both have perfect alibis, mostly being
in bed with other girlfriends at the time.”

“This is an awfully friendly town,” I observed.

“We’re not the Deep South, but we
are
the
South,” he drawled, saying “South” as if it were “Say-owth.”

“What did the autopsy reveal?” I asked.

“What do you think it revealed?” Abrams countered.
“He was stabbed in the chest with a six-inch kitchen knife. He
died. The end.”

“What time did the M.E. say Crazy Legs died?”

“
Crazy Legs?”

Oops. “What time did Gibson die?” Abrams cocked his
head to one side and considered me. “The M.E. didn’t have to
determine time of death. Little Miss Flashdance was only in the
shower for twenty minutes. So we know Gibson died between 5:15 and
5:35 p.m. Now, tell me about this Crazy Legs.”

So I did.

“You have an interesting history, Tucker,” Abrams
said. “Nice of you to mention it before.”

“What good would my going to school a town over from
Legs Gibson do to help the police investigation?” I asked.

“Any information is good information in my
business,” Abrams said with a smack of self-satisfaction.

“Mine, too. Has Lt. McCloskey looked into the
family’s finances yet?”

The waitress appeared with the beverages and slapped
the check down at the same time. She slapped it down next to me,
since she probably recognized Abrams and didn’t want to upset him
with something so trivial as the bill.

Abrams watched her walk away, and it wasn’t in
appreciation of her form. He began whispering to me after he was
sure she was out of earshot.

“The finances are the reason I had you come down
here,” he said. “I know you’re not one of the pack here, and so
far, you’ve been relatively trustworthy.” “Next time I go to high
school with one of your suspects, I’ll be sure to tell you, okay?”
I said.

“Forget that,” he said. “Listen to what I’m telling
you. The family finances are, so far, clean as a whistle. But we
don’t expect that to last.”

I could feel my eyebrows meet in the middle. “Why
not?”

“Because the books at People For American Values
were so cooked we’re starting to suspect Wolfgang Puck was
involved. So far as the financial guys can tell, the foundation
bank account had been skimmed for over thirteen million
dollars.”

L
uckily, I wasn’t sucking
on a straw when Abrams said that, or an ice cube might have gotten
pulled up and lodged in my eye socket.
“What?”
I managed to
choke out.

He did a very good Cheshire Cat impression. “I
thought you’d like that one,” Abrams said.

“So, thirteen million dollars is missing from the
foundation Legs Gibson started, Legs has a knife sticking out of
his chest, and you’re going to arrest his wife
because. . . why?”

Abrams lost most of the grin. “Well, that whole
arresting the wife thing seems to be going by the wayside at the
moment,” he said. “We have EZ Pass records showing her entering the
New Jersey Turnpike a good four and a half hours before Gibson was
stabbed. We don’t have any evidence yet that she has the money. She
certainly didn’t deposit thirteen mil into her checking
account.”

“And there are no other suspects?”

“There are legions of other suspects,” Abrams said.
“There are enough people who had access to that funding to keep us
interrogating until my retirement. The question is, if someone else
was skimming the money, why would they kill Gibson?”

“Because he found out?”

“He didn’t seem terribly concerned about it,” Abrams
said. “There he is, on a Saturday afternoon, losing himself in an
administrative assistant in the human resources office of the
Department of Housing and Urban Development.”

“True,” I pondered. “Money. And here I thought you
guys had found some DNA evidence you were going to hang Steph out
to dry on.”

Abrams stopped smiling entirely, and tried to catch
the waitress’ attention so he could get a refill. He was
unsuccessful, both at getting more coffee and at throwing me off
the scent.

“You
did
find DNA, didn’t you?” I asked.

“Keep your voice down,” he breathed. “Okay. I’m
going to tell you this, but if you ever,
ever
try to
attribute or connect it to me, I’ll deny not only that I ever met
you, but that I’ve ever even heard of the state of New Jersey. Are
we straight?”

“I’ve always been. I never even experimented in
college.”

His eyes were not amused, and they were practically
boring holes into my forehead. “Okay,” I said. “We’re
straight.”

Abrams looked positively intense, which was a
180-degree turn from his usual expression. He was talking in a tone
so low I couldn’t be sure I was picking up every word.

“We found a hair,” he said. “Just one hair, and it
didn’t match Gibson, Ms. Braxton, or Mrs. Gibson. We ran it through
the DNA files of known offenders who’ve given samples, through the
FBI, and we hit a match. A guy from Texas, Branford T. Purell.”

“What did Mr. Purell get convicted of?” I asked, in
a tone almost as low as Abrams’. Some things are catching.

“Murder. He killed three women in Texas in the late
eighties.”

I started breathing a little faster. “Did he use a
knife?”

“No, a shotgun. Mr. Purell wasn’t exactly subtle.”
Abrams was-n’t making eye contact—there was something he wasn’t
telling me.

“Okay, so let’s find this Purell guy. Where is
he?”