Free Some Like It Hot-Buttered by JEFFREY COHEN Page A

sure Sharon would have been able to define exactly how this scenario showcased six or seven character flaws, but I was at a loss as to how to do so myself at the moment.
    I dropped the car off with Moe, reported on its complete lack of a shimmy and the quality of the sound system, which could have used a subwoofer, and was given an extensive lecture on leaving the car the way the customer had brought it in. I thought that was silly, since the customer had taken the car in to have something done to it that would make it different from the way it was brought in, but my point of view was, as usual, discounted. I thanked Moe and left.
    I rode my bike from Moe’s shop to the Midland Heights police station, a short, squat building that could just as easily house the tax assessor’s office, the public works department, and the water department. All of which it did.
    I told myself the trip was based on the strong desire to help Anthony, to punch holes in the awful accusations being made of him, and to see that truth and justice would, indeed, prevail. And I did want to help the kid, but who was I kidding? I was riding over there as an excuse to “run into” Leslie Levant. Sly dog that I am.
    I chained the bike to a rack in front of the building, but left the front wheel on. Somehow, walking around with a bicycle wheel at the age of thirty-seven doesn’t really impress the ladies the way it did at, say, fourteen. Funny how life moves on, isn’t it?
    There was a small waiting area right through the front door of the police headquarters, where a dispatcher sat behind bulletproof glass, apparently dispatching things. It’s not a huge confidence-builder that the police department feels the need to reinforce its own reception area with bulletproof glass, but I guess if someone’s going to fire at people, this would be the area for it. I’m told that a gun was once shot within town limits, but that was to start a 10K race, and doesn’t really count.
    The dispatcher, a painfully thin African-American woman in uniform, was talking into her microphone as I entered, so I waited until the orders to de-tree someone’s cat or investigate a mysterious lack of froth on the cappuccino at the local coffee bar was given, then walked up to the small area of the glass where holes large enough to carry sound (and air) were drilled through. Just then, I noticed Chief Dutton through the window of the locked metal door to my right. The dispatcher looked at me.
    “Can I help you?”
    I thought of saying “That’s a good question,” but the gun on the woman’s hip had a tranquilizing effect on my sense of humor, and instead, I answered, “Yes, please. Is Officer . . .”
    Before I had the chance to make myself sound like a sophomore with a nasty crush, Dutton opened the door and called to me.
    “Mr. Freed! I was just about to call you.”
    He was? “Can’t be parking tickets, Chief,” I said. “I don’t have a car.” I don’t know why, but Dutton’s shoulder holster didn’t intimidate me nearly as much as the dispatcher’s hip model, even if she was behind glass that could stop a bullet. I mean, I don’t think anyone has invented one-way bulletproof glass, have they?
    Dutton chuckled, sort of, a rumble that made me think of the late Peter Boyle in, well, Young Frankenstein . I can’t imagine what had brought that film to my mind this week. “No, I just have a question or two for you. Would you come through, please?” He gestured inside. I looked at the dispatcher, as if to verify with her that it was okay for me to obey her boss, and she, inexplicably, nodded. I walked into the station, and followed Dutton down the hall.
    We entered Dutton’s office and both sat, after he indicated that I should. “Was there something we missed earlier, Chief?” I asked.
    “No, it’s just that things have developed a little bit, and I’m trying to make certain of a few things. Are you absolutely sure you don’t know Anthony Pagliarulo’s