Free For Whom the Minivan Rolls by JEFFREY COHEN Page A

looked like it easily took up three
acres. By Midland Heights standards, this was (the Beckwirth estate
excepted) the largest piece of property in the world.
    The house itself was unremarkable except for a
greenhouse, attached to a back room, that jutted out from the house
at a 90-degree angle. Not the kind of thing you generally see in
suburban Pennsylvania, but not horribly unusual, either. MacKenzie
clearly liked his flowers. The greenhouse had no broken windows,
and the open skylights on either side of the structure indicated
that the owner kept it active. Perhaps this was where he hatched
his evil plots, cultivating orchids, while he planned to abduct
helpless housewives and thereby take over the world when husbands
were left to do the laundry. I dismissed this idea, since I already
do the laundry at my house.
    We had decided that, on this visit, Mahoney would
stay back, out of the way, and observe. If I looked like I was
getting into trouble, he’d advance, but otherwise, we’d make it
look like I was here alone. Before I rang the doorbell, Mahoney
trudged off to one side of the gravel driveway. The crunch of the
gravel made me wince. I hoped MacKenzie’s hearing wasn’t acute.
    As Mahoney ducked around the side of the house, I
pushed the doorbell button and started to open the storm door. It
was still too early to take out the glass and put in the screen.
Could get cold again any day now. In fact, this evening was getting
a bit chilly, and I was glad I had brought my jacket.
    The front door took its sweet time opening, and
eventually revealed a tall, thin, elderly man with enough bearing
to be minor royalty. Forget Ian Wolfe or John Gielgud. If I ever
needed someone to play a butler, this gentleman would be exactly
the right choice. I couldn’t dismiss the possibility, though, that
MacKenzie could afford a butler. On the other hand, most people in
this neighborhood couldn’t afford a greenhouse, and I was willing
to bet that the majority of them didn’t threaten people’s lives on
the telephone. So who was I to judge?
    “Hello,” he said, with a question in his voice. The
voice itself was a little rheumatic, but otherwise he appeared to
be in perfect shape. I should look so good when I’m 103 years
old.
    “I’m looking for Arthur P. MacKenzie,” I said, in my
best gruff voice. When you’re 5’5” (I was doing my intimidating
stance, and my calf muscles were feeling it), a gruff voice,
however incongruous, is your first line of defense.
    “Yes?” he said. Maybe the old guy wasn’t as healthy
as he seemed. The hearing was definitely going.
    I spoke up a little more, but fell down on my heels.
I wasn’t intimidating him anyway. I was just pissing him off. “I’m
looking for Arthur P. MacKenzie,” I came close to shouting.
    “Yes?” Ah. Not deafness. Alzheimer’s. A shame.
    “Is Mr. MacKenzie home?” I just about screamed.
    He looked at me with a mixture of pity and
aggravation. “Yes, he is,” the old man said. “I’m Arthur
MacKenzie.”
    There was nothing else to do. I signaled for Mahoney
to come out from around the corner.

Chapter 15
    Arthur P. MacKenzie was as surprised by the reason
we were there as we were at finding out he was Arthur P. MacKenzie.
He offered us hot coffee, which Mahoney accepted, and served it in
the greenhouse, where MacKenzie had been working when we arrived.
Vivaldi played on a stereo system he had set up in the large
structure, with speakers situated strategically throughout the
room. The plants were getting very clear, very well amplified
musical nourishment. MacKenzie was, among other things, about six
decibels off of deaf. But the sound system, it had to be noted, was
quite a step up from “Sweet Talkin’ Woman” in Mahoney’s
“Trouble-Mobile.”
    We spoke up and over “The Four Seasons” to be
heard.
    “This is your phone number, isn’t it, Mr.
MacKenzie?” I showed him the police printout that Dutton had given
me. Verizon clearly showed the