“We could check with Bud, the bartender at Big Kahuna’s. He knows all the local dirt.”
Ceepak keeps staring at the two suitcases.
“What do you see?” I ask.
“Two things. On the handle, the remnant of a luggage tag.”
I see it, too. One of those sticker deals they wrap on when you check your bag. The flappy part is torn off.
“If there is any scanable information on what’s left, we might be able to decipher what flight the bag was checked on.”
“And who was on that flight,” I add.
“Precisely.”
“Would the killer use his own suitcases?”
“If he or she acted in haste, hadn’t premeditated the mutilation, he or she might.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“Next to the torn tags.”
I see orange yarn pom-poms. One on each handle.
“That’s what my mom does,” I say. “So she can spot her suitcase on the baggage carousel.”
“Does your father do the same thing?”
“Nah. Only women do that.”
“Such has been my experience as well.”
So …
That’s why Ceepak was doing the “he or she” thing.
Maybe Gail didn’t run into a jealous old boyfriend. Maybe she bumped into somebody’s girlfriend who couldn’t stand the competition.
14
THE MCU PEOPLE ARRIVE.
The boss is a new guy named Bill Botzong who took over when Dr. Sandra McDaniels retired after working her last case in Atlantic City.
She’d seen enough, she told Ceepak. Except her grandkids; them she wanted to see more.
“Has anything been moved?” Botzong asks.
Ceepak has to explain Santucci’s rummaging through the luggage looking for ID and then his repacking of said luggage.
“This Santucci still here?” asks Botzong.
“Across the street,” says Ceepak. “Knocking on doors.”
“Good,” says Botzong, who looks like a chemistry teacher I had in high school, only he’s wearing the navy blue CSI shirt plus aviator glasses and a Star Trek Bluetooth device in his ear. On weekends, I’m guessing, he goes to comic book conventions. “Hey, Carolyn?” he calls out to one of his crew.
“Yeah?”
“Put in a call to that forensic anthropologist in PA. The guy who analyzes knife and saw marks. I want to know what our guy used to decapitate our victim and sever her limbs. Serrated kitchen knife or Ginzu, hacksaw or chainsaw? I want make, model, and manufacturer’s suggested retail price.”
“On it.”
“Carolyn Miller,” says Botzong as Miller walks away. “Good people. Getting her doctorate in forensic geology. She’ll be all over the ground here. If there’s a footprint or a wad of chewing gum or a pebble from a parking lot on the other side of the island, she’ll find it.”
“We noted that the sand has been raked to mask footprints,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. But the rake man didn’t know I was bringing Carolyn. You walk on water, she’ll tell me your shoe size.”
“We’re going to work this side of the street,” says Ceepak. “Canvass for witnesses. We’ve initiated retrieval of the victim’s phone records and have requested a search warrant for her apartment. We’ll send over a team. Lock it down for your guys.”
“You the lead on this thing for SHPD?”
“Ten–four.”
“Good. Sandy McDaniels told me I should hire you to come work for us. Interested?”
“Not right now.”
“Think about it. You work with us, you get one of these.” He points to his Bluetooth device. Now he gestures toward the crime scene. “When we know anything, you’ll know it, too.”
“Appreciate that.”
“Hey, George—we need to wrangle a truck to get these suitcases back to the lab as soon as Susan’s done taking pictures. Something with refrigeration. Get on the horn, see if a grocery store or a water-ice shop or Ben and Jerry’s or the local Boar’s Head meat distributor can help us out here—”
While the CSI guys comb the crime scene and pack up their gruesome luggage, Ceepak and I head up the block toward the beach.
We ring doorbells, knock on doors. Tangerine Street is a ghost town. The lights aren’t on and nobody’s home. We move to the next block, the one closest to the beach. In Sea Haven, the closer your home is to the pristine sandy beaches, the higher the price tag. The homes in this block are big and boxy and built on stilts so they won’t get flooded when the next hurricane hits.
“Rentals,” I say to Ceepak as we walk away from our tenth empty home. These mansions are a lot like Sea Haven—they fill up after the Fourth of July and empty out after Labor Day.
Finally, at number 3 Tangerine Street, we find a human being.
And a dog.
We actually hear from the dog first, because the instant we ding the dong, there’s snarling and growling on the other side of the door.
“Puck? Sit!”
Puck is not sitting. His paws are still trying to scrape through the door.
“Puck? Heel!”
Okay, I’m not a dog owner, but I know “heel” is not the correct command in this situation, unless, of course, the screaming woman is giving tips on what part of our bodies the mutt should aim for first.
I see Ceepak unsnapping the right thigh pocket on his cargo pants. That’s where he keeps the Snausages.
The door creaks open. About two inches.
The snarling beast is a little yappy lap dog. One of those white fluff balls that looks like a dust mop without the pole.
Towering over him is a woman in a bathrobe. Her hair is bundled up in a towel turban. She has seaweed smeared all over her face. We’ll call her Mrs. Shrek.
“May I give your dog a treat?” asks Ceepak. He always asks first. In these pricey neighborhoods, you never know when the mutts might be on a holistic, wheat-free, ultra-low-carb, all-raw, mercury-free, vegan doggy diet.
“What is it?” the woman asks.
Told you.
“A new product called Snawsomes. Peanut butter and apple flavor. My dog loves them.”
“Sorry. Puck is only allowed Banana Pupcakes. Our maid bakes them.”
Puck drops to all fours and is content to grumble at us. Or his owner. I think he sniffed out the Snawsomes and is miffed that he has to go organic.
“Maria was giving me a seaweed facial,” she says, gesturing toward her green mask. Guess that’s why it looks like she fell asleep over a bowl of split-pea soup. “Are you two here on official business?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Officer Ceepak. This is my partner, Officer Boyle.”
“Valerie D’Ambrosio.”
“Ms. D’Ambrosio, the Sea Haven Police Department is investigating an incident here on Tangerine Street.”
“Did someone call in a complaint? Because it wasn’t me.”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual last night.”
She hesitates. “No. But, as I told the other officer, I sleep with ear plugs.”
“What other officer?”
“I forget. Italian name. Santa Lucci.”
“Santucci?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I glance over my shoulder. See Santucci and Murray working the opposite side of the street. I wonder how they got here before us.
The woman in the door crack shifts her weight. Ceepak and I see way too much thigh. It’s spray-tanned and scary. Think congealed beef gravy.
“You know, come to think of it, Puck might’ve heard something—very late. Three or four in the morning.”
“How’s that?”
“He started barking up a storm. I didn’t get out of bed, of course. My doctor has me on Ambien. Makes me groggy.”
“Do you know the people who live up the street at 145 Tangerine?”
“No.”
Ceepak fishes a business card out of his shirt
pocket. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call.”
We walk away from the house.
“So how did Santucci get down here before us?” I ask.
“Not knowing, can’t say.”
“Sounds like the dog is our only witness.”
“So far, Danny. So far.”
We have one more house to check out on this side of the street, so we hike down the asphalt. There are no sidewalks on Tangerine, just the pavement, then the sandy edge of the pavement, and then more sand, speckled with weed patches.
We pass a small breezeway between number 3 and number 1 Tangerine Street, definitely the most expensive house on the block. These ones on the beach corner usually sell for a couple million dollars. Then the new owner tears the old house down and builds a modern-art masterpiece of sharp angles with multiple sun decks for one or two million more. Up the breezeway, I see an outdoor shower, so the renters, or owners, can wash the sand and salt out of their hair when they come up from the beach.
“Looks like someone is staying here,” says Ceepak, indicating a recyclables bin at the corner. In the Rubbermaid barrel, I see dark green champagne bottles, vodka bottles, scotch bottles, and one of those squat cognac bottles you see in magazines but figured nobody ever actually drank out of because liquid gold would be cheaper.
We march up the concrete walkway past some shrubs, the kind that look like pine-coated curly fries. When we get to the porch we see something the neighbors probably can’t see or we’d get all sorts of complaints: lewd garden gnome sculptures, including a nude Mama and Papa Smurf testing out the springs in their ceramic Smurf bed and a naughty gnome flashing her boobies. There’s another gnome, wearing nothing but his red pointy hat, perched at the edge of the porch. He’s poised to pee on the rose bushes.
We ring the doorbell.
Knock on the door.
Ring again.
Knock again.
So unless the porno statues start talking, we’ve got nothing.
“We need to talk to Samantha’s mother,” says Ceepak. “See if she knows who rents out this house. Who the current occupants might be.”
Sam’s mom, Mrs. Starky, knows everything about everybody—a fact that creeps me out on a regular basis.
Santucci and Murray stroll across the street from number 2 Tangerine.
“You guys get anything?” asks Santucci.
“One dog who heard something at three A.M.,” I answer.
“Next door? The rug rat, right? Puck. Thing barks like a maniac. Yip-yip-yip.”
“How’d you get there before us?”
“The early bird gets the worm, Boyle. We got bubkis on the south side.” Santucci looks at his watch. “Three o’clock on the dot. I’m heading home. Guess you guys can’t, huh, Ceepak? Guess that comes with being ‘in charge’ of shit. Enjoy. Come on, Murray. Let’s roll. The Yankees are playing tonight.”
Santucci swaggers up the street toward their parked patrol car.
Murray hangs back. “You guys need anything? I’m good tonight if you want an extra pair of legs.”
“Appreciate that, Dylan,” says Ceepak. “Danny and I might run down some of Ms. Baker’s known acquaintances this evening. Not much more we can do until the M.E. completes the autopsy and MCU shares what they learn from the forensics.”
Dylan nods. “You need anything, give me a shout.”
“Murray?” Santucci screams. “Come on. I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”
Which isn’t for, like, four hours.
Murray, shaking his head, takes off to join Santucci.
“Where next?” I ask Ceepak, because the Mets aren’t playing so I got nothing to hurry home for.
“Your bartender friend. It might be our most efficient means of piecing together a more complete picture of Ms. Baker’s romantic entanglements.”
“Yeah. Bud knows more than even Mrs. Starky.”
15
WE SWING BY THE HOUSE SINCE IT’S ON THE WAY TO BIG KAHUNA’S.
I need to hit the locker room and get out of my funeral clothes. Ceepak wants to check in with Denise Diego, see how she’s coming with Gail Baker’s cell phone records.
As we walk up the front steps, Mayor Hugh Sinclair is walking down. For a change, his sunglasses are on his nose instead of dangling around his neck on a Croakie.
“Hot one,” he says to Ceepak, his face crinkling into a squint.
“Yes, sir.”
“Say, guys, I was just talking to Chief Baines. Couple things …”
Here we go.
“Now, I know you two don’t need to be reminded of this, but let’s not blow this thing out of proportion. The young girl ran into somebody she shouldn’t have. They meet in a seaside bar, she had one too many kamikazes, one thing leads to another …”
“Was there something else?” says Ceepak, who never likes to make any murder the victim’s fault.
“Yeah. Let’s not bother the neighbors up and down the street where you found the suitcases. For all we know, the bags were just dumped there because, well, for no reason whatsoever. Some out-of-towner, he picks up the beach babe in a bar, hacks her to pieces in the parking lot, stuffs her into a couple empty suitcases, then drives around town looking for a quiet street, and he just happens to pick Tangerine. So let’s not punish the folks on that street for something none of them had anything to do with.”
Ceepak takes off his own sunglasses so he can peer with confusion at Mayor Sinclair. “So far, we have made contact with only one resident on Tangerine Street. A Mrs. D’Ambrosio.”
“Did she tell you anything?”
“We took her statement.”
Ceepak’s not going to lie but he’s not going to tell Mr. Bright-Yellow-Polo-Shirt everything we know, either.
“We need to be inside,” he says.
“Right. One more thing, guys: We need to treat this like the heart attack thing on the roller coaster. Keep it on the Q.T. School’s out in three weeks. Let’s not scare off any potential tourists by blabbing about it to the mainstream media.”
“We do not discuss any ongoing investigation with the media. That’s why we have a public affairs officer. Danny?”
I give the mayor a two-finger salute off the bill of my cop hat, or where the bill would have been if I were wearing my uniform, which I’m not because I had to waste time on the steps with the mayor.
I do a quick change in the locker room, say hi to everybody hanging out around the coffee pot, and then Ceepak and I check in with Denise Diego in our tech center.
She’s removed all the Lord of the Rings figurines from her workstation and replaced them with Dark Knight paraphernalia. I just hope she doesn’t start doing that Joker lipstick thing. She eats so many nacho cheese Doritos, she already has an orange ring around her lips.
“How’s it going?” Ceepak asks.
“Excellent. Just had to wait for the M.E. to officially declare Ms. Baker dead, which happened moments ago. Verizon’s pulling everything now. Should have it in a couple of hours.”
“Well done. Thank you, Denise.”
“No problemo. ‘I like this job! I like it!’”
Ceepak stares. I chuckle. It’s a line from the Batman movie.
We’re officially off the clock, but we stay on the job.
It’s the Ceepakian way.
Around five P.M., we pull into the parking lot of Big Kahuna’s Dance Club. The place doesn’t really start hopping until around nine, so we have our pick of spots. Except the handicap ones near the front door. Ceepak would never take one of those even if we are the only car in the parking lot. That would be cheating.
The second we enter the nightclub I smell spilt beer, wet carpet, and stale perfume. The place smells like a hangover feels. We see Bud behind the bar slicing lime wedges for people to jam into their Coronas. Next he’ll probably do the oranges for bottles of Blue Moon. I hope no new beer starts a fad with kiwi fruit any time soon.
“Hey, Bud,” I say.
“Danny boy, what’s up?”
“Nothin’.”
Okay, this is what guys say even when they walk into a bar before it’s officially open while wearing a full police uniform—gun, cuffs, baton, and walkie-talkie included—accompanied by a six-two tower of power, also in uniform
“We need to ask you a couple of questions,” I say since any Bar Zone is in my area of forensic expertise. “This is my partner, Officer John Ceepak.”
Bud wipes his limey hands on his apron so he can shake with Ceepak without making him smell like a Mojito.
“Dude,” he says as he and Ceepak shake. “Heard all about you. You guys need a beverage? Coke? Fruit juice? I figure you can’t do a beer and a shot.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “Water would be nice.”
“Danny?”
“I’m cool.”
Bud fumbles around under the counter looking for a clean glass. Has trouble finding one. Why do I think Mr. Joe Ceepak is not only the world’s worst father but maybe its worst dishwasher, too?
“Hey, Officer Ceepak—can I ask you a question before you guys ask yours?”
“Certainly.”
“Is Danny really as good with that pistol as everybody says?”
“Indeed. In fact, he recently set a new record at the range.”
I shrug modestly. “It was an indoor firing range. No wind to compensate for.”
Ceepak grins. “I suppose that’s why The Police Marksman magazine wants to interview you.”
“You’re the cop who will not tell a lie, right?” Bud says to Ceepak.
“Right.”
“So that means Danny really did it! Awesome!”
He shoots water into a semiclean cocktail glass from the bar’s fountain gun.
“Is my father here?” Ceepak asks out of the blue.
“Your father?”
“Your new busboy,” I help out.
“Oh. Right. Duh. Danny told me he was your old man.” He lets it hang there. Stares at Ceepak. Nods a little. I can tell Bud’s trying to figure out how Dudley Do-Right could have Sir Skee-velot for a father. “Anyway, Joe’s cool. You know. Does his job. Tells everybody to call him Joe Sixpack, and, since it’s a bar, they do.”
“Is he here?”
Rolling Thunder (John Ceepak Mystery) Page 8
