“We comped them into our show when they first came to town. Rock, his wife, the kids, Zuckerman.”
Mo-Mo nods. “Free tickets. Free booze. The whole megillah. We figure Zuckerman’s ready to reciprocate. So we check the social calendar, Nicole calls Lilani to see if she’s free and interested, we alert Ox—badda-bing, badda-boom. Seven-thirty, we’re raking in the chips.”
“So,” says Ceepak, “if we were to examine the security tapes . . .”
“You’d see us at table B-forty-three,” says Nicole. “Laughing our asses off. I couldn’t believe the hot streak we were on. Maybe Lilani really is my good-luck charm. Cards kept comin’ our way. Twenty. Twenty-one.”
Mo-Mo laughs, remembering. “We almost missed the whole show!”
“But,” says Ceepak, “you were there in time to see the Lucky Numbers illusion.”
“Yeah,” says Mo-Mo. “We saw ‘the Big Trick.’ ” He stretches open his mouth, pretends to yawn.
“I take it you weren’t impressed?”
“Come on. Nicole could do that Lucky Numbers mishegoss in her sleep if we had that kind of money.”
“Why would you need money?”
“To, you know, rig it up.”
“Morty?” Jasmine silences her husband with a head shake.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying.”
“Well, just stop, all right?”
“Ma’am,” says Ceepak, “my partner and I are investigating a murder. If you are withholding information—”
“On how a magic trick is done?” She smiles. “Come on, Mr. Ceepak. You’re a cop. You know how to solve a mystery. Think about it for two seconds and I guarantee you’ll figure it out.”
Ceepak stiffens. “Perhaps, as you suggest, my partner and I would be able to unravel the illusion’s secrets on our own. However, it might save us a great deal time if you were to elucidate further.”
“Hunh?”
“The guy wants you to explain it to him,” says Mo-Mo.
“I can’t,” says Lady Jasmine.
“Why not?” asks Ceepak.
“I took an oath.”
Ceepak’s left eyebrow shoots up an inch. “Pardon?”
“The Magician’s Code.” She raises her right hand. “‘I promise to never reveal the secret of any illusion to a non-magician, unless that one swears to uphold the Magician’s Code in turn.’ ”
“I see,” says Ceepak. I can tell: He’s backing off. Johnny C. is a huge fan of codes. If he’s gonna live his life by one, he has to let the magicians live by one, too.
Great.
No torture. Secrecy oaths that must be honored. Being an upright citizen can be extremely time-consuming.
“I will not ask you to violate your oath, ma’am.”
“You don’t need her to,” says Mo-Mo. “That illusion is so lame, my two-year-old could tell you how it’s done.”
“We don’t have a two-year-old, Morty.”
The hands go up again. “I’m just saying, is all.”
“So you didn’t steal Mr. Rock’s notebooks,” I say, just to wrap this thing up. “You didn’t go to the show to videotape his act, to try to rip him off?” I guess I sound pretty pathetic—Lady Jasmine gives me this very compassionate smile like I’m the kid who lost his parents at the mall.
“No, sweetie. That’s part of the code, too. You don’t do another magician’s illusion unless he or she gives you permission. You absolutely don’t sneak in with a camcorder to rip it off, not if you’re legit.”
“Which we are,” says Mo-Mo. “Totally. Magic’s been good to us, you know what I’m saying?”
Nobody says anything for a couple seconds. I can hear that nasty Mr. Coffee pot sizzling. It’s been on the hot plate so long, it’s starting to smell like my socks.
“Tell ’em about Lilani,” says Mo-Mo.
“You think?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, this is like a total, you know, gut feeling.”
“Go on,” says Ceepak.
“I think Lilani being in the audience freaked Rock out.”
“How so?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a feeling I got. When he walked past our table on his way to that bar in the middle of the auditorium—you know, to get that Shirley Temple.”
Ceepak nods. “We were seated in the box next to you.”
“Good seats, hunh?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Anyway, when Rock walked by, he hesitated. I’m sure he could see through that silly hood he had on.”
“Really?” I say.
Now Mo-Mo swings both hands out wide. “C’mon, kid. It’s a magic show. What? You think bunnies really live inside hats, too?”
“Anyways,” says Lady Jasmine, “I swear he was looking down at Lilani. That’s what made him stop in his tracks like that.”
Ceepak leans forward, rests his elbows on his knees. “Why?”
“That’s exactly what I asked Lilani, after the show!”
“And?”
“Well, she tells me, for the first time since I met her here in the casino, mind you, that she runs this . . . place. On the boardwalk. Apparently, Mr. Rock has been a frequent visitor but he may not want anybody to know about it. It could, you know, taint his reputation.”
“Big-time,” adds Mo-Mo, crossing his arms genie-style across his chest.
“What sort of establishment does Ms. Lee operate on the boardwalk?” asks Ceepak.
“It’s called Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy,” says Nicole. “It’s very therapeutic. Very Chinese.”
Mo-Mo snorts. “Come on, bubby. Call a spade a spade. It’s a freaking massage parlor!”
24
Right across the boardwalk from the Taj Mahal Hotel and Casino is Atlantic City’s world-famous family fun spot: the Steel Pier.
Used to be home to Rex the Wonder Dog and the diving horses.
I kid you not.
Real, live horses would clip-clop up this forty-foot ramp, and do a four-legged half-gainer into the Atlantic Ocean. Kids lapped it up.
These days, the Steel Pier’s home to a bunch of rides: bumper cars, crazy mouse, flip ’n fly trampolines, jump cycles, pumpkin wheel, rock-n-roll, wet boats. But the ride they really need, in my humble opinion, is a mind scrambler because right now my brain is all kinds of jumbled up.
David Zuckerman invited Lady Jasmine to the show? So how come he and Richard Rock made such a big stink about her coming and begged Parker for extra security?
And what’s with Mr. Wholesome Family Fun being in the frequent rubdown program of a cheesy massage parlor? Does he throw out his back on a regular basis sawing his wife in half? Or does he go there looking for the proverbial “happy ending?”
And don’t forget last night’s drunk blonde—Sherry, the body double. Why was she searching for Jake Pratt, who is currently our only suspect in the murder of Kathleen Irene Landry because Lady Jasmine and her entire entourage have an airtight alibi for the time of death, not to mention no motive and no desire to steal Rock’s notebooks for Lucky Numbers since they figured out how the trick was done just by watching it?
My mind is beyond scrambled. It’s a frittata.
We come out of Trump’s Taj, squeeze our way past that breakfast buffet line and head back the way we came.
Ceepak fishes that police radio cell-phone deal out of his thigh pocket.
“This is Ceepak for Detective Flynn.”
He releases a button. Waits.
“This is Flynn.”
“We just met with Lady Jasmine. Apparently, she and her guests were invited to Mr. Rock’s show last night by his manager, Mr. David Zuckerman. She reports having no interest in illegally acquiring the secrets to the Lucky Numbers illusion, stating that she and her husband were able to decipher said secrets simply by watching it.”
“Why were they so late?”
“They informed us they were playing blackjack at table B-forty-three in the main casino.”
> “Okay. Easy enough to verify. I’ll ask Parker to check it out.”
“Roger that. Officer Boyle and I are currently en route to an establishment called Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy.”
When Ceepak says it, it sounds like a legitimate spa for athletes with meniscus disk issues.
“What’s there?” asks Flynn.
“According to Lady Jasmine, Richard Rock has been a frequent visitor to the establishment.”
“Do you think there is some sort of connection between Mr. Rock’s, uh, therapy sessions and the murder?”
“Uncertain. However, I feel we should take a statement from Ms. Lilani Lee. Verify Lady Jasmine’s statement.”
“Yeah. Okay. She gives you any grief, give me a holler.”
“What’s your twenty?”
“Hunh?”
“Where are you currently located?”
“Oh. Right. We’re, uh . . .”
I hear muffled scratchy sounds. Wind.
“Where are we, Mike?” Flynn asks someone off radio.
“Carolina and Atlantic Avenue,” the other guy says back.
“Carolina and Atlantic,” Flynn repeats into the radio. “Liquor store.”
I glance at my watch. Ten-oh-five AM. A little early for cocktails. Unless, of course, you’re Joseph “Six-pack” Ceepak. Then it’s Jim Beam and Bud for breakfast.
Flynn crackles on: “Big plate-glass window. We’re surveiling Krabitz.”
“May I ask why?” says Ceepak.
“I’m wagering Krabitz knows more about Jake Pratt’s whereabouts than he lets on. Detective Mike Weddle and I have been tailing him since he and his son came down around nine, hit the Xanadu breakfast buffet.”
“Mr. Krabitz is in Atlantic City with his son?”
“I’m assuming that’s who the kid is. Boy. Eleven. Maybe twelve. Came down from their room in the Crystal Palace Tower, headed straight for the Xanadu’s buffet chow line. Forty-five minutes later, they returned to the Crystal Palace Tower and Krabitz came back down solo.”
“Where is Mr. Krabitz now?”
“In a deli across the street from the liquor store. Eating a jelly doughnut.”
The guy must love his breakfast foods. Never wants it to be lunch.
“Ten-four,” says Ceepak. “We will interview Ms. Lee, check back in as soon as the interrogation is completed.”
“Okay. Gotta go. Krabitz is on the move.”
“Roger that.”
Ceepak pockets the radio. His conversation with Detective Flynn took us all the way up to 1508 boardwalk. Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy.
Through the windows, I see about a half-dozen Asian ladies lined up near a half-dozen padded tables. Way in the back, I see velvet drapes partitioning off what I figure must be the “special” private rooms, booths stocked with baby oil, erotic candles, and fruit-flavored condoms.
A couple of older women near the front are kneading the necks of weary gamblers in those massage chairs where you stick your face in the leather hole that always reminds me of a hospital bedpan; looks about as sanitary, too. There’s a poster taped in the window, right above the MasterCard and Visa decals: Full Chinese Body Massage: Back, Arms, Legs, Neck, Hands—Just $20.
I’m wondering if they left off any more interesting body parts. The ones I suspect Mr. Rock came here to have a young Asian girl rub-a-dub-dub.
“Many of these establishments are actually bordellos,” whispers Ceepak, gesturing toward a green neon sign: 24 HRS OPEN. “Oftentimes, illegal immigrants from Korea and Thailand are forced to work in these places as prostitutes to repay the cost of their transpacific passage.”
I pretend like I didn’t know.
We go in.
The air is hot and moist. Three girls in the kind of low-cut slinky dresses you don’t see too much at 10:00 AM on a Wednesday are kneeling on the floor behind one of the empty massage beds, eating breakfast from bowls: steamed fish, rice, and some kind of slimy green vegetable. Looks like a few of the ladies brought their kids to work with them today. I see two boys, a little girl. One of the kids has powdered sugar all over his shirt, like he’s been eating funnel cakes for breakfast. Guess this is one of those progressive workplaces with on-site day care. Either that or it’s “Bring Your Kids to the Bordello Day.”
“We’re looking for Ms. Lee,” Ceepak announces.
The breakfast bunch stares at us. The chair women stop working on their clients. The girls waiting for victims at the tables give us terrified stares.
I don’t think any of them understand much English.
“Is Ms. Lee here?” Ceepak tries again.
“She no here,” says a woman coming out from behind those velvet curtains at the back of the store. “Miss Lee not here.”
“Yes you are,” I say, because I recognize her from last night at the theater.
“Ms. Lee?” says Ceepak, flashing his new deputy badge. “I am Officer Ceepak. This is my partner, Officer Boyle.”
“Is there going to be trouble?” asks one of the guys in a chair with his face smooshed through a leatherette doughnut hole.
“No, sir,” says Ceepak. “We just need to ask the proprietress a few questions. Perhaps we should step into your office.”
“What questions?” snaps Lee.
“Do you have an office? This might be best done in private.”
“What questions?”
I jump in: “Does Richard Rock come here a lot?”
The folks who were eating fish and stringy greens for breakfast are kind of cowering on the floor now. Bowing down so we can’t see any faces. I’m figuring our badges just made us look like INS agents.
“I don’t know no Richard Rock,” says Lilani Lee.
Ceepak points to a poster taped to the front of her cash register counter: “Rock ’n Wow!”
“He’s the magician pictured in that poster.”
“I don’t know no magician.”
“Lady Jasmine says you do,” I toss in. “Mighty Mo-Mo, too.”
“She lies. He lies.”
“No, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “They have no reason to do so.”
“They lie! You leave!”
Ceepak steps forward.
We’re not leaving.
Lilani Lee balls up her tiny fists. She looks pretty tough, even if she is wearing stiletto-heeled sandals and a clingy gown slit up to her thigh.
“You leave now! I call police!”
“We are the police,” I say, wiggling my badge to make it catch the light, just in case she missed it the first time.
“You have warrant? I call my lawyer!”
“Ms. Lee,” says Ceepak, “we have no desire to—”
“You leave! You leave here now!”
She lurches toward the cash register. Why do I think she keeps an aluminum baseball bat underneath that counter?
“Ms. Lee—”
“You leave!” she shrieks.
The radio in Ceepak’s pocket screeches.
“Officers down! Officers down! Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
I recognize the voice: Kenny Krabitz.
“Oh, shit. They’re fucking dead!”
We don’t measure the blood we’ve drawn anymore
We just stack the bodies outside the door
Who’ll be the last to die for a mistake
The last to die for a mistake
Whose blood will spill, whose heart will break
Who’ll be the last to die, for a mistake
—Bruce Springsteen, “Last to Die”
25
Ceepak and I monitor the radio chatter and race to the scene of the crime: the Royal Lodge, that shabby three-story motel directly across the street from the Xanadu.
I see about two dozen cops swarming all over the place: in the office, clunking up steel steps, patrolling the second- and third-floor terraces. The biggest cluster is on the second floor, bunched up outside a door near one of the rusty staircases.
Down on the ground, two cops in
bicycle helmets are rolling out Police Line: Do Not Cross tape, penning in the cars crammed nose-to-bumper in the parking lot. Three boxy ambulances and half a dozen cruisers with their roof bars spinning are parked on the sidewalk, rear wheels hanging off the curb, shafts of colored light bouncing off motel windows.
More mirrors.
Ceepak flashes his deputy badge at the cop standing guard near the access point in the barrier tape. Fortunately, it’s one of the bicycle guys we met yesterday.
“We need to be upstairs,” says Ceepak. “We were working with Detective Flynn.”
The guy nods. “The chief is up there now.”
“What room?”
“Two-twelve. On the left.” He gestures toward that knot of blue uniforms on the second floor.
“How are Detective Flynn and his partner?” asks Ceepak.
The bike cop shakes his head. “They’re not gonna make it. The Pratt kid, either. It’s a mess up there.”
Yeah.
It’s a mess.
We wait outside on the concrete balcony. From our holding position outside the door, I can see Detective Flynn and his partner Mike Weddle sprawled out flat on the floor. Both their chests are soaked with blood. It looks like somebody performed a rapid-fire exercise on them with a semiautomatic weapon as soon as they stepped across the doorsill. They’re still holding their badges in frozen fingers. Sidearms are holstered and strapped. They never went for their weapons. Probably means somebody told them to come on in.
They weren’t expecting resistance.
They should’ve. Their torsos are so riddled with splotchy circles of blood, I’m guessing neither of the detectives put on his Kevlar vest when they set out to tail Kenny Krabitz, PI, this morning. I see a radio like the one Flynn gave Ceepak. Krabitz must’ve dropped it after calling in his “officer down.” It spit up batteries when it hit the floor.
I lean to my right, look left, and now I’m guessing Jake Pratt was the one firing the semiautomatic pistol at the two cops who came knocking on his door. I can see a Beretta M9 gripped in his rigor-mortised right hand. The former dancer is sprawled on top of the bedspread. The garden of blooms on the floral-patterned comforter is slowly sinking beneath a creeping lake of blood. Someone took Pratt down with a single shot to the heart.
Mind Scrambler Page 13
