Mind Scrambler

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Blond.”

  Great. Means it wasn’t Katie.

  “But it was a wig,” the guy says. “I don’t think she wanted me to know who she was when she came in with the credit card but I could. Easy.”

  “By reading the name on the card?” says Ceepak.

  “Nah. That was bogus, too. Janice Stone. It was a legit credit card. AmEx. Probably one of those aka deals. ‘Also known as,’ you know? I swiped it through the machine, everything comes up copacetic. But come on—you’d think she’d pick a better alias. Anybody could see right through that one. Janice Stone. How lame is that? She should’a gone with Betty Rubble, you ask me.”

  “Who was she?”

  “Jessica Rock.” He bobs his head toward the window. “The magician’s wife from across the street.”

  27

  We head across the street to the Xanadu.

  We need to have a little chat with Mrs. Rock, find out why she was bankrolling Jake Pratt’s secret motel room. I’m remembering what she said yesterday, that bit about “Nanny Katie, like many women, wasn’t immune to the allure of a younger man, especially one as attractive as young Jake Pratt.”

  Then Mrs. Rock basically confessed to her own predatory cougarness: “Many of the gals in the show felt the same way.”

  Yep. One even paid for Jake’s hotel room across the street.

  It’s no wonder the Rocks’ private investigator found Pratt so easily: all he had to do was ask Mrs. Rock where she was warehousing her boy toy.

  She probably even slipped Krabitz her copy of the card key.

  We figure she might be at the theater rehearsing, seeing how they have to work in a new dancer to take Jake’s place, so we head through that Authorized Personnel Only door off the main casino corridor.

  “Aloha, dudes!”

  Our ponytailed pal Tupula Tuiasopo is on the other side, guarding the backstage entryway in his Event Staff windbreaker. It’s noon. Toohey starts work early.

  “We’re looking for Mrs. Rock,” says Ceepak.

  Toohey nods.

  “Do you know where we might find her?”

  “Where?”

  Ceepak sighs. “I am asking you.”

  “Oh, right. Sorry, dude. What was the question again?”

  “Where is Mrs. Rock?”

  Tuiasopo shrugs. “Don’t know. But, hey—you know who might?”

  “Who?” asks Ceepak. He’s clenching his jaw so tight I think his temples might pop open.

  “Mr. Rock!”

  “And where might we find Mr. Rock?”

  “Swimming pool on the second floor. It’s totally awesome up there, dudes. Tropical as shit. They call it ‘the Garden of Delight’ because it’s like so totally delightful. And, it’s a garden, too.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mahalo. Later, dudes.”

  Yeah. Hopefully, a lot later.

  Ceepak and I take an elevator up to the second floor, weave our way through some more slot-machine alleys, and stop to ask a cocktail waitress for directions, even though we’re both guys. Finally, we find the Garden of Delight Spa and Pool.

  It’s this atrium made out of hothouse glass. The sun glares down the way it does on an ant frying underneath a magnifying glass. The air’s muggier than August back home in Sea Haven. I hear gurgling water and see steam rising up behind a bank of palm fronds.

  We make our way through the jungle of sweaty greens and I hear a splash. When we come into a clearing, I see a solitary, dark-haired kid swimming in the narrow lap pool. There’s some kind of modern art statue shaped like Tibetan tattoos on one side, a row of chaise lounges on the other.

  Richard Rock is kicking back in one of the recliners. He’s scribbling something into a marble-covered composition book. On the small table beside his chair are a neatly folded bath towel and a bottle of Hawaiian Tropic suntan lotion.

  “Mr. Rock?” says Ceepak.

  Rock closes his notebook.

  “Hello again, Officers.”

  “We’re looking for your wife.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “Jake Pratt is dead.”

  Rock gives us what he must think is a very sincere and mournful head bob. “Heard about that. Tragic. Gonna miss him. Mighty fine dancer. Good little showman.”

  “Your private investigator, Ken Krabitz, is the one who shot him.”

  “Heard ’bout that, too.” He gestures toward the swimming pool. “That’s why I’m keepin’ an eye on Kyle—Kenny’s son.” He leans forward, whispers, “Might be best if we don’t talk about what happened across the street in front of the boy, hear?”

  The kid swims to the edge of the pool, hauls himself up out of the water. He looks to be eleven, maybe twelve. Olive complexion. Dark hair. He might be five feet tall but probably only weighs about eighty pounds soaking wet, which he is right now.

  “Is everything okay, Uncle Rick?” the skinny kid asks, toweling off his hair with a bath sheet he found on the foot of the chaise lounge closest to the pool ladder.

  “Everything’s fine, son. Why don’t you run on inside there.” He gestures toward what I’m assuming is the spa’s clubhouse. “Go grab us a couple Coke-Colas.”

  “Are these guys cops?”

  “Go fetch us them Cokes, hear?”

  “Are they the assholes who arrested Kenny?”

  “Kyle?” says Rock, sitting up in his recliner. “Watch your language, boy. What happened to your daddy don’t give you no excuse to talk to your elders that a’way. It’s time to paint your butt white and run with the antelope.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Yep: he’s Kenny Krabitz’s kid all right.

  “It means it’s time for you to stop arguing and do as you’re told! Go fetch us them Cokes!”

  “Jesus. All right already.”

  Kyle pads away sullenly, his bare wet feet smacking like flip-flops on the tile floor the whole way.

  “Poor boy,” says Rock when the kid is out of earshot.

  “Where is your wife?” Ceepak asks again.

  “With David Zuckerman. They’re hoping to post bail, help Kenny out of this jam. He only did what he had to do. Crazy Jake came at him with a military pistol!”

  “We’d like to talk to Mr. Zuckerman as well.”

  That surprises Rock. “Really? Why?”

  “It seems he is the one who invited Lady Jasmine to last evening’s performance of your show.”

  “Shoot, son. Who’s trying to sell you that pile of cow pies?”

  “Lady Jasmine.”

  “Really? Well, Officer Ceepak—she’s lying.”

  “Perhaps. However, her husband corroborates her statement.”

  “The midget man? Mighty Mo-Mo?”

  “Yes, sir. If they were invited to the show, why were you so concerned about security last night?”

  “You know, I don’t spend that much time worrying about Lady Jasmine. I truly am not that concerned about her.”

  “Yesterday—”

  “This is today, Officer Ceepak. No sense playing Monday-morning quarterback when we got us bigger fish to fry.”

  Ceepak sighs again. It’s like everybody we meet in Atlantic City is determined to keep us spinning around in circles underneath a dark dome.

  “Are you a frequent visitor to an establishment known as Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy?” he asks Rock.

  “Lucky who?”

  I help out: “Lucky Lilani’s. It’s a Chinese massage parlor on the boardwalk.”

  “Now why the blazes would I go to a massage parlor? There’s a Jacuzzi right over yonder, behind them palm bushes. If I get a crick in my neck, I can just go soak it in the whirlpool. Don’t need no masseuse if you got you a Jacuzzi.”

  “We might need to examine your credit card bills to verify your statement.”

  “Fine. Just talk to David. He handles all the bookkeeping.”

  “Then we’ll ask him about your wife’s credit cards as well. Particularly the one
issued under the alias Janice Stone.”

  “Sure. That there’s the name Jessica uses when she needs to protect our privacy. Keeps the paparazzi from houndin’ the kids.”

  “It is also the credit card your wife used to pay for Mr. Pratt’s motel room across the street at the Royal Lodge.”

  “Uhm-hmm. Makes sense.”

  “Why was she renting a room for Mr. Pratt?”

  “Because she is a very compassionate woman.”

  “Why didn’t you or your wife tell us where we might find Mr. Pratt last night?”

  “Because we didn’t know where he was holed up.”

  Ceepak arches an eyebrow. “You didn’t?”

  “No, sir. I know I sure didn’t.”

  “You both knew about the room. Across the street.”

  “Yes. We sure did. But we didn’t think he’d be there. See, Jake knew we knew about his room so he also knew not to go there.”

  “But he did.”

  “He sure ’nuff did. Reckon he outfoxed us. Won’t happen again. Trust me.”

  “Why did your wife think it was necessary for Jake Pratt to move into the Royal Lodge motel?”

  “She heard tell that the fellow Jake was bunking with over at the Holiday Inn, this other dancer, Mr. Magnum, was a homosexual. Jessica didn’t think Jake ought to be sharing a room with such a person, since the Bible says homosexuality is a sin. I reckon you can see why I love my Jessie so darn much. Good Christian woman. Been together fifteen years. Lookin’ forward to fifteen more.”

  Man, talk about oblivious. This guy’s wife is across the street shacking up with one of his hunky Chippendales dancers and he buys her recycled Dr. Laura crap about saving Jake from the vast gay recruitment conspiracy?

  “See, fellers,” says Rock, “Jake Pratt don’t need any more sexual deviations like he might pick up from a radical-gay-type roommate. So my wife did the right thing, booked him a solo room across the street. She has what they call maternal instincts. Mother hens the whole cast—even the odd ducks like Jake Pratt.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about Pratt’s new accommodations when you discovered your notebooks were missing and you suspected Jake Pratt was the one who stole them?”

  “I reckon we’re just not as sharp as you fellers. But this morning, Kenny-boy finally put two and two together. That’s how come he got the notion to go check out the room over at the Royal Lodge.”

  “Why didn’t you alert Detective Flynn, as you promised you would.”

  “Promise? I know I never promised anything to Mr. Flynn.”

  “Did you ever consider that the real reason your wife rented the room was because she and Mr. Pratt were romantically involved?”

  Rock narrows his eyes. “You be careful, son, hear? You watch what you say about my wife and the sanctity of our marriage. Mrs. Rock has always been one hundred percent faithful. We made us vows. In front of Jesus and God almighty!”

  I butt in: “Is Mrs. Rock at the ACPD building right now?”

  “If that’s where the jail is, that’s where she and Dave Zuckerman went. I hope they spring Kenny-boy soon. I don’t want to be babysittin’ little Kyle all day long! Boy has a mouth on him.”

  Ceepak gestures toward the composition book, now serving as a coaster for the suntan-lotion bottle. “Working on a new illusion?”

  “Might. Never know when inspiration’s gonna mule-kick me in the head.” He stands. Wraps his things up in a towel. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I best escort young Kyle up to his room so he can change out of them wet swimmin’ trunks before his butt cheeks wrinkle up into a pair of prunes.”

  Great. Another image I don’t want in my head.

  Maybe the new trick Rock’s working on can make it disappear.

  Just like his PI made Jake Pratt disappear before he could contradict anything anybody said about him.

  28

  I’m thinking we should rent one of those Bosnian rolling-chair pushers for the day.

  We came to Atlantic City on the Coast City Bus. We have no cop car. No motorcycles. We don’t even have a trail bike like those two ACPD cops who showed up last night to guard the crime scene. The Atlantic City police department and jail are over in the Clayton G. Graham Public Safety Building on Atlantic Avenue, one of the yellow properties on the Monopoly board. I’m wondering if Ventnor Avenue and Marvin Gardens will be next door.

  Anyhow, to talk to Mrs. Rock or David Zuckerman, we need to be a mile and a half further south, but first we need to find a casino exit, something the Xanadu makes extremely difficult because they don’t want you to take your money down the street to somebody else’s hot slots.

  After a few false turns, we make it outside to the transportation center—a concrete-and-pillars parking garage like you’d find in any New Jersey mall, except it’s been classed-up with a rubber-backed red carpet and velvet ropes clipped to brass stanchions. Swanky. Except the place still reeks of wet concrete mixed with exhaust fumes.

  We inch forward in the taxi line while Ceepak works his cell phone.

  “So her story checks out?” He’s talking to Cyrus Parker. “Roger that.” He covers the phone’s mouthpiece. “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Those dancers you met last night with Mrs. Rock’s body double. Do you remember their names?”

  I wrack my brain. “Jim Bob and Blaine.”

  “Cyrus? Could you please check with Christina Crites, the stage manager, and determine the lodging accommodations for two dancers from Rock’s show? Jim Bob and Blaine. Right. We’re on our way to ACPD headquarters. Come again?” Ceepak grins. “Roger that.” He snaps his clamshell shut.

  “What’d he say?” I ask.

  “He verified Lady Jasmine’s alibi. She was at the blackjack table from nineteen-thirty hours until twenty-thirty. Cyrus’s team was then able to track her on a series of PTZ cameras as she moved from the casino floor to the Shalimar Theater. She and her entourage took no detours. He also confirmed our suspicions about the backstage camera. When viewed in super-slow motion, a slight visual glitch is noticeable at precisely nineteen-fifty-five, immediately after David Zuckerman passes underneath the lens.”

  And goes around to the other side to flick the switch on that mirror contraption.

  “So what’d he say that made you smile?” I ask.

  “Cyrus requested that we inform Mr. Zuckerman that the Xanadu Hotel and Casino intends to bill ‘Rock ’n Wow!’ for the overtime pay due the extra security personnel he called in under false pretenses.”

  In the taxi, Ceepak makes another phone call. Ohio.

  “Thank you, Ms. Porter-Burt. Appreciate it. He pled guilty? Then it’s all good. Come again?”

  I can’t hear what the prosecuting attorney is saying but it’s making Ceepak clench his jaw.

  “Does he have that right?” he asks as he white-knuckles his cell phone. “Very well. I’ll expect to hear from him.”

  He snaps the clamshell shut. Hard. I hope his brand-new LG unit came with hinge insurance. When he flipped it shut, it sounded like he was slamming a screen door made out of brittle plastic.

  “Trouble?” I ask.

  “According to assistant prosecuting attorney Lisa Porter-Burt, as part of his plea-bargain agreement, my father insisted on being granted the right to call me. Today.”

  “And Porter-Burt agreed?”

  “No. Her boss did.”

  The rest of the cab ride is pretty quiet, unless you count the sound of Ceepak’s jaw popping in and out of its socket. We pay the driver four bucks for hauling us the one and a half miles from the Xanadu to 2711 Atlantic Avenue.

  Our deputy badges get us past security and into the processing room where Zuckerman is standing at a counter, signing papers.

  “Mr. Zuckerman?” says Ceepak.

  He grunts but doesn’t look up from whatever it is he is so busy affixing his name to.

  “Mr. Zuckerman?”

  He turns around. When Ceepak uses that “don’t-make-me-say-yo
ur-name-again” voice, folks usually listen.

  “Yes?”

  “Where is Mr. Krabitz?”

  “Released on bail. Left me with all the paperwork.”

  “Where did he go?”

  Zuckerman sets his smirk on annoyed. “I have no idea. He is a private contractor.”

  “Where is Mrs. Rock? We were told that she was here with you.”

  “She was. However, since the Rocks are currently without a nanny, she went back to the Xanadu to make arrangements for ongoing child care. She also needs to sort out their new accommodations since their previous living quarters are currently considered a crime scene.”

  “Very well,” says Ceepak. “We’ll talk to her back at the Xanadu.”

  “And why do you need to talk to Mrs. Rock?” Zuckerman snaps. “Surely she and her family have been put through enough in the past twenty-four hours. If you have any further questions, kindly address them to me.”

  “Fine. Why did Mrs. Rock rent a room for Jake Pratt at the Royal Lodge Motel?”

  “Who says she did?”

  “The motel desk clerk.”

  “Did he take her fingerprints?”

  “Doubtful,” says Ceepak. “Why?”

  “How can he be certain it was Jessica Rock and not Sherry Amour?”

  “Who?”

  “The body double,” I say. “Her first name is Sherry, remember?”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Put on the right wig,” says Zuckerman, “they could be identical twins. Miss Amour and Mr. Pratt were the ones spending time together at that sleazebag motel.”

  “Mr. Rock told us his wife paid for the room,” says Ceepak.

  “And I’m sure Jessie had her reasons for doing so. Probably to protect Sherry. The two women are, as you might imagine given their work relationship, close. Unfortunately, Sherry is an alcoholic and a sexual deviant.”

  “What makes you say that?” asks Ceepak.

  Zuckerman’s lip sneers up toward his nose. “Did you watch any pay-per-view porno in your room last night?”

  The hairs on the back of Ceepak’s neck bristle. “Why is that relevant?”

  “Check out the Classics channel. In her day, Sherry Amour was quite the adult movie star. A very talented and agile performer.”