Mind Scrambler

by Chris Grabenstein

  “And now you’re suggesting that she and Pratt were intimate?”

  Zuckerman’s still shooting us his snide I-know-more-than-you grin. “Such was my understanding. And now, he’s dead and she’s missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Skipped town. Stage manager can’t locate her. She’s not in her room, not answering her cell. Listen, you’re cops. You’ve seen this sort of thing before. Older woman. Younger man. He finds the relationship satisfying so long as the older women isn’t grossly unattractive and has enough money to buy him gifts. But, being nineteen, Jake Pratt isn’t going to remain exclusive to Miss Amour, not if he meets an attractive girl closer to his own age, a girl who’s into the same kind of kinky sex he’s into.”

  “Katie?” I say—just to make sure I know whose reputation the sleazebag is sliming now.

  Zuckerman nods. “Ask the kids. Talk to Britney. She’ll tell you. Nanny Katie and Jake Pratt were hot and heavy. A classic backstage romance. Happens all the time when we go on tour.”

  “I don’t think that’s what was going on,” I say.

  “So?”

  Guess Zuckerman doesn’t care what I think. He turns to Ceepak. “The nanny was murdered during the Lucky Numbers routine, correct?”

  Ceepak nods, somewhat reluctantly.

  “Well, Miss Amour isn’t onstage for that one. In fact, after the transportation scene, which usually goes up at eight-twenty-five, Sherry’s done for the night, leaving her free to roam around backstage, maybe sneak into room AA-four and interrupt an assignation between her young male companion and her younger, more accommodating competition—Kinky Katie.”

  I want to tell Zuckerman to stick a plug in his piehole but Ceepak shoots me a look. Shakes his head. Guess Zuckerman’s still not worth it.

  “Of course,” Ceepak says, “we have no way to confirm who was in the backstage hallways during last evening’s performance because you activated the mirror switch to disable the solitary surveillance camera.”

  “I sure did!” snaps Zuckerman. “It’s imperative that our secrets remain just that. Secret.”

  “Did you tell Cyrus Parker?”

  “Of course not. If one’s goal is to maintain security, you do not alert those who would spy on you as to your intentions.”

  Ceepak changes his tack.

  “Why did you request extra security in the auditorium last night when you were the one who invited Lady Jasmine to attend?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Lady Jasmine.”

  The smirk broadens. “And you believed her?”

  “She has proven truthful in other areas of her testimony.”

  “Right. Did she also tell you that crap about the massage parlor?”

  Ceepak remains mute.

  “She did, didn’t she? She told you that Mr. Richard Rock spends all his downtime at some exotic Asian whorehouse on the boardwalk? You don’t have to answer. Jasmine and her husband have been trying to smear our good names ever since we pulled into town. They even hired that Lilani Lee, a convicted sex peddler, by the way, to back up their cock-and-bull story because Richard Rock’s well-known Christian values threaten Lady Jasmine’s ticket sales. We’re Disney. She, on the other hand, appeals to the same people who rent Sherry Amour movies up in their rooms.”

  “Thank you for your time,” says Ceepak.

  He’s smiling.

  He knows something. Something he’s not telling Zuckerman or me.

  “That’s it?”

  “Thank you for your time.”

  We head out into the hall; Ceepak spies an empty office.

  “In here, Danny.”

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “He’s lying. If, as Zuckerman suggests, Ms. Lee is being paid to tarnish Mr. Rock’s reputation, why did she insist that she had never met the man?”

  Good point.

  Ceepak pulls out his cell. I guess he didn’t break it. “We need to talk to the two dancers. You say they escorted Ms. Amour home last evening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They might know something closer to the truth regarding her relationship with Jake Pratt.”

  He speed-dials Parker.

  “Cyrus? John Ceepak. Do you have that motel information?” He jots down an address in his spiral notebook. “What’s that?” he says to Parker. “Interesting. Roger that. We’ll keep you posted.”

  He closes up his phone.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “They are rooming at the Super Eight Motel on Tennessee Avenue.”

  “And?” I ask. I know there’s more. Ceepak only says “interesting” when there is.

  “Parker says we’re not the only ones attempting to locate the two dancers. Apparently, Mr. Krabitz just contacted the stage manager and requested the same information.”

  29

  The Super 8 Motel is, of course, located back near the boardwalk, on Tennessee Avenue.

  We need to move from the yellow properties all the way to the oranges.

  “It’s pretty close to Caesars and all the other casinos,” says Sergeant Lisa Knauf, the ACPD cop in charge of their motor pool as we sign her clipboard for our loaner vehicles. “Sorry this is all we have available right now,” she adds.

  “It’ll work, Sergeant Knauf,” says Ceepak. “In fact, they appear quite similar to the M-Gators John Deere provided for us over in Iraq.”

  “Probably because that place is full of sand, too,” cracks Sergeant Lisa.

  Our police vehicles for the day? A pair of four-wheel all-terrain vehicles typically employed by the ACPD beach patrol.

  “Danny?” says Ceepak. “Do you know how to operate a Kawasaki 750cc quad-bike?”

  “Yeah. Like a motorcycle.”

  “Exactly.”

  Of course, the beach patrol four-wheeler looks more like a supercharged riding lawn mower with humongous knobby tires, but the throttle is on the handle just like on a dirt bike and you squeeze the brake grips like on a ten-speed. This should be fun.

  “Helmets, Danny. Helmets.”

  Right. I strap mine on.

  “Head up Atlantic,” says Sergeant Knauf. “Take the right on Tennessee.” She doesn’t add, “Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars.” Before we leave town, I want to check out Mediterranean and Baltic. See if the rents really are that cheap.

  Ceepak hops on his thunder-blue bike. Starts it up. I straddle mine. Goose the throttle. Get that whole zoom-zoom thing going.

  “Let’s roll!” Ceepak shouts over the din of our throaty four-stroke engines. These things sound like lawn mowers, too—angry ones that chewed too many weeds.

  We scoot out of the parking lot and head up Atlantic Avenue. The four-wheelers are equipped with spinning lights up front but we don’t flick ’em on. The word POLICE painted on the windscreen does the trick and people pull over to let us pass.

  When we near Tennessee Avenue, Ceepak goes into one of those cocked-arm left turn signals I remember seeing in this safety bicycle-riding coloring book we hand out to kids back in Sea Haven. So, I do the same thing, even if it does make me look like a dork.

  Up ahead, I can see the bright yellow and red Super 8 sign. The building is four stories tall, maybe half a block long. Looks like an adobe ranch house with cranberry trim. There’s a fenced-in pool where the Royal Lodge would have a parking lot and white vinyl railings on all the floors so college kids don’t use their terraces as diving boards.

  “Danny?” shouts Ceepak.

  Now his left arm is chopping straight ahead. Pointing toward the second floor.

  I see it.

  Kenny Krabitz, the scrawny PI, is kicking at a door. Pounding on it with his fist.

  Good thing we borrowed the motorbikes. We got here just in time.

  Ceepak gives his throttle a quick twist, pops a wheelie. “Head right,” he yells. “I’ll go left.”

  Ceepak fishtails his four-wheeler into a sharp turn and hops over the curb at one end of the sky blue swimming p
ool. He’ll roll in to block the western staircase up to the second floor. I’ll head up the street, swing in, and block the east. We’ll cut off Krabitz’s two escape routes, prevent him from kicking down the door into what I’m assuming is Blaine and Jim Bob’s room.

  “Krabitz!” I hear Ceepak scream. “Stay where you are!”

  I glance left and see he is off his bike, pounding up the steel steps, two at a time, tearing off his helmet. He’d probably be reaching for his Glock right about now if, you know, Sergeant Lisa Knauf and the ACPD had issued us sidearms along with our ATVs.

  I zip past an Aquafina machine and aim for the second set of steps.

  “Freeze!” Ceepak screams as he starts running up the extremely long terrace.

  “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!”

  Yeah. It’s Krabitz. He spins on his heels and heads for the staircase behind him: the one I’m aiming for.

  “Freeze,” I scream over my whining engine, so he knows we have this staircase blocked, too.

  Krabitz grabs a railing and swings into a flying turn on the landing, halfway down the steps.

  He is not going to stop.

  He’s going to run right past me and my ATV before I even dismount.

  So I goose the throttle and aim for the steps.

  Hey, steps are a type of terrain and this is supposed to be an all-terrain vehicle. The big balloon tires bump with a sharp jolt when they bite the metal lip of the first stair tread and haul me up. The shock-absorber springs boink up and down, making me do the same thing in the hard plastic seat.

  “Shit!” Krabitz screams when he sees me gunning up the stairs for him.

  Now the rear wheels of my golf cart on steroids dig into that first step and I heave forward. Krabitz retreats a step. My whining drive train torques, finds traction, and hauls me up another step. Krabitz retreats to the landing. I hear Ceepak clanking down the metal staircase behind our target.

  This is a good thing.

  Because I think I just exceeded the Kawasaki’s maximum angle of attack. Four bouncing steps up, I start stuttering back down. I think I should’ve worn a dance belt with a cup today.

  “Got him!” Ceepak hollers while he does something I can’t see because the handlebars and gas tank on this thing are currently in my face and blocking my view. “Well done, Danny!”

  As the pain in the Boyle family jewels subsides and my ride levels out, I can see that Ceepak has Krabitz pinned against the railing in a jujitsu armlock deal that looks pretty painful.

  “Let me go, you fucking fuck!”

  Oh, yeah. When Ceepak fully extends your arm, presses down on your elbow while simultaneously pulling up on your wrist—it’ll hurt.

  And when Krabitz is all splayed out like that, I can see the other missing prop pistol, the second Dick Tracy .38 caliber. It’s tucked into the waistband of his pants. I know it’s the second one because the ACPD still has the first snub-nosed pistol, the one he used to kill Jake Pratt, in their evidence room. Looks like Krabitz aimed to use this one on the two chorus boys if they didn’t tell him what he wanted to hear.

  “Awesome diversionary tactic, Danny,” says Ceepak as we watch the ACPD cops haul Kenny Krabitz away for the second time in one day.

  Mr. Zuckerman has probably been called back to the jail at the public safety building. He needs to post some more bail for his private investigator. As you might guess, it’s against the law to kick open somebody’s hotel room door after they tell you to go away. While we were busy corralling Krabitz, Blaine and Jim Bob were upstairs dialing 911.

  “Let’s go see if the two gentlemen in room two-twenty-four will talk to us,” says Ceepak.

  I follow him up the staircase.

  We march to their room. Knock.

  “Mr. Brisco? Mr. McMillan?”

  Apparently, Cyrus Parker gave Ceepak last names to go with Jim Bob and Blaine.

  “Go away!” says a voice on the other side of the door.

  Ceepak holds his deputy badge up to the peephole.

  “We’re with the Atlantic City police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “That’s what that other jerk-face said, too!” It’s Blaine. I recognize his voice from last night. “He said he was with the police. He showed us his pistol to prove it!”

  “Did he show you a badge?”

  “Yes!” comes the indignant answer. “And it looked just like yours. You can buy those things for fifty cents on the boardwalk.”

  “I assure you, sir, these are legitimately issued deputy badges.”

  “Look, musclehead!” Jim Bob jumps into the act. I’m guessing he checked out Ceepak’s chiseled male physique while peeping through the hole to examine his badge. “We don’t want to talk to you! So go away!”

  “It is, of course, your prerogative to refuse to speak to us,” says Ceepak.

  “But, come on!” I say. “We’re just trying to help your friend.”

  “What friend?” asks Blaine.

  “Ms. Sherry Amour.”

  “She’s gone,” says Jim Bob. “Left town late last night.”

  “What time?” I ask.

  “We don’t know. We haven’t seen her since the show came down.”

  “Now who’s lying?” I say.

  “What?” The door sounds like it’s in a snit.

  “Come on,” I say. “You guys escorted Ms. Amour out of the karaoke bar last night. Lip Sync Lee’s. I was there, remember?”

  There’s this pause.

  “We don’t remember you,” says Jim Bob.

  Ceepak sighs. Me, too. So far, I don’t think a single person in Atlantic City has told us the truth.

  “I’m going to slip my business card under the door,” says Ceepak. “I suggest that you call the Atlantic City police department. Ask them to verify our authenticity. Once you are confident we are who we say we are, perhaps you will reconsider your position and speak with us. You can call me on my cell at any time, day or night.”

  “And why would I want to do that?” says Jim Bob.

  “Because we are very interested in ascertaining the truth about your two friends. Jake Pratt. Sherry Amour.”

  “Really? Or are you boys being paid to find Mr. Rock’s stupid notebook, too?”

  “Come again?” says Ceepak as he and I both lean in closer to the door.

  “That asshole who was just here? He said he was going to ‘wring our faggy fucking necks’ unless we told him where Jake Pratt hid ‘the last goddamn notebook.’ ”

  “What did he mean by the ‘last’ notebook?” asks Ceepak.

  “How the hell should we know? The man is psychotic.”

  “Does he think Jake Pratt gave this last notebook to you or Ms. Amour for safekeeping?”

  No answer.

  Ceepak presses on: “What can you tell us about their relationship? Were the two of them romantically involved?”

  The door continues to give us the silent treatment.

  Ceepak’s cell phone rings. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says politely. “I need to take this call.”

  Man, you make a plea bargain up in Ohio, your wishes get granted fast.

  Ceepak steps away, snaps open his cell.

  “So what’s in the ‘last’ notebook?” I ask the door. “Another one of Rock’s magic tricks? Did Pratt steal it so he could finance his getaway? That’s what everybody keeps telling us. They say that Jake Pratt killed the nanny, my friend Katie Landry, then he stole some of Mr. Rock’s secret notebooks so he could extort a million dollars, buy a couple plane tickets to Mexico or something. Then, about an hour ago, Mr. Zuckerman tried to make us believe that Jake and Sherry were hot and heavy and that Sherry was the one who killed Katie in a wild fit of jealous rage. I figure Zuckerman watches too many soap operas, how about you guys?”

  No reply. I thought they might want to trash The Young and the Restless with me.

  “Danny?” Ceepak returns to our mute metal door. “That wasn’t my father. We need to roll.”

  “Wh
ere?”

  “Back to the Royal Lodge. Dr. McDaniels has arrived on scene.”

  “Has she figured out who shot who up in room two-twelve?”

  “Not yet. She tells me she’s still working the trajectory angles, counting cartridges.”

  “But?” I know there’s a but.

  Ceepak hesitates. “Earlier today she was able to examine Katie Landry’s body.”

  “And?”

  More hesitation.

  “Come on? What’s up?”

  “Dr. McDaniels paid particular attention to the ligature markings around her neck.”

  “And?”

  “It seems Katie wasn’t just strangled. She was tortured first.”

  30

  We motor our ATVs over to the Royal Lodge Motel.

  I hear something scraping along the pavement under my ride, like one of those dangling mufflers you sometimes see dragging along the pavement under an old clunker. Those puppies shoot up such a shower of sparks it looks like there’s a tiny welder strapped to the chassis.

  This is what I think about when I don’t want to think about Katie being tortured.

  It almost works.

  Fortunately, the first crime-scene motel is only a few blocks away from the Super 8.

  We pull up to the police tape at the far end of the parking lot, kill our engines.

  “Where’s Dr. McDaniels?” Ceepak peels off his helmet and asks the bicycle cops still standing guard.

  “Upstairs with the chief.”

  “She asked us to swing by. She has new information pertaining to the incident across the street.”

  The bike-patrol guys tug up on the yellow ribbon, allowing us to scoot underneath and enter their crime scene. We cross the asphalt parking lot and start clunking up the metal steps. I’m glad I’m not riding up on a supercharged garden tractor this time.

  When we reach the terrace, I see Dr. McDaniels standing outside room 212. She’s scowling up at the sun, sucking in some fresh air, maybe wishing she still smoked. She’s over sixty. I figure she used to be a smoker. In the olden days, everybody smoked. Constantly. Watch a movie.