Mind Scrambler

by Chris Grabenstein

37

  I think my theory makes sense.

  Mrs. Rock killed Katie because Katie had uncovered some sort of evidence that exposed her seedy affair with a barely legal boy.

  I’ll wager that Mrs. Rock, as the senior partner in the scandal, was the one who called most of the shots. Told Jake Pratt to buy the lingerie and force Katie to wear it. Told him to send the kids out for ice cream. She probably even lent him the fifty bucks.

  She probably also suggested that Pratt use his bolo tie to choke Katie to the brink of suffocation, to scare her into telling him where she had hidden her evidence.

  But, Katie didn’t.

  Okay. I have to wonder about that. Why not?

  Why didn’t she just give them what they wanted?

  Maybe being forced to strip naked and pull on all that leather garter gear was just too humiliating, stopped her from thinking straight.

  See, the Katie Landry I knew back in elementary school was a sweet and innocent Catholic kid. She grew up to become a sweet and innocent kindergarten teacher. Hell, she could’ve been a nun if, you know, girls still did that sort of thing. So if Mrs. Rock and Jake Pratt wanted to sexually humiliate Katie as part of their torture technique, man, they sure made a smart costume choice. I’m certain Katie Landry wished she could die before she actually did.

  And then, clever spider woman that she is, Mrs. Rock used the same kinky sex setup to frame her disposable boy toy. She dropped a pile of his pubic hairs on Katie’s carpet. I figure she harvested them earlier when Pratt was distracted. When Jessica Rock had him squirming on the mattress in ecstasy, he clearly wasn’t paying very close attention to what her fondling fingers were actually doing down there.

  And when her disposable boy toy was framed and ready for hanging, she paid sleaze-bucket Kenny Krabitz to nail him with a pistol she’d lifted out of the prop room.

  “You really think she did it?” I ask Ceepak.

  “I suspect she was somehow involved in the murder and/or its cover-up.”

  Okay. Not a ringing endorsement. But I’ll take it.

  We’re still stationed in the hallway backstage. I can hear the canned music they use for the big finish seeping out through the stage door, which somebody on the other side just propped open in anticipation of the final curtain call.

  Parker has gone off to help cover the other stage exits.

  “But what about the diary?” I say this out loud.

  “Come again?” says Ceepak.

  “The spiral notebook the ACPD found in Pratt’s room at the Royal Lodge when they found the Pink Pussycat bags. Why’d he write her that love note?”

  “I don’t believe it was a love note to Katie.”

  “No?”

  “Do you recall the actual wording?”

  “Not precisely.”

  Ceepak reaches into a knee pocket on his cargo pants, pulls out his own little spiral-bound book.

  “I took the liberty of cribbing it when Chief Maroney was reading the pertinent passage: ‘Katie. I am moving into the Royal Lodge as suggested. Being closer is better. I love you. I can’t wait to be so close we melt into each other.’ ” Ceepak closes up his notebook, tucks it back into his pants. “The punctuation after Katie is crucial.”

  Oh-kay. If Ceepak says so. Me? I let the computer check my spelling and grammar.

  “It is a period, Danny. If Pratt had meant it as a missive to Ms. Landry, he would have used a colon. Perhaps a dash. Maybe even a comma. But by coming to a full stop, he is merely adding another item to his to-do list.”

  Got it. Katie. It’s something to be dealt with. Like: Laundry. Read that way, this is a note to whoever told him to take care of Katie, agreeing with their suggestions on how the job should be done. Move into the Royal Lodge. Be closer to the scene of the crime. Have a place to hide immediately afterward.

  And now I think we know who he really wanted to melt into. It sure wasn’t Katie. She was way too young for this creep. That lover’s spat I witnessed in the lobby? It wasn’t one. It was Jake Pratt already hounding Katie to turn over whatever evidence she had uncovered. The guy was nineteen. Nineteen-year-olds are what they call impetuous. So even though he had been given his marching orders, Pratt probably wanted to wrap up the Katie problem without going through all the trouble of playing dress-up back in AA-4.

  Now I hear thundering applause pouring out of the stage door.

  “The show is over.” I see Ceepak brush his hip, checking for his Glock, which, like mine, isn’t there. Usually, when we apprehend a primary murder suspect, we’re armed. Not tonight.

  “Great show, guys!” gushes the nanny-dancer, the first one to bound out the stage door. “Awesome!” She and the three other chorus girls bounce up the hall dressed in their sexy cowgirl outfits—complete with white gun belts holstering pink pistols.

  Next come the three remaining male dancers: Mr. Magnum (who, by the way, is kind of tiny), Blaine, and Jim Bob. The guys look like total doofuses compared to the girls: spangled Stetsons, bolo ties, cowhide vests, and chaps flapping against their legs.

  Finally, here comes Richard Rock followed by David Zuckerman. Zuckerman is hugging his aluminum-clad clipboard. His face is flushed and his scalp is even pinker than the chorus girls’ six-shooters.

  Meanwhile, Rock is shaking his head and sighing heavily.

  “How could you betray me like that, David?” he says as they march up the hall.

  Zuckerman blinks. “She asked me.”

  “Son—never miss a good chance to shut up.”

  “Gentlemen?” Ceepak interrupts. “Where is Mrs. Rock?”

  Rock dabs at his face with a towel. “What are you two boys doin’ back here? This area is off-limits.”

  “We are here as part of the continuing investigation into the murder of Katie Landry. Again, Mr. Rock—where is your wife?”

  “You boys should’a notified us first if you were gonna come nosin’ around while we was onstage.”

  “We obtained clearance from hotel security.”

  Rock turns to Zuckerman. “David?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Get on the horn and call that Cyrus Parker fella. See if he really did give these two permission to snoop around back here.” He puffs out his chest, goes nose to chin with Ceepak. “You boys see anything interesting while you were spyin’ on me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, really? What?”

  “We now fully understand how the Lucky Numbers illusion is done.”

  “Say what?”

  “We know it is merely a matter of you manipulating prerecorded digital video images inside a control room while narrating the footage in a manner designed to convince the audience that what they are seeing on-screen is actually happening.”

  Steam blasts out of Rock’s ears. Well, it would if this were a cartoon. “David?”

  “Sir?”

  “Call the goddamn fucking lawyers. Sue this sumabitch. Sue the Atlantic City police department for being dumber than fucking dirt and deputizin’ these two little shits in the first place. Slap an injunction on them.”

  “I believe,” says Ceepak, “that what you should request is a restraining order.”

  “What?”

  Ceepak is scanning the hallway behind Rock. “Where is Mrs. Rock?”

  “Gone.”

  “Say again?”

  “She’s gone! Pulled up stakes and left me.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” says Ceepak. “Mrs. Rock was just onstage.”

  “Hell, I know that, boy. I was out there with her. But she refused to come off this a’way with me. Apparently, somebody’s been snooping around where they shouldn’t ought to. Told Jessie what Lady Jasmine’s been saying is one hundred percent true. Told her I’ve been frequenting a massage parlor up the boardwalk, ain’t that right, David?”

  “Mrs. Rock asked me to look into the matter, yes. After Mr. Ceepak reported that Lady Jasmine was continuing to make her allegations.”

  Rock shakes h
is head, walks on by. “If I was you, I would’ve taken a closer look at to who it was signin’ my paychecks, Davey. I don’t like this . . .”

  “You always instructed me to do whatever Mrs. Rock asked me to do.”

  “David, I don’t particularly like it when people put words in my mouth unless I say it!”

  With that, Rock storms up the hall toward the T.

  We turn to follow and I see that the chorus boys have been hovering around the corner, sponging up some hot gossip for tonight’s dish session up in the karaoke bar.

  “Where did Mrs. Rock go?” Ceepak now asks Rock’s back.

  Rock tosses up his hands and, without turning around or slowing his stride, says, “Who knows? Too bad she can’t run across the street, cry all over her boyfriend’s pillow.”

  Finally, dramatically, he stops and turns.

  “That’s right. I knew what the hell was goin’ on over at that motel.”

  “With Jake Pratt?” asks Ceepak.

  “Hell, yeah. I knew all about it.”

  “Yet you told us you weren’t worried about your wife having an affair with the young dancer.”

  Rock shakes his head. “I know I didn’t say she was one hundred percent faithful.”

  He disappears into his star dressing room.

  Mind scramble alert.

  Richard Rock flips and flops more than all those pancakes back home in Sea Haven.

  At the far end of the hall, there’s a blinding blast of white light as the Authorized Personnel Only door is shoved open.

  “Did she come off this way?” It’s Parker flanked by two ACPD cops.

  “Negative,” says Ceepak.

  “Where the hell is she, then?”

  “Mr. Rock claims she refused to exit with him. Marital difficulties.”

  Parker palms the top of his head. “Well, she didn’t come out the door on the other side of the stage. And my guys in the basement didn’t see anybody, either. Damn.”

  Ceepak turns to Mr. Zuckerman. “Where is she?”

  “Gone.”

  “How?” demands Parker.

  “I don’t really know. However, Jessica Rock has been working in magic for well over two decades. Escape acts are her stock in trade. She does one onstage every night.”

  “Wait a second,” I say. “You’re telling us she magically transported herself out of the theater?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, how’d she do it without her body double?”

  Another smug shrug. “I couldn’t tell you. I will, however, tell you the secret to any successful illusion.”

  I take the bait: “What?”

  “Preplanning.”

  38

  We’re frantically sending out search parties.

  Coordinating with the video surveillance team.

  And this is when Mr. Ceepak finally calls from Ohio.

  We’re still backstage, so we duck into that electrical closet for a little privacy. I go in with Ceepak because he gestures that I should.

  He thumbs the speakerphone button on his LG cell so I can hear every rank thing his father has to say.

  I think he wants a witness.

  “Where’d I catch you, Johnny?”

  “Where I am is of no consequence.”

  “It is to me. See, I’m in a jail, Johnny. No windows. Can’t see shit except bars, a bunk, a crapper, and this ugly-ass gangbanger who thinks I’m gonna be his bitch tonight. Fuck you, my friend. Get the fuck out of my face. Asshole. He’s backing off. Fucking pussy.”

  Ceepak closes his eyes. Drops his head.

  I take the cell phone so his hands are free to cover his face.

  “Can’t talk long, Johnny. That assistant prosecuting attorney Lisa Porter-Burt might look hot ’n sexy in those tight suits she sashays around in but, I tell you son, the girl is one cold bitch. Only gave me five minutes to call my son.”

  Ceepak lowers his hands. I aim the phone at him.

  “The clock is running,” he says, slow and tight.

  “You’re down there in Atlantic City, hunh? How’s that working out? You talk to that asshole Burdick, yet? You take his deposition, Johnny-boy? I’ll bet that was fun.” Mr. Ceepak laughs up a chest full of mucus. “Hey, you see him again, tell him to go fuck himself. For me. Okay? Then tell him my good news: I’ll be coming to see him. Soon.”

  Ceepak stares at the phone.

  “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to share with you, Johnny. Guess how much the People and State of Ohio care about what I did all those fucking years ago? They could give two shits. Well, Porter-Burt might. She might give three or four. But her boss, this gray-haired geezer, he sure as shit didn’t. He just wanted to push another pile of paper off his desk, clear his calendar, save the taxpayers the expense of a trial, wrap this sucker up.”

  I cannot believe what I am hearing.

  “Yes, sir, son—the criminal justice system proved most merciful and wise today. Lenient, even. The top dog realized I’ve served time in my own private prison, torturing myself for years about what happened. He could see how remorseful I was. How guilt-ridden and repentant. He’s a father, Johnny, just like me, so he knows about the mental anguish I’ve been through, especially after I told him about Billy being raped by a priest and all. I admit, I laid it on pretty thick for the old fart, but, hell—a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, am I right, Johnny?”

  Ceepak doesn’t respond.

  “Hey, too bad you weren’t here to contradict me, hunh? But, well—you’re always somewhere else, aren’t you? Always running off to do your duty for god and country. Iraq. Atlantic City. Always eager to lend a hand, aren’t you, Johnny-boy?” Another phlegmy laugh. “Jesus, how can you be my son and still be so fucking dumb? You don’t have to answer that, Johnny. Not right now. We’ll talk about it when I come see you. We’ll go grab a couple beers. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, son?”

  Mr. Ceepak pauses. Waits for his son to say something.

  Ceepak doesn’t.

  “Guess you can’t talk ’cause you’re all choked up to hear how good my plea deal worked out, hunh? That’s okay. We’ll be together soon. What is it? October. Hell, with a little time off for good behavior, I figure I’ll be out by Christmas. Tell your mother. I’ll be home for Christmas—just like in the fucking song! If not Christmas, Easter for sure. Like I said, Johnny—this lead prosecuting attorney or whatever the fuck they call him? He’s a father. He knows how much grief comes with two shitty sons.”

  There’s a knock on the closet door.

  “Ceepak?” Parker. “We’ve got her.”

  “Roger that.” Ceepak stands and gestures for me to hand him the cell, so I do.

  He punches off the speaker button. Brings the phone up to his ear.

  “Are you done?” He’s standing at what I think the army manual calls parade rest with the phone cocked to his ear, waiting for his father to finish. “If any of what you said is true, trust me, sir—it is not going to play that way. You’ll see. I’ll hire lawyers.” Another pause. Ceepak listens. I can hear a rant of some sort reverberating out of the earpiece.

  Ceepak glances at his watch.

  “Sir?” Ceepak interrupts his old man. “I believe the prosecuting attorney’s office granted you five minutes for this phone call. Your time is up.”

  He slams the clamshell shut.

  “Come on, Danny. Let’s roll.”

  For someone who magically disappears on a regular basis, Mrs. Rock doesn’t remain invisible for long.

  Parker’s security team monitoring the eyes in the sky spotted her at a “Cops and Donuts” slot machine on the main casino floor. She was the only woman in the three-acre playing field wearing a sequined gown. Sure, some of the Irish ladies had sequined leprechauns on their baggy green sweatshirts, but Mrs. Rock was the only one out there in formal wear.

  It’s a little after 9:30 PM when we follow Parker and two of his men into the crowded casino. The 8:00 shows and lounge acts just let out, so it’s r
ush hour on the gambling floor. The place feels more crowded than an airport terminal in a blizzard when all the flights are canceled and everybody’s already bored with the chicken-wings at the sports bar.

  We’re off the carpet, onto the shiny terrazzo tile.

  “What’d your old man want?” Parker asks.

  “Inconsequential at this juncture.”

  Parker and I both nod. We’ve known Ceepak long enough to know that when he uses two words like that in one sentence, his emotions are shutting down so he can concentrate on the job.

  So we silently proceed up the lane of “Cops and Donuts” slots.

  There’s about a hundred of the machines stretching toward the horizon and every one is currently occupied.

  We see the glittering gown.

  “Mrs. Rock?” says Parker, his voice booming. We pick up our pace, close in on her stool.

  “Just a second.” She slaps her spin button again.

  “Will you kindly come with me?”

  “Hold on, hon. I get a bonus game.”

  “Mrs. Rock?”

  “Dadgumit!” Mrs. Rock’s bonus spin ends up paying off exactly nothing. “This machine was hot until you boys came along!”

  “Let’s go upstairs, ma’am,” says Ceepak. He and Parker now look like polite bookends—both of them have their arms extended to the right to indicate which way Mrs. Rock should scoot off her stool.

  “I can’t leave. I have a fifty-dollar credit!”

  “We will gladly issue you a voucher for the remainder,” says Parker.

  “But somebody else will come along and win after I’ve been the one feeding money into this machine!”

  “Actually,” says Ceepak in his robo-cop voice, “that is a fallacious assumption. Past wins or losses are not predictive of future wins and losses.”

  Mrs. Rock smiles up at Ceepak. Now she’s impressed by his brains as well as his brawn.

  Ceepak, however, is not smiling back.

  “This way.” He’s still gesturing to his right.

  “Fine.” Mrs. Rock swivels around to rub the spin button. “I’ll be back, big boy. I’ll be back.”

  Yeah. She’ll be back. In twenty or thirty years—if she gets time off for good behavior, like Mr. Joe “Six-pack” Ceepak.