“Also,” says James, “he’s so busy yelling at me, I notice he isn’t chatting with the volunteer from the audience as much as he usually does.”
“He’s not addressing her by name, correct?” says Ceepak.
“That’s right.”
So that’s how Ceepak knew something was weird about Monday’s show compared with tonight’s.
“He didn’t even do his standard patter,” says Jim Bob. “In fact, he stopped doing it right after the swish pan.”
“How do you think that was accomplished?” asks Ceepak. “How could Mr. Rock seem to be talking through his microphone when, in fact, he had switched it off?”
“I’m not sure. But, well, if they can prerecord the images, they can easily do the same thing with the words. They probably have an emergency audio track standing by in the control room they cut to the instant he switched off his head mike.”
“He can do that?”
“Sure. There’s a transmitter pack on his belt with an on-off switch.”
Ceepak turns to me. “And that, Danny, is why, on Monday night, Mr. Rock did not mention the volunteer’s name again until nearly the end of the routine.”
Uh-oh.
I think I know what Mr. Rock was doing during those ten or fifteen minutes of dead air.
He was backstage in room AA-4.
Taking over for Jake Pratt. Killing Katie Landry.
43
We hitch a ride in an ACPD cruiser and head back to the Xanadu.
On the ride, Ceepak cell-phones Cyrus Parker.
“We need to apprehend Mr. Richard Rock. Roger that. We’re almost there. ETA one minute. Ten-four.”
I’m in the backseat, staring out the window. On our return trip to the glitzy Xanadu, we need to roll through the seedier side of Atlantic City first. Past the run-down apartment complexes where everything looks stained and rusty. Ditto for the dumpy motels.
We take a turn and I can see that billboard I first read from the window up in my high-roller suite.
CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS.
“Richard Rock killed Katie?” I mumble while wondering if Christ knew that particular sin was coming down the pike.
“Yes, Danny,” says Ceepak—in answer to the question he actually heard.
“What about Jake Pratt’s pubic hair?”
“Mr. Rock could have harvested it just as easily as Mrs. Rock. In fact, I believe it was Mr. Rock who molested Jake Pratt when he was a child. Furthermore, I suspect that, muddled in the emotional confusion such a relationship would undoubtedly engender in a preadolescent male, Pratt coped by giving the abuse incidents romantic overtones.”
“J Luvs U,” I say. “He smudged that on the mirror for Richard Rock.”
“I believe so.”
We pull into the Xanadu’s covered driveway. It’s after 11:00 but there are two bellhops on duty. Neither one comes over to help us with our luggage. Guess cop cars usually don’t carry any.
The ACPD patrol car’s tires screech on the concrete as it heads back to the Super 8 Motel and Julia Pratt’s murder scene. I’ve almost lost count of how many people had to die for Richard Rock to fulfill his fantasies.
So many dead. Julia Pratt. Katie Landry. Detective Brady Flynn. His partner, Mike Weddle. Even Jake Pratt, Mr. Rock’s onetime lover.
Then I think about how many people had to go along with whatever Rock told them to do so he could keep piling those bodies outside the door, to paraphrase Springsteen. His wife. His manager. The guys in the video control booth. Toohey Tuiasopo and the rest of the “Rock ’n Wow!” security team. Kenny Krabitz.
“Wait a second.”
“Yes?” says Ceepak.
“Why did Rock have Krabitz kill Jake Pratt if they were falling back in love?”
“Perhaps the feeling wasn’t mutual. Perhaps Pratt had grown too old for Mr. Rock’s tastes.”
Yeah. Nineteen ain’t the new eleven.
We head through the automatic glass doors, pick up the geometric carpet, head toward the Crystal Palace elevators where the Rocks have taken up temporary residence.
Ceepak’s cell phone chirps.
“This is Ceepak. Go. Roger that.”
He halts.
So I do, too.
Now he heaves a sigh.
“Very well.”
I can see the cogwheels spinning inside his head. I suspect the situation has gone “dynamic” once again.
“New plan,” he says into the phone. “We are proceeding to the boardwalk.”
We start walking again; Ceepak keeps the cell pressed to his cheek.
“Hmm? I’m playing a hunch, Cyrus. Right. Will do. I’ll keep you posted.”
He clips the phone back to his belt.
“Parker reports that Mr. Rock is no longer located here at the Xanadu.”
“What?” We’re hurrying up the never-ending carpet, trying to cut across the casino and make our way to the far side and the escalators down to the boardwalk exits as quickly as we can. It’s like a half-mile hike. “They let Mr. Rock leave the building?”
“Roger that. But, as you recall, Danny, until minutes ago, Richard Rock was not considered a suspect or accomplice for any of the crimes that have been committed over the past two days.”
“We were supposed to arrest Mrs. Rock, right?”
I know that’s what I wanted to do until Ceepak stood in the middle of the road a little longer—metaphorically speaking, of course—to see if another solution might reveal itself.
“They knew we’d be able to eventually learn about the second diamond ring from somebody in the show, right?”
“Yes,” says Ceepak as we bustle past the “Cops and Donuts” slot machine lane. “I imagine that in the final act of the illusion as originally conceived by Mr. Rock, we were meant to arrest his wife. At her murder trial, irrefutable evidence as to her actual whereabouts at the time of Katie’s death would have been presented, some proof stronger than that which she initially proffered.”
“Maybe they know there’s a PTZ surveillance-camera shot of Mrs. Rock out in the casino hitting the ‘Cops and Donuts’ machines on Monday night, too.”
“Of course. Well done, Danny! Excellent analysis.”
Hey, I took a shot.
“The prosecutor would, most likely, not think to search for such evidence,” says Ceepak. “The defense attorney’s investigators would. They could also demonstrate with testimony from a handwriting expert that it was Sherry Amour who had signed autographs in the lobby on Monday.”
“They could call you as a witness,” I say. “Make you bring the stuffed tiger you got autographed for Rita.”
“Indeed. The charges would have been dropped during the exchange of evidence phase—before the case even went to trial.”
“Too bad Kenny Krabitz is in jail. He could’ve drummed up all kinds of PI work once he became famous for uncovering the dramatic evidence that proved Mrs. Rock’s innocence.”
We reach the escalators and head down to the boardwalk exits.
“Mr. Krabitz is not a licensed private investigator, Danny.”
“No?”
“No. It is why his business cards did not specify his occupation.”
Oh. I just thought he was stupid. “So who is he?”
Ceepak grimaces. “I suspect Mr. Krabitz is the individual charged with the unseemly task of procuring underage sex partners for Mr. Rock’s amusement.”
“What?”
“That boy. At the swimming pool. I do not think he is Mr. Krabitz’s son. It’s why the boy called his supposed father ‘Kenny’ instead of ‘Dad.’ ”
“So Katie found out about all this?” I say as we swirl out the revolving doors and hit the boardwalk.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Why didn’t she just tell me?”
“I believe she intended to.”
But they got to her before I did. Jake Pratt. Richard Rock. She couldn’t talk about it in her phone message to me because Mrs. Rock came into the ro
om.
“So where the hell are we going now?” I usually don’t talk like that with Ceepak, but I’m not usually this pissed off, either.
These bastards killed Katie.
“Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy.”
“The massage parlor?”
“Roger that.”
We head south.
The boardwalk isn’t crowded. Just a few stray drunks whoohooing it all the way home to their hotels.
“Can I ask why? They don’t want to talk to us.”
“Because Zuckerman solicited their silence for a fee,” says Ceepak.
“Wait a second. Rock just jumped ugly all over Zuckerman for running down to Lucky Lilani’s to spy on him for his wife.”
“No, Danny. The altercation in the hallway between Mr. Rock and Mr. Zuckerman was another bit of business staged solely for our benefit. All part of the illusion.”
“So why was Zuckerman down at Lucky Lilani’s?”
“Our initial supposition was correct. Mr. Zuckerman was there to make a payoff. It is a public space—the one element of the illusion not under the illusionist’s total control.”
“Rock went there to hire prostitutes?”
“I suspect so. Danny,” says Ceepak somberly, “do you recall the young boy we saw at the massage parlor this morning? He was sitting on the floor, huddled with several women and children.”
“Sure. They were all eating breakfast.”
“This particular boy had powdered sugar all over the front of his shirt.”
“Yeah. He looked like he’d been eating funnel cakes.”
Ceepak doesn’t say a word.
Because he doesn’t have to.
I’m remembering what the guy at the pizza stand next door to Lucky Lilani’s told us: Richard Rock preferred the funnel cakes to the zeppole. “He’s next door a lot. Comes here after going there. Sometimes before—takes the ladies a little treat.”
The ladies or the boys?
44
It’s nearly midnight.
The pizza man is rolling down his iron security gates, closing up shop.
“Officers?” a voice cries out from the shadows near another candy-apple stand to our right—the ocean side of the boardwalk. “Officers?”
The Great Mandini steps into the glow of fluorescent light illuminating the candy stall’s steel counter.
“Might I have a word with you, Officers?” he calls out.
“Not right now,” says Ceepak. He’s focused on Lucky Lilani’s Stress Therapy. A customer comes out the door looking the same way guys do when they try to slink undetected out of an adults only DVD store on Route Nine.
“We’re kind of busy,” I holler over to the street magician.
He bows gracefully. “I will wait, gentlemen. Semper Fi.”
We head for Lucky Lilani’s. That green neon still sputters in the window: 24 HRS OPEN.
“Danny?”
“Sir?”
“I’m heading for the back rooms. If necessary, counteract any interference up front.”
“Right.”
Usually, Ceepak is in charge of the counteracting interference department. Tonight, he’s a man on a mission and needs me to cover his back. This is when you really wish you packed your pistol.
Ceepak uses both hands to shove the front door. It flies open with a bang that nearly rips down the tasseled pagoda bells hanging off the hydraulic hinge.
“Hello!” tweets the woman behind the cash register. She stands underneath the only weak-wattage lightbulb in the place that isn’t red or blue. “Welcome to Lucky Lilani!” Tweetie at the counter wears a tight silk minidress that shimmers and ripples like swells on the ocean.
It’s dark in here. Smells like yesterday’s fish mixed with baby oil and patchouli candles. Ceepak keeps marching toward the velvet curtains in the rear.
“Hey, mister! Where you go?”
She reaches under the counter.
“Don’t,” I say.
“He no go back there!”
“Don’t!” This time I raise both arms to indicate that she shouldn’t do what I know she’s thinking about doing. She’s definitely got a bat under the counter. Aluminum, no doubt. The kind that makes your skull ring.
“He no go back there!”
Ceepak pushes through the curtains.
Down ducks Tweetie. Up comes the bat.
“We’re with the police,” I yell. I reach for my back pocket to find that damn deputy badge. I shove it forward. “We’re with the police!”
She swings for the tin star.
I pull back before the bat whacks my hand and sends it over the left field fence.
She whiffs. Misses by a mile.
I make my move, jump in and grab hold of her arm while the momentum of the swing pulls her into a lopsided follow-through.
“Police!” I’m screaming this in her ear. “ACPD!”
“He no go—”
“Police!” I squeeze her left wrist hard. She hisses and cat-paws at me with her right, because I forgot to grab hold of that wrist, too. You know those curved nail extension deals? They’re like bear claws when they scrape down your cheek. The pain gets my adrenaline pumping and gives me nearly Ceepakian strength, making it possible for me to do that yank-up-and-twist-down move I saw him execute on Krabitz earlier.
“Fuck you, mister!” the petite Asian princess screams before the pain in her popping arm socket cuts her off. The baseball bat clinks to the floor.
I grab it and cock it up over my shoulder like a caveman.
“Stay back,” I snarl, letting her know I intend to swing at the first pitch she sends my way. “Put your hands on top of your head! Now! Do it!”
She does.
“Danny?” This from Ceepak somewhere behind those curtains. “Bar the door. I’m calling this in.”
Armed with the softball bat, I back toward the entrance. Block the only exit. The guys who had been sprawled out on the rub-down tables before I screamed “Police!” are now sitting up, their eyes wide. Panic is written all over their faces. I wonder if any of them are governors from New York.
The drapes ruffle open and Ceepak steps out of the back room, his hand gripped tightly to the elbow of a middle-aged man who needs to zip up his fly. The guy—whose hangdog face could be on the cover of Guilty magazine next month—is using his free arm to clutch at the gap in his unbuttoned Sansabelt slacks.
The young boy we saw yesterday comes out behind Ceepak.
He looks even more ashamed than the dirty old man.
An ACPD patrol car, lights flashing, cruises up the boardwalk. Two cops go inside to process everybody.
Ceepak is curling up his copy of the “Rock ’n Wow!” playbill into a tube again. He tucks it back into a side pocket on his cargo khakis.
“I showed the young boy Richard Rock’s photograph.”
“And?”
“He started crying. He subsequently lowered his trousers and showed me the welts and bruises on his buttocks.”
I feel another boiled-dumpling-sized lump rise up in my throat. It’s not enough that Richard Rock preys on young boys. He has to rough them up, too?
“Officers?” The Great Mandini hurries across the boardwalk.
“Yes?” says Ceepak.
“Tell me, are you gentlemen currently seeking the whereabouts of Mr. Richard Rock or are you otherwise engaged?”
He’s got Ceepak’s attention. Mine, too.
“Do you know where we might find him?”
“Indeed. You see, I was closing up shop on the boardwalk when I saw Mr. Rock and his son come storming out of the Xanadu. I thought it rather peculiar that the young boy was going out at this late hour. Therefore, I secured my rabbit in his carrier and followed after them.”
“Where did they go?”
“First stop was that snack bar across the way.” He points to where we saw him ten minutes ago. “Mr. Rock does not know who I am. Therefore, I was able to get quite close to them. He was attempting to bribe
the boy with sweets. Snow cone. Caramel corn. Candy apple. Anything little Richie wanted. But the boy kept shaking his head. He didn’t want any of it. In fact, he seemed sad. Scared. When the boy continued to refuse his entreaties, Mr. Rock grew angered. Snatched the boy’s arm, tugged it hard. ‘Did you bring your swimsuit like I told you, Richie?’ I heard him say.”
“And?”
“The boy said the bathing suit was in his backpack. Mr. Rock pulled his son away and they headed up the boardwalk. I was going to follow, but I saw you two gentlemen approaching at a rather rapid clip and, therefore, I decided it might be more prudent to remain here so I might relate what I had observed.”
But we didn’t have time to listen. Now Richard Rock and his son have at least a five- or ten-minute head start on us.
“Where did they go?” Ceepak asks, his voice urgent.
Mandini points up the boardwalk. “Toward Trump’s Taj Mahal. I heard Mr. Rock say it was time for a midnight swim.”
45
“He’s going to slay his son,” says Ceepak matter-of-factly.
“What? Why?”
“I’m assuming little Richie found what his father has been searching for.”
Oh, shit.
“He’ll make it look like a drowning.” Ceepak does a three-finger hand chop to the east. “Be on the alert for any indication as to where they left the boardwalk and accessed the beach.”
Ceepak is scanning the horizon. Checking out all the ramps down to the sand, the alleys between buildings, the railings. I’m eyeballing the rolled-out beach fencing down in the sand, looking for breaks in it. We’re approaching the Taj on the left, Atlantic City’s famous Steel Pier on the right.
“He is hoping to create another illusion, Danny,” says Ceepak while still scrutinizing every inch of the boardwalk to his right. “Mr. Rock obviously understands that homicidal drowning is almost impossible to prove by an autopsy and, therefore, most drownings are eventually ruled to be accidental—especially those involving a young boy who sneaks out for a swim in the middle of the night in dangerous waters subject to riptides.”
Mind Scrambler Page 24
