Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “10-4. Gus Davis.”

  “Gus?”

  “Right.”

  “Our Gus?”

  “Yes, Helen.”

  “He likes whales?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, I know he likes to fish … never knew he was into whales.”

  “Helen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Jane we need this information, stat.”

  “Will do. But the chief has her running through mug shots right now, trying to match them to some picture Sergeant Santucci found.”

  “Understood.”

  Ceepak can't overrule the chief's commands or reset the boss's priorities. We'll have to wait a little longer to see if any of our suspects were cocky enough to sign the museum guest book.

  I decide it's time.

  Time to turn the front seat of the Ford into a rolling confessional booth.

  Forgive me, Ceepak, for I have sinned. It's been at least eleven months since my last confession… .

  “Ceepak?” I say.

  “Yes?” He's only half-listening. He's also half-driving like a maniac, racing around this cute little Honda with a surfboard sticking out its open hatchback. Any other day, Miss Honda would have earned herself a ticket or at least a stern lecture about the dangers of unsecured objects in automobiles becoming unguided missiles in rapid braking situations.

  “That girl?” I say. “In the picture?”

  “Yes?” Now we weave past a pickup truck with a whole row of burlap-balled hedges bouncing around in its bed. Louie the Landscaper, taking his foliage out for a ride.

  “I met her.”

  “Come again?”

  “I picked her up. Hitchhiking. She was wearing the exact same clothes she had on in the picture.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Two days ago?”

  “Yeah. I was on my way home after dropping you off to meet Rita at the animal shelter and I saw her thumbing near the causeway. Just like in the picture.”

  Ceepak cuts a sharp left turn. We tilt sideways, like we're riding a corkscrewing roller coaster, the kind that sends you upside down into a spinning barrel roll. We swerve into a rubber-squealing, tail-skidding U-turn.

  “We need to re-examine the area surrounding Santucci's final hole.”

  “Okay.” I'm confused. Plus, my stomach has been involuntarily relocated to my rib cage.

  “It's possible Ezekiel only recently selected his next victim. If the photograph shows her as you saw her two days ago….”

  “He probably just buried the picture yesterday or maybe today!”

  “Affirmative. We may find trace evidence at the scene. Some clue as to who he is. Good work, Danny!”

  I decide to get it all off my chest.

  “She was also at Reverend Billy's.”

  “The motel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Ceepak's brows pinch together to puzzle over my remark. “Danny, I specifically requested that we both be on the lookout for….”

  “She dyed her hair. It was green.”

  He turns, shoots me a look.

  Shit.

  Yes, technically I obeyed The Code. I did not lie, cheat, or steal. This morning, he asked me if I saw a redhead. I did not. I saw a girl with green hair. Therefore, I did not actually tell him a lie—I just totally screwed up.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “I should've … you know … said something.”

  Ceepak nods. Looks glum. No. Heartbroken. I have so totally let him down.

  “I should have….”

  He presses his foot down hard on the accelerator. I can see his thigh muscles twitching under the cargo pants. He keeps applying this much pressure, he might break the gas pedal off its post. The engine is rattling, the whole hood rocking. I don't think we've ever asked our friendly Ford to do over 100 before.

  “I know I should've said something,” I say—loudly, so Ceepak can hear me over the engine. “I didn't. I'm sorry. I guess I was embarrassed. Didn't want you to think I'm out on the street picking up girls. I should've told you!”

  Our speed eases. We're back down in the 90s.

  “I'm sorry. I should've known better.”

  We dip under 85. When we hit 75, Ceepak finally speaks.

  “Danny, don't ‘should’ all over yourself. We are where we are. You had no way of knowing the significance of your omission. We'll deal with it.”

  “Okay.”

  “However, in the future, I hope you will be more forthcoming with any and all information you may possess. No matter the personal embarrassment it may entail.”

  “Sure. No problem.” I let it all come tumbling out. “She was also with the surgeon. I saw them outside The Sand Bar. Saw them head off to Smuggler's Cove together. You think he's already killed her?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  Duh. Of course not. She was alive when I saw her this morning! I should probably engage my brain before I speak.

  “Whoever placed the girl's photograph in that final hole is goading us, Danny. First, he revels over his past triumphs by placing his souvenirs on public display. Then, he sends us all on a treasure hunt up and down the island—rubs our nose in the murders he has committed for decades without arousing any suspicion. Now he is daring us to catch him before he strikes again.”

  Ceepak presses the pedal to the metal again.

  If anybody can catch Ezekiel before he kills another girl, it's John Ceepak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  We park where we parked before.

  Ceepak kneels down beside the hole. He shakes his head.

  The sand is dimpled with footprints. Mostly the kind made by big, clunky cop shoes.

  “I'm afraid we won't find any evidence of significance here.”

  “Yeah. Unless we want to frame Sergeant Santucci.”

  Ceepak actually smiles. “Don't tempt me,” he says.

  I smile back. We're a team again.

  Ceepak stands up. Scans the horizon. Mumbles.

  “There are ‘Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost.’”

  He's quoting Bruce again—still doing “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

  He keeps looking around. Keeps mumbling.

  “‘I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost, for wanting things that can only be found … .’”

  He doesn't finish. So I do. Silently: “‘In the darkness on the edge of town.’”

  Hey, seeing how we're on the top edge of the island contemplating the apocalyptic darkness dreamed up by some kind of sick demon who thinks he's doing what God told him to do, it seems pretty appropriate.

  “Tell me what you know about this doctor,” Ceepak suddenly asks.

  “Well, he was at The Sand Bar. Sunday and Monday.”

  “Did you two talk?”

  “Yeah. Some. Actually, I listened. He talked. He's pretty full of himself. Likes to hear his own voice even though he sort of sounds kind of prissy. You know—like rich guys always do. And, of course, he's cheating on his wife….”

  “Would you say he's charming?”

  “I guess. Yeah. He uses big words. Sounds smooth and sophisticated. Almost has a fake British accent. Some girls like that.”

  Ceepak rotates. Looks south, out across the charred remains of the hotel.

  “If Ezekiel drove up here to dig his hole, we might find tire treads. However, it appears as if heavy machinery has been working the site.”

  The rocky lot is rutted with deep, dried-in tread tracks. No way for us to isolate the ones belonging to a killer's vehicle.

  “Dr. Winston likes to fish,” I say. “He took a charter on Cap'n Pete's boat but his wife got seasick. He said he usually rents a boat and goes out on his own.”

  “The photograph,” Ceepak says, sounding like he's in a trance. “It was looking up. Toward the bridge. A profile shot. Taken from below. Meaning he was either down near the water'
s edge….”

  “Or on a boat! In the bay—pointing his camera up toward the bridge!”

  Ceepak rotates another 180 degrees. Looks north. Out to the rotting dock, the dilapidated pier that looks mostly like telephone poles holding up one of those rickety swing bridges forever dangling over caverns of molten lava in video games.

  Ceepak starts walking toward the water.

  I follow him.

  He picks up his pace.

  I do the same.

  “See it?” he says.

  “No. What?”

  “Something shiny. There.” He points to the spot where the dock meets dry land.

  I see the glint.

  We quick-time it to the pier. Ceepak holds up his right hand to halt our charge. He points at a shattered board in the dock decking.

  “Note the hole. In the planks.”

  I see one of the rotting planks has a gaping circle at its center. A foot hole.

  “Perhaps he came here on a boat,” Ceepak thinks out loud. “Docked. Moved too rapidly down the deck. Fell when the rotting floor boards gave way….”

  “And something flew out of his pocket.”

  “Or his hand.”

  Ceepak moves closer.

  “Footprints,” he says. “We should plaster-cast them.”

  We will, too. I know it. We have this stuff called dental stone in the car. You pour it on a footprint and when it hardens, you can take the shoe impression home with you. We could also use it to make Christmas tree ornaments out of seashells or Barkley's paw prints if we weren't so busy chasing a serial killer.

  Now Ceepak crouches. Pulls the tweezers out of his left thigh pocket.

  “It's a key. Appears to be an antique or an imitation thereof.”

  He pincers the key and shows it to me. It's one of those old-fashioned ones with a big, ornate handle. Like a scrolled skeleton key from a haunted house, the kind that slides into a black metal keyhole.

  Ceepak rotates the key so I can read its curlicue engraving.

  “C.”

  “Could be the unit in a motel,” says Ceepak. “Room C. Most likely from one of the local bed-and-breakfast establishments. Hence the antique effect.”

  “Winston was staying at Chesterfield's!” I say. “Kept moaning about B&Bs and how much he hated them.”

  “C. Chesterfield's. Good work, Danny. We need to radio this in. Put out an APB for Dr. Theodore Winston.”

  “You think he's our guy?”

  “I'm not certain. However, I'll feel better knowing he's off the streets for the remainder of the day.”

  “Yeah.”

  It's almost three-thirty P.M. and July 17 has less than nine hours left. That may be all the time Stacey, the serial killer's next intended victim, has left, too.

  Ceepak's cell phone rings. The black one. The one he uses on the job.

  “Ceepak,” he says when he flips it open. “Right. I see. Okay. Thanks, Jane.”

  He closes the phone calmly.

  “The plaster casts will have to wait.”

  “Did Jane find a name in the guest book?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Dr. Teddy Winston?”

  “No. His wife. Mrs. T. A. Winston.”

  I drive. Ceepak works the radio.

  “This is Unit Twelve. We are en route to Chesterfield's. Elm Street off Ocean. We will 10-31 Dr. Theodore Winston and bring him in for questioning.”

  We're 10-40ing it.

  That means we're on a silent run, no lights or siren, just plenty of speed. I'm pegging ninety just like Ceepak did. I think the Ford is going to need a crankcase worth of fresh oil tomorrow. Maybe a new crankcase.

  10-31 means we plan to pick up Dr. Teddy Winston and haul him into headquarters for a little one-on-one conversation. Ceepak will handle the interrogation. He's a pro. He can tell if you're lying by which way you look when you answer a question—whether your eyes dart right or flash left. It's called the DEA eye test.

  It seems everybody has a logical side and a creative side. So first you ask a question your suspect shouldn't have to think about—maybe you ask him to confirm the ZIP code on his driver's license or something. Then you watch his eye movement. He glances to whichever side and offers an answer without any creative embellishment. Now you know which way he looks when he's telling you the truth. Left or right. You've established his pattern. When you ask your next question, maybe the one to do with the crime, if he glances the other way, you know he's fibbing.

  Ceepak can actually do this.

  Me? I think I lack the necessary powers of concentration.

  I tried it once on my buddy Jess. We were at The Sand Bar and I did the ZIP code bit but forgot to look at his eyeballs. Then I asked him about this ten bucks I think he borrowed from me back when we were in high school. I studied his eyeballs in the mirror behind all the whiskey bottles. Since it was a reflection, the eyes were, you know, backward.

  Ceepak is tapping the Mobile Data Terminal.

  “No wants or warrants,” he says. “Except for several outstanding parking tickets, Dr. Winston's slate is clean.”

  “But you said these serial killers are smart. Know how to avoid police detection.”

  Ceepak nods. “Indeed. They typically study police investigative techniques. In fact, in twenty percent of cases, the killer participates to some degree in the police investigation of his own crime.”

  “No way.”

  Before Ceepak can say, “Way,” the radio crackles back at us.

  “This is Unit Six.” The voice gasping out of the tinny speaker sounds agitated. Winded. “We caught Ceepak's call. We are already at Ocean and Elm.”

  It's Santucci.

  “We will apprehend suspect. Request backup. Consider suspect armed and dangerous.”

  “Danny?”

  I jam down on the gas pedal.

  We need to be at Chesterfield's like ten minutes ago.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  We scream up to the curb in front of the old-fashioned gingerbread house that's now doing duty as a boarding house for romantic yuppies.

  It's a little before four P.M.: high-tea time at Chesterfield's B&B.

  That's why, when we hop out of the car, we're surrounded by about a dozen smartly-dressed but panicky people milling around on the sidewalk, nervously clattering cups and saucers—the kind of china my mom keeps locked in the hutch so nobody will use it.

  “Don't shoot!” shouts one guest. He has a pencil-thin mustache and it's twitching like an over-caffeinated caterpillar. “Those other two police officers! They waved their weapons at us! They're inside!”

  “The responding officers drew their sidearms?” Ceepak asks.

  “Yes!” This from an angry-looking woman in a long blue dress and lacy black gloves up to her elbows. I think it's a costume. Either that or she stopped shopping for new clothes sometime after the Civil War.

  “Are you the owner here?”

  “I am.” She looks at Ceepak warily.

  “Were any shots fired?”

  “No,” she admits. “However, I still consider this an open-and-shut case of police harassment! I intend on speaking to my lawyers.”

  “Please remain here on the sidewalk. We are attempting to apprehend a suspect in connection with an ongoing investigation. Danny?”

  We march up the steps, past the wicker furniture and potted ferns, and enter the foyer.

  Knocked-over knickknacks lie scattered across the oriental carpet. Even the silver tea-service stuff is lying on its side, staining the rug brown.

  “Santucci,” mutters Ceepak.

  The bull in the china shop. Who got here just in time for the Lipton.

  Now he shouts it: “Santucci?”

  “We're clear!” Santucci screams from a room upstairs.

  “Clear!” Malloy seconds him.

  Ceepak shakes his head and we pound up the steps to the second floor.

  “We're in here,” says Santucci. “Rose Room.”

  We hi
ke down the hall.

  Santucci and Malloy are hovering over a woman hunched up in the corner of a wingback sofa. She's rocking slightly and has wrapped a bed quilt around her shoulders to keep warm—even though it's still 90-some degrees outside and the A/C unit in the window is shut off. Her eyes are sad. Her chin rests heavy in her hand.

  She looks worse than when I saw her in The Bagel Lagoon on Sunday morning.

  “Meet Mrs. Winston,” says Santucci as he snaps his holster shut. Guess he's done waving his Glock in people's faces. Ceepak and I never pulled ours out.

  “Are you all right?” Ceepak asks.

  Mrs. Winston stops staring off into space long enough to glare up at Ceepak through sad, sleepy eyes.

  “Peachy,” she says. Now she reaches under the quilt and pulls out a cigarette and a Bic lighter.

  “Douse it, lady,” says Santucci. “This is a non-smoking room.”

  “So?” she answers once she's all stoked up. “Arrest me.” She reaches over to a coffee table and grabs the crystal OJ goblet she's been using since breakfast for her ashtray. “I didn't ask for a nonsmoking room. These fuckers just put me in one.”

  “I believe they permit smoking on the front porch,” says Ceepak. “I noted decorative ash urns.”

  Mrs. Winston blows out a stream of tar and nicotine. “You think I want to go sit on the fucking porch? Down where everybody can laugh at me? They all know about Teddy.”

  “Is your husband here?” Ceepak asks.

  “Negative,” says Santucci. “Apparently, Dr. Winston took off before we arrived on scene.”

  “These jerks,” she laughs, spitting out a couple puffs of smoke. “They race up the street, sirens wailing. Teddy's downstairs in the tearoom. Hitting on the college girl who hands out the cookies and crumpets. I saw them. Saw them from the top of the staircase. Bastard.”

  “Why did he run when he heard the police?” asks Ceepak.

  “Who knows? Perhaps he assumed one of these gentlemen was the young girl's father.”

  She reaches for a brown prescription bottle on the table near her ash glass.

  “Fucking childproof caps.”

  She works the bottle open by biting at it sideways with her teeth. She pries off the lid, palm-chucks a little blue pill into her mouth. I figure it's not the day's first. I also figure it's some kind of antidepressant. The kind that almost make you sleepy enough to forget how sad you feel.