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

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Give that to me, Boyle!” Santucci tries one more time.

  “No way. You've done enough damage for one day, okay? You already knocked down all the Tabasco bottles, so you win any stuffed animal you want—but you don't get to shoot again, okay?”

  Santucci sulks. Ceepak, I see, is holding back a grin.

  “I'm a pretty decent shot,” I remind him.

  “Roger that,” he says with the hint of a proud-poppa smile creeping across his face. “If memory serves, you scored a 96 on the range.”

  “Yes, sir. Tops in my class. Master of disaster.”

  Ceepak nods, turns to Santucci.

  “Secure the perimeter, Sergeant. Officer Boyle and I are going in.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  I check my pistol.

  Ceepak gives Santucci further instructions. “Keep those civilians back and out of harm's way.” He points across the street to the crowd of curious and terrified spectators. Of course, Santucci's fireworks display has drawn quite an audience. “When backup arrives, have a team lock down traffic on Ocean Avenue. Both directions. We don't want anybody caught in the potential line of fire. Understood, Sergeant?”

  “Yeah. Fine. Whatever.”

  “Understood?”

  “10-4,” Santucci snaps. “Okay? I fucking got it, GI Joe. Back off.”

  Ceepak hesitates a second. I figure he's contemplating avenging the lobsters by knocking Santucci unconscious with a quick jab to the jaw. Would make our lives easier, too.

  Instead he sidles up along the car and raps against the driver side door.

  “Officer Malloy?”

  “Yeah?” comes the muffled reply from inside. I figure Malloy is face down, kissing carpet.

  “Please remain on radio and advise all units that officer Boyle and I are going inside to talk to Mr. Connor. Ask all responding officers to hold their fire. We no longer consider our person of interest to be armed or dangerous. Please further advise all units to withhold any and all ammunition from Sergeant Santucci.”

  “Who the hell are you to….”

  Ceepak ignores Santucci, plows ahead with his orders for Malloy.

  “We hope to negotiate Mr. Connor's immediate surrender. Meanwhile, keep all citizens safe and all officers out of the building until we complete said mission. Okay, Mark?”

  “Yes, sir,” says Malloy. “Sorry about … you know … this … situation.”

  Situation? Cluster-fuck is more like it. But Ceepak takes the high road.

  “Don't worry, Mark,” he says. “It's all good.”

  We work our way into the building using the picnic tables at the south entrance as cover.

  Judging from where Santucci was shooting—more or less where he pointed his pistol—Ralph the bartender is most likely holed up somewhere in the northeast corner of the fish market. Probably splayed out on the floor. Probably down there hiding from Santucci's blizzard of bullets.

  But what if he's been shot? What about the hostage?

  Ceepak takes the lead and, hunkered down, we move through the market. It's slow going. My thighs throb. I need to add squat thrusts to my physical training routine if, you know, I ever actually start exercising.

  We creep along, using the fish cases for cover. Several of them are leaking, spewing out oily water. It splashes on the floor. Slick puddles are everywhere. My socks and the hem of my pants are soaked. Every now and then, we crunch across shrimp shells or slip on melting ice.

  Ceepak holds up his hand.

  He taps his eyes, does a two-finger point to the front.

  I assume he sees Ralph.

  I touch my lips. I don't know the official Army hand signals—they didn't teach us those at the Academy—so I hope Ceepak gets what I'm trying to communicate.

  He nods.

  Giving me permission to speak.

  “Ralph?” I call out. “Ralph? It's me. Danny. Danny Boyle. From The Sand Bar? Ralph? Are you okay, man? Sorry about….”

  “What the fuck is going on? This is insane! Why is that moron shooting at us? Do you see what the fuck he's done?”

  The silence, at long last, is broken.

  “Listen. He had a reason. He says you have a hostage. A woman.”

  “What?”

  “Sergeant Santucci says you grabbed a hostage when you saw he was a cop.”

  “Fuck that shit!” says this other voice. Female. Old. Angry. Angrier than Ralph, which I would've thought to be impossible. “Fucking cop came into the store, pointed his fucking gun at us. Scared off my fucking customers!”

  “Danny?” Ralph cuts in. “This is my mother.”

  I'm still more or less crouched down, my back pressed up against a refrigerator case, but I remember my manners.

  “Oh. Hey, there, Mrs. Connor. Nice to meet you. Ralph and I have known each other for what? Six, seven years?

  “Yeah,” says Ralph. “Something like that. Six, seven years….”

  Ceepak slouches. Shakes his head. Tries not to laugh.

  “So why the hell is that goddamn idiot shooting up my shop?” Mrs. Connor screams.

  “Easy, mom.”

  “Don't you ‘easy, mom’ me! That asshole out there must've given every single lobster a fucking conniption fit!”

  “You got insurance.”

  “Not against asshole cops!”

  I don't blame her but I need to break this up.

  “Ralph?” I call out. “I'm going to stand up now, you guys okay with that?”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “How about you, Mrs. Connor?”

  “You got a goddamn gun?”

  I lay my Glock on the floor.

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Good.”

  I stand up. I can see Ralph and his mom. She's short and looks like she's tired of getting up at four every morning to haul heavy slabs of fresh fish off the docks.

  I try a smile. She gives me a toothy snarl. Like a Rottweiler.

  “Mrs. Connor, this is my partner. John Ceepak.” I point. Ceepak stands. His gun is snug in its holster. “Ralph, you met Ceepak on the beach this morning. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. How's it going?”

  “Fine. Thank you for inquiring.”

  Ceepak now takes his radio mike off his shoulder, calls in our status.

  “Situation is secure,” he says. “All units stand down.”

  “We're coming in!” I hear Santucci say back over the radio.

  “Not necessary, Sergeant. As I stated, situation is secure. The woman with Mr. Connor is his mother. I believe this is her establishment.”

  “That's right, pal!” she yells loud enough for Santucci to hear without needing his radio. “My lawyers are gonna sue your ass six ways to Sunday, you fucking putz!”

  Ceepak grins. Puts the radio to his mouth.

  “At some point, Dom, I'm certain Mrs. Connor would indeed like to talk to you and the chief about the damages done to her perishable goods and store fixtures.”

  “Tell her to wait,” says Santucci. “We're busy out here. Traffic. Crowd control.”

  “Roger that.”

  Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder and we move forward. Ralph and his mom were hiding in the prep area where they gut the catch of the day.

  The floor is covered with those honeycombed rubber tiles that are easy to hose down. Behind Mrs. Connor, I see a big cutting board sitting atop a stainless-steel counter. The chopping block looks like it used to be white but now it's stained a permanent pink with decades of fish blood. On the cinderblock wall near to the slop sink, I see a rack full of knives. About six, all different lengths, shapes, and sizes. Filleting knives, curved boning knives. There's a sharpening rod hanging up there, too—so I know the blades are wicked sharp. A rusty hacksaw hangs off a hook near the knife rack.

  Hmmm.

  Every serious fisherman probably has the same sort of tools stowed on his boat—especially a guy like Gus Davis who loves to catch and clean his dinner every day. You don't thin
k of this gear as dangerous when you think of a guy heading out to fish the day away. Fishing's a peaceful sport.

  But now, when I close my eyes, all I can see is one those hacksaws working its way through a neck bone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It's nearly nine P.M. by the time we pull into a parking space in front of Santa's Sea Shanty on Ocean Avenue at Locust Street.

  “What about Gus?” I ask again.

  I shared my fisherman theory with Ceepak back at Mama Shucker's but he insisted we come see Santa Claus first. Me? I'm not in what you might call a festive holiday mood.

  “It's gotta be Gus!”

  “I don't think so,” says Ceepak.

  “Okay. If not Gus, who?”

  “That's what I hope Ms. Byrne will help us determine.”

  “What if she tells us that Gus used to hang out at Life Under the Son?”

  “Seems highly doubtful.”

  “But if he did, then can we arrest him?”

  “He'll certainly warrant further attention. However, at this point, although I find your theory sound, I do not think Gus Davis is our man. I doubt he would have had the time or temperament to become a member of a youth-oriented church group operating out of a converted motel.”

  Ceepak is probably right. Gus would rather be fishing. Says so on the bumper of his car. But what if he was fishing for victims? Trolling? That's the term Ceepak used when talking about serial killers and how they hunt down their victims.

  “Let's roll, Danny,” says Ceepak. “We don't have much time.”

  I nod and open my door. He's right. The sun is long gone. There's only three hours left to July 17.

  The twinkle lights that illuminate Santa's Sea Shanty are still sparkling bright. Must be a billion tiny bulbs in the fake evergreen garlands wrapped around the building and buried in the even faker fiberglass snow banks surrounding the window display's miniature Victorian Village. Santa is still on duty.

  We open the door. Sleigh bells ring. Of course.

  “May I help you officers?” asks a chubby lady in reading glasses behind the cash register. She's got the apple cheeks. The button nose. Put a little bun in her hair bubble and she could be Mrs. Claus.

  “I was just closing up. Is there some problem?”

  “Are you Ms. Sarah Byrne?”

  “That's right. Have we met?”

  “No, ma'am. I don't believe so. I'm John Ceepak. Rita Lapczynski is a friend of mine.”

  “Is that so? How is Rita?” She smiles. “Is she still working over at Morgan's? Haven't been by there in ages. Store keeps me busy. It's Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days a year in here.”

  Ceepak moves closer to the counter. He's so tall his head scrapes against the plastic mistletoe suspended from the ceiling.

  “Ms. Byrne,” he says gently, “we need to ask you some questions about the time you spent at Reverend Trumble's mission. We need to know about Life Under the Son.”

  She looks up at Ceepak. The sugarplum twinkle is gone from her eyes.

  “Rita told you?” she says. She looks surprised.

  “Only because you might be able to help us in a matter of utmost urgency.”

  “I see.”

  “Ms. Byrne,” says Ceepak, “lives are at stake.”

  She probably heard him but doesn't act like it. Instead, she fiddles with the felt hat on top of a papier-maché caroler's head.

  “I assure you, Ms. Byrne, anything you tell us will be held in the strictest confidence.”

  She finally looks up. Stares into Ceepak's eyes. Sees what she needs to see. Then she looks at me.

  “Young man? Could you kindly lock the front door?”

  “Sure.”

  I throw the deadbolt. Flip over the CLOSED—FEEDING THE REINDEER sign.

  Ms. Byrne moves out from behind the cash register to stand near an aluminum tree loaded down with seashells and sequined tropical fish.

  “What do you gentlemen need to know?”

  “You joined the community run by the Life Under the Son ministry?”

  “Yes. I had run away from home. My stepfather….”

  She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Ceepak only wants information that's pertinent to our investigation.

  “This was in the 1980s?” he asks.

  “That's right. 1985.”

  “Did Reverend Trumble baptize you?”

  “Yes. We walked out to where the waves break. He dunked me under;

  I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. When I came up I was Joanna—a biblical name that means God is gracious. Reverend Billy chose it for me.”

  “How long did you room at his mission?”

  “I was there through September. Until I miscarried.”

  Ceepak nods solemnly. “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Rita told you about that as well, I take it?”

  “We needed to know.”

  “I see.” She looks lost. Lost to us, at any rate. I figure she's thinking about the past.

  We wait patiently.

  Even though we're in a huge hurry.

  The clock is ticking, but Ceepak's giving her all the time she needs. I just hope she doesn't need too much more.

  Finally, the respectful silence is broken when Ms. Byrne clears her throat and says, “But how is it I can help you, Officers? I'm sure Rita must have thought I could or she wouldn't have sent you over here, would she?”

  Ceepak reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a copy of the missing-person milk carton photo Cap'n Pete found buried in the sand.

  “You say you were at the mission in 1985?”

  “That's right.”

  “Do you remember this girl?”

  He hands her the picture. She adjusts her glasses.

  “Yes. She was my friend. Her name was Mary. Mary … something. Italian. Rhymed with Mary….”

  “Guarneri?”

  “Yes. Mary Guarneri. That's it. We shared a room at the motel.”

  “She was also a runaway,” says Ceepak.

  “That's right. Her mother didn't like the boys she'd been fooling around with back home in Pennsylvania. So, she came down here to fool around with ours.”

  “Was she pregnant?”

  “No. Merely promiscuous. She had no intention of ‘washing away her sins,’ as Reverend Billy liked to say. She just needed the free room and board.”

  “Do you remember what happened to Mary?”

  “Not really. I know she pretended to be baptized.”

  “Pretended?”

  “She played along. Said all the right words. Before you could be born again, you had to stand up in front of everybody, the whole congregation, and confess your sins. Reverend Trumble always insisted that we be very specific. I think he liked hearing the intimate details.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Well, let me tell you, gentlemen—Miss Mary Guarneri did not disappoint. No, sir. She regaled us all with lurid tales of wild sex on the beach, in the back seat of Buicks, under the boardwalk. I don't know how much she made up, how much was true, but the day after her X-rated admissions, Reverend Billy dragged her out into the ocean, dunked her under a breaker, and Mary became Ruth.”

  “Do you remember when she was baptized?”

  “Not really. Sometime in July. Before my miscarriage.”

  “And she remained at the mission?”

  “For a while. She put on quite a show. Even took to acting like the true believers. The zombies. She called herself Ruth. Called everybody else brother and sister. Sent out the postcards like Reverend Billy told her to. Even sent one to her mother and pretended to make amends.”

  “Do you know what happened to Mary a.k.a. Ruth?”

  “No. Mary, or Ruth, simply disappeared. It was hot and muggy here that summer. Awful. There was no air conditioning at the motel in those days. I always assumed she ran away to someplace cooler. Maybe up to Canada.” She stares at the milk carton panel. “Was someone searching for her?”

  Ceepak nods. “Her mother.�
��

  “Did she find her?”

  “No, ma'am. Mary Guarneri never came home.”

  “I'm sorry to hear that.”

  “Do you remember any of the young men who might have been at the mission that same summer?”

  “No. Not really. The boys drifted in and out. Not many took rooms. They came for the food, a hot shower, and, if you ask me, to meet girls who had already proven themselves to be … readily available.”

  My turn to butt in: “Were any of those guys police officers?”

  “Police?”

  Ceepak tries to clear things up: “Ms. Byrne, did you know Sergeant Gus Davis when he was with the SHPD?”

  “Sure.” She smiles for the first time since we strolled through her door. “Everybody knows Gus. He stops in here all the time. Buys every fishing Santa I stock. Gus loves Christmas. Under that gruff exterior, I suspect he's a sentimental softy.”

  “Do you remember seeing Gus at Life Under the Son during the summer of 1985?”

  “Gus? No. Never.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As certain as I can be, I suppose. It was such a long time ago. I've tried to move forward and forget all that.”

  “Are you sure he wasn't there?” I ask.

  “I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help. But I simply don't recall many details.” She turns to Ceepak. “Perhaps you should talk to Pete.”

  “Pete?”

  “Peter Paul Mullen,” says Ms. Byrne. “Do you know him?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Captain Pete.”

  “That's right. Well, back then, before he was married, he was one of those young men I was telling you about. His mother wouldn't let him go out on dates. So Pete was a good boy and spent his weekends with the boardwalk ministry. He never did anything, mind you. Never hit on anybody. Never even flirted. I remember he always hung out in the back. Kept quiet, kept to himself….”

  Ceepak turns to me.

  “Danny, it seems your theory may be correct.”

  Yeah.

  I just had the wrong fisherman.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  We're hauling ass up Ocean Avenue.

  Ceepak is tapping on the Mobile Data Terminal keyboard, looking up Peter Paul Mullen's home address, running a search through state and national crime databases for anything they have.