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

by Chris Grabenstein

  “He lives up north. 14th Street in Cedar City.”

  That's like seven miles away.

  “Let's swing by his dock first,” Ceepak decides.

  That's two blocks up Ocean, three over to the bay.

  “Lights and siren?” I ask.

  “Negative. If he is there with the girl we don't want to spook him.”

  “Roger that,” I say and hang a sharp left on Gardenia Street.

  “Should we call for backup? Alert the chief?”

  Ceepak leans back in his seat. Checks his ammo again. I see him glance over to the rearview mirror. I know he's thinking about Santucci—back there at Mama Shucker's, directing traffic and steering rubberneckers away from the mess he made.

  “Negative,” he says.

  “Right,” I crack, “the chief might give Santucci fresh ammo.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak.

  He isn't joking.

  At Ceepak's suggestion, I park at the corner of Gardenia and Bayside. We're about one hundred yards from Cap'n Pete's Pier. In the distance, I can see a string of carnival lights swinging in the breeze.

  Ceepak taps his chest. Points toward the darkened office.

  We're going in.

  I see the double-door ice machine. The picnic table. I figure I can use those for cover if this thing goes hot.

  Ceepak pulls out his pistol. I do the same. My palm is clammy, so I slip my gun back into the holster for a split second so I can dry my hand across the seat of my pants. Then I take it out again. Hold it with both hands. Hold it out in front of my face.

  Ceepak zigs and zags in a crouch across the parking lot. I do the same. He uses light poles and parked cars and a telephone booth to make certain we're not sitting ducks or fish in a barrel.

  I do the same.

  We reach the ice machine and he raises his right hand. We halt. He points down to something on the deck in front of the office door.

  It's Pete's stupid talking parrot.

  Somebody ripped it off its hook and tossed it to the ground. Looks like they stomped on it, too. There's a deep dent cracked into its bright yellow belly. I wonder if that annoying voice chip recorded something Cap'n Pete didn't want anybody else to hear. Maybe a girl's screams.

  “Looks like a possible 10-36,” Ceepak whispers.

  Vandalism.

  We now have probable cause to search the premises.

  Ceepak raises his pistol skyward. I keep mine aimed straight ahead. He'll do the door. I'll deal with whatever's on the other side once he swings clear.

  He nods. I nod back.

  His left hand twists the metal knob on the screen door. It's unlocked. Also rusty. He pulls it open. Slow. The door squeaks.

  Ceepak peers through the window at the top of door number two, the fiberglass storm behind the screen.

  “Clear,” he whispers. He tries the second door. “Unlocked.”

  You'd think you'd lock your doors if you were inside sawing someone's head off.

  “Going in.”

  Ceepak speaks in quiet, terse bursts. I nod. I know what I'm supposed to do: cover his ass. He is putting himself in the most vulnerable position, making himself the first target. My job is to shoot anybody who shoots at him.

  He raises his right leg. This door will be kicked open so he can keep his gun in front of his chest. He's done this before. Lots of times. They were always knocking down doors back in Baghdad. Busting up apartments doubling as bomb factories.

  He kicks.

  The cheap storm door nearly flies off its hinges. It swings open so fast it hits an interior wall and bounces right back. Ceepak kicks at it again, softer this time. Gives it more toe, less heel.

  “Clear!” he shouts.

  We storm into the front room.

  “Clear,” I shout back because I need to shout something.

  The room looks like it did when Cap'n Pete was showing us his shoebox full of treasures. No wonder the worst treasure hunter in Ceepak's club was finally able to actually find something: it was all stuff he had buried himself so he knew where to dig.

  Ceepak points to the curtained partition separating the public space of the office from the private back room. The storage room. The room where, I've heard, Cap'n Pete keeps a cot for those late nights when he's been out on the continental shelf in his boat, fishing for blues, and doesn't return to dock until three or four in the morning. The same cot he probably slept on back in the ’80s, after those long nights of strenuous mutilation in the service of the Lord.

  Ceepak snags my attention.

  He's going into the back room.

  I'm aiming my Glock forward again.

  I nod.

  He nods.

  He takes in a deep breath, shoves the heavy blanket aside. It slides away like a wool shower curtain.

  We step into the darkness. The room has no windows. No lights. Our eyes adjust.

  When the shadows start to take on shapes that make sense, we see that the side walls are lined with industrial shelving. Metal racks with exposed nuts and bolts and diagonal slats like you'd use in your garage. The shelves are crammed with neatly arranged plastic storage bins stacked on top of each other. At the far wall, ten feet in front of us, I make out the shape of a small rollaway bed.

  Ceepak flicks on his Maglite, swings the flashlight beam over to the bed.

  Stacey is lying spread-eagled on the mattress. I can see her dyed hair but not her face.

  She is lying on her stomach.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  There are no sheets or blankets on the bed.

  Stacey's face is buried in the lumpy crevices of the stained mattress. Her arms and legs are anchored to the bedposts with plastic FlexiCuffs strapped around her ankles and wrists.

  Ceepak dashes over to her.

  I twist around, aim my pistol back at the curtain. I don't want Pete sneaking up behind us with his hacksaw.

  “She's been drugged,” says Ceepak. “I suspect trichloromethane. Chloroform.”

  I back up so I can keep one eye on the door, the other on Ceepak and the girl. When I bump against the shelf unit behind me, I hear the unmistakable rattle of glass jars.

  I think we've discovered the Cap'n's private museum. The place where he keeps his favorite trophies and souvenirs.

  Ceepak pulls out his Swiss Army knife and uses the scissor tool to snip through the four FlexiCuffs. Then, he gently rolls Stacey over. He wants to put her on her back, wants to check out her face.

  I turn away. Focus on the curtained entryway. Raise my gun higher and aim it at nothing.

  I don't want to see Stacey's nose and ears or what Cap'n Pete might've already done with his knives. I assume he cuts up his victims here in this dark chamber but maybe he takes them out back and uses that plastic fish-cleaning table mounted on the dock. That's where he keeps his crate of old newspapers. He could wrap up Stacey's skull in Friday's local Sports section, then hose everything down, wash all the evidence down the drain, and watch it trickle off the dock, out into the bay, disappearing into the Atlantic Ocean.

  “We need to call an ambulance,” says Ceepak.

  “Is she … did he … ?”

  “She's unconscious but uninjured.”

  I decide it's okay to look.

  Stacey still has her nose, which I now notice she's currently using to snort out some room-rumbling snores. Ceepak takes off his windbreaker and drapes it over her. For the first time since I met her over near the causeway, Stacey looks like what she probably is: a high-school kid who needs a nap.

  “This is Unit Twelve,” Ceepak says into his radio.

  “Go ahead Twelve.”

  “Request ambulance at Cap'n Pete's Pier House. Bayside Boulevard and Gardenia Street.”

  “Status of injured party?”

  “The prognosis is optimistic. We assume she was the victim of foul play, an abduction involving chloroform. Please advise the chief that we have located and secured the girl, the subject of Sergeant Santucci's recent search
.”

  “Is she the one who needs the ambulance?”

  “Roger that. We also need to issue an APB. Please alert all units to be on the lookout for one Peter Paul Mullen.”

  “Cap'n Pete?” The dispatcher sounds surprised.

  “Suspect should be considered extremely dangerous,” Ceepak continues. “Please send a unit to his house at 32 West 14th Street in Cedar City.”

  “He and his wife go to my church. His sons are….”

  “Send the car to his house immediately. Officer Boyle and I will continue our search here at his Pier House and dock.”

  “10-4.”

  Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder.

  “Should we check out these boxes? On the shelves?” I ask.

  “Not now. We can surmise what they contain. Doubtful they will give us clues as to our suspect's current whereabouts.”

  Stacey moans. Squirms. Flutters her heavy eyelids.

  Ceepak moves back to the bed.

  “Keep an eye on the entryway, Danny. I suspect Mullen will soon return to finish what he was preparing to start.”

  “On it,” I say. I move closer to the curtains. A drop of sweat trickles out from under my cop cap. Stings my eye. I squint. Great. If Cap'n Pete busts in now, I'll have to take him down with one eye clamped shut.

  “Ma'am?” I hear Ceepak say behind me. “Ma'am?” Now I hear a rattling of springs. He must be rocking the bed, shaking her awake.

  “Oh, shit,” I hear her mumble. “Where the fuck….”

  I sneak a peek. She's trying to sit up.

  “Stay still, ma'am….”

  “You … you're the asshole cop who was chasing me….”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Him, too!”

  Guess she recognized me.

  “We need to take you into protective custody,” says Ceepak.

  “What?”

  “The man who brought you here….”

  “Stupid fucker tricked me.”

  “Ma'am?”

  “He told me his ankle was twisted. Said he did it playing Skee Ball and needed help carrying his stupid stuffed panda to his car.”

  “Panda?”

  “Yeah. Huge fucking thing. A black-and-white teddy bear that was like five feet tall. Guess he won it somewheres.” The more she talks, the more alert she sounds. “So I grab the stupid panda and sort of use it as a shield to hide behind so you two assholes can't see me anymore. And this fucking bear? It's old and ugly and its fur is all matted and dirty and it stinks like a can of tuna.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I figured some arcade must've scammed him, gave the guy a used prize—some secondhand piece of shit they stole from the Salvation Army or something.”

  Or maybe, cagey Pete brought his prop with him. Maybe he picked it up back in the 1980s when those Chinese Pandas Ling Ling and Ding Dong were all the rage. Maybe he's used the stuffed panda ploy before.

  “Where is he now?” Ceepak asks.

  “The guy who tricked me?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “I don't know. See, he's hobbling along and I tell him I need a ride out of town. He says no problem. If I help him carry the damn bear, he'll take me wherever I want to go. But when we finally get to his car, he jumps me. Puts some kind of cloth over my face. I have to breathe this gross chemical shit while he shoves me into the back seat.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  She thinks, then shakes her head.

  I hear a siren approaching.

  “Could be the ambulance,” I say.

  “Or Santucci,” says Ceepak. “Stay with the girl, Danny.”

  Right. Santucci. Maybe he heard Ceepak radio in our location. Maybe he wants in on the action again. We may find ourselves needing to dodge bullets. Stacey, too. And she's not dressed for it.

  Ceepak heads outside.

  I look at Stacey. Smile.

  She pulls a face. Half sneer, half wince.

  “I suppose you want your fucking twenty dollars back?”

  “Nah. That's okay. We're cool.”

  She unwraps Ceepak's jacket from her chest so she can slip her arms into the sleeves. I look away. There's too much flesh-stretching and bikini-top-tugging going on in the cot district. Need to maintain my professional demeanor. Need to not stare.

  So I peer past the curtains to the front door, which is still wide open. Moths are fluttering inside to check out the light bulbs and Cap'n Pete's charter prices. Outside, in the parking lot, I can see the paramedics hopping out of the ambulance. They open up the back, drag out their gurney.

  But I don't see Ceepak.

  I look harder. Try to make visual contact with my partner, make sure he's okay.

  The ambulance's strobing roofbar sends some light out to where the parking lot meets the street. Finally, in the distance, I see Ceepak.

  He's bending down. Petting a tail-wagging dog. His dog.

  Barkley.

  The dog's dragging his own leash.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The paramedics take over inside.

  I dash out the door.

  Barkley looks worried. You know how dogs get. Their tails go droopy, their ears arch up into question marks, their eyes go wide and sad, and then they whimper.

  “What's up?” I ask, winded from my sprint.

  “Barkley,” says Ceepak. He points to the dog's leash. I can see where it's wet and dirty from being pulled through puddles and gutters. “He's … she … he was….”

  I glance over at him. I have never seen the man look like this before.

  I have never seen John Ceepak look scared.

  He blinks. Purses up his lips. Pulls a cell phone off his belt. It's the one he uses for personal calls.

  He thumbs the power button, presses a speed dial number, raises the handset to his ear. Waits.

  “No answer. Just the message.”

  Waits some more.

  “Rita?” I ask.

  He nods. Closes up the phone.

  “She takes her cell phone with her when she walks the dog….”

  I grab the leash. “Come on. Let's roll.”

  “Where?” he asks.

  “Your place,” I say. His apartment is close. “We'll run by The Bagel Lagoon. See if she's upstairs. Maybe her phone's not charged or something. Maybe Barkley slipped out the door, took himself for a walk, and got lost.”

  Ceepak turns away. Faces the dock.

  “Mullen's boat,” he says, hollowly.

  I see what Ceepak sees: The Reel Fun's berth is empty. Maybe Pete knew we were coming to get him.

  I see the back of Ceepak's rib cage swell under his shirt. He's taking in two big balloons of air. Pulling himself together. When he swivels around, his eyes are filled with the steely determination I'm used to seeing there.

  “Danny?” he says, clipped and efficient. “We need to contact the Coast Guard. Immediately. Advise them to send out their rapid response vessel. Employ any and all air assets at their disposal.”

  “Right.”

  “We'll alert the chief. Have him contact the State Police over in Tuckerton. They can deploy marine units.”

  “Okay. Yeah.”

  Ceepak scoops up Barkley, cradles him against his chest.

  “We need to hustle,” he says.

  Then he starts jogging toward our parked car.

  Once again, I'm right behind him, bringing up the rear. I huff and puff, and I'm not the runner lugging a sixty-pound dog.

  Ceepak's mind is racing. “Perhaps we can borrow the Mosquito Control Commission's helicopter again,” he shouts over his shoulder.

  We did that last October when we had those floods. Rescued some folks off rooftops. October is a slow month for mosquitoes. The helicopter was available.

  We reach the car and Ceepak places Barkley in the back seat.

  “You drive,” he says. “I'll work the radio, call it all in.”

  “Right. Where to?”

  “Home.”<
br />
  The Bagel Lagoon is a straight shot down Gardenia Street to Ocean Avenue.

  Ceepak lives only three cross-town blocks from Cap'n Pete's Pier. I think about the THANK YOU note we received. The J. C. typed on the front envelope flap. I'm wondering if maybe our resident psycho has been baiting Ceepak all along. Maybe after a fifteen-year hiatus he wasn't just trolling for his next victim, some runaway girl nobody would care about. Maybe he crawled out of his mole hole seeking the thrill of a true challenge: taking on John Ceepak, Sea Haven's one and-only supercop. Maybe Pete planted that high-school ring on Oak Beach where he knew Ceepak was sure to find it just to get the game started.

  Ceepak uses the radio and the short hop up Gardenia Street to put out the APB. I expect to see the French Foreign Legion and a couple aircraft carriers show up any second now.

  “Secure the dog,” Ceepak says, leaping out before I've technically brought the car to a complete stop. He bounds up the steps to his apartment.

  “C'mon boy,” I say to Barkley.

  He won't budge. Who knew the back seat of a police vehicle could be so comfy? I tug on his leash. I tug some more.

  “Barkley! Come!” It's Ceepak. Apparently, he's swept the apartment. Now he's up on the landing, calling his dog.

  Barkley's ears perk up. He snaps to attention and leaps out of the car. When he hits the ground, he barks three short, sharp blasts up to Ceepak. I believe the pooch just gave Ceepak a “Roger that,” in response to his “Come” command.

  Anyway, Barkley scampers up the steps. Ceepak ushers him through the door. Locks it.

  “Stay!”

  Ceepak comes pounding down the stairs.

  “Rita is not here. There's no note.”

  The emotion or fear I detected earlier is long gone. He's set to Search and Rescue.

  “Did you try her cell again?

  “Affirmative. No answer. Voice mail.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  I don't know why I asked it, but Ceepak answers: “Roger that. I told Rita we were on our way.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Do you know what freaking time it is?”

  Ceepak glances at his watch. “Twenty-two forty-five.”