Tilt-a-Whirl jc-1

by Chris Grabenstein

  The back yard of the beach house sort of flows right into the sand, making it look like whoever owns the house also owns this piece of the ocean too.

  “Where we going?” I ask.

  “Down to the beach. They've got the road covered. Sending out search teams. But-we had the front and sides of the house under surveillance when Ashley went missing. There's also the gatehouse at the entrance to the subdivision. The guard only granted admittance to the mayor's son because he knew him. So….”

  “So whoever did this came up the beach?” I catch on fast.

  “He or she. But at this juncture, we don't even know if there was someone.”

  “What? You think Ashley went for a moonlit stroll on the beach? Without her boyfriend?”

  “Like I said, at this point, anything is possible.” Ceepak is walking with his head down, studying the ground in front of his feet. “And everything will remain possible until we find evidence that eliminates certain of those possibilities.”

  “Like what?”

  “This.”

  Ceepak pulls out his Maglite and twists the lens.

  He saw the bootprint without the light. I see it now.

  “Timberland?” I ask.

  “Looks like.” He follows the prints down to the tide line, where the waves wash everything away.

  “It's our same guy,” I say.

  “That is one possibility. Remember, Danny-don't jump to conclusions; there may not be anything solid for you to land on.”

  That line is so corny, it must be something Ceepak's father told him. My own dad always said, “Never assume: It makes an ass out of ‘u’ and ‘me.’” I think they must go to night school to learn the corny stuff they're supposed to say to their sons in certain situations.

  “So,” I ask, “how did this boot-wearing person sneak in?”

  “Good question.”

  Ceepak swings his flashlight around.

  “You think he was, I don't know-some kind of Navy SEAL or something? Scuba-dived up to the beach? Dragged Ashley away….”

  “It's a possibility,” Ceepak says, only half-listening. Maybe he knows I stole my idea from this Steven Seagal movie I rented once.

  “How about a boat?” I say. “Maybe the guy or girl … the doer … maybe they had a boat.”

  “More probable than a car or ATV. However, I suspect we might have heard the approach of any motorized craft. So if it was a boat….”

  “It was a rowboat … or a kayak … or a rubber raft….”

  “Or, our perp might have simply walked along the shoreline, using the waves to wash away any trace of his or her movements.”

  He swings his flashlight up and down the beach. Left, then right, then left again.

  He stops on a patch of beach grass just beyond the high-tide line.

  There's this one trampled section. Ceepak walks over to it. I'm right behind him.

  “Careful where you step.”

  “Right,” I say, remembering my morning lesson, walking only where Ceepak has already walked.

  “Interesting,” he says.

  The coarse grass is spread open, matted flat, and reaches a V-shaped point like a wedge was dragged across the weeds. A wedge or an aluminum fishing boat.

  Ceepak hunkers down and holds his flashlight near his head. He looks like a coal miner digging for sand crabs. I see him snap open a pants pocket and pull out his magnifying glass.

  “Danny, do you have the digital camera?”

  “Sorry. It's in the Ford and I drove my own vehicle, because….”

  “Roger.”

  Ceepak examines something caught in the grass.

  “Surfer bracelet,” he says.

  “Purple and green?”

  “Check.”

  I remember it. “It's Ashley's.”

  “You had no one back here?”

  The chief is yelling at the state police, but Ceepak is the one hanging his head and staring at his shoes. He's taking this hard, like it's entirely his fault. Like he broke his promise and let Ashley down because he should have anticipated a sea-based attack.

  I wouldn't have thought about it.

  Who'd ever expect an angry junkie to be smart (and sober) enough to launch some kind of amphibious assault?

  And why didn't Squeegee just kill the girl?

  Or maybe he did and we just don't know it yet. Maybe he hid her body somewhere, buried it in the sand, dumped it in the ocean.

  But if he was trying to get rid of the one witness who could place him at the scene of his earlier murder, why didn't he just shoot her the minute she dropped into the back yard? We know she was alone. The boyfriend didn't show until she was already gone.

  So why aren't we doing another crime-scene analysis of Ashley Hart's bullet-riddled body?

  Maybe somebody else grabbed the girl, not Squeegee. Somebody else wearing Timberland boots in July? Doubtful. But like Ceepak says, “it's a possibility.”

  “We need to contact the FBI,” the chief says. “This guy's going to ask for money. It's a goddamn kidnapping.”

  “That's one possibility.”

  “You got a better theory?” the chief snaps.

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  The chief sounds and looks pissed because, basically, he is. The last two things a tourist town like Sea Haven needs is a murderer and a child-snatcher running up and down the beach, because that sort of thing can really scare folks away, make them want to stay at home in their crime-stricken cities where they feel safe.

  “I suspect,” the chief says, “that once our guy realized whom he shot this morning, he also realized he could ring the cash register a second time by grabbing the girl and scoring an even bigger payday.”

  “That would explain why he didn't shoot Ashley this morning,” Ceepak says, helping the chief flesh out his theory.

  “Right. Exactly. Good.” The chief seems happy that Ceepak is back on board. “He figured the girl was more valuable to him as a hostage held for ransom.”

  “It's a possibility,” Ceepak says again, and the chief flashes him a look that makes my shoulders hunch up, like somebody's going to smack me. “A very distinct possibility.”

  “Yeah.” The chief stares out at the sea. “Okay. Makes sense. I tell you one thing-this guy, Squeegee? He must be doing some very serious drugs. The kind that make you smart. Real smart.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  It's all over the eleven-o'clock news.

  “Authorities in Sea Haven have issued an Amber Alert for Harriet Ashley Hart, the twelve-year-old daughter of murdered billionaire Reginald Hart….”

  They flash her picture. And her first name is Harriet? No wonder she calls herself Ashley.

  “The young girl apparently witnessed her father's brutal murder earlier today. Now it appears she may have become the victim of foul play herself….”

  Yep, folks-been a busy day down in beautiful Sea Haven. Murder. Abduction. Foul play aplenty. And you thought people came here to relax.

  Up pops the police sketch of Squeegee. He looks plenty scary, with big blank eyes that don't give you any clue what the hell his whacked mind might be thinking. He looks like a skinnier version of Charles Manson, only without the swastika scratched into his forehead with a safety pin. Squeegee's scowl will probably give the folks watching at home all sorts of raw material for their nightmares tonight.

  Now they're showing video footage taped earlier in the day. We see the mob of people in T-shirts and shorts, some licking ice-cream cones, outside the fence at Sunnyside Playland. Guess this was the thing to do on vacation today: Grab the kids, head on down to the closed-off crime scene, prop your boy up on your shoulders, and see if he can sneak a peek at the Tilt-A-Whirl where, as the TV reporter on the scene so colorfully puts it, “Reginald Hart's whirlwind life came spinning to a stop.”

  “Danny?”

  Ceepak motions for me to join him at what I guess is the wet bar.

  We've set up a mobile command center inside the rec room
, a big space right off the pool through sliding glass doors about twenty feet tall.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Does this look like the bootprint we found behind the bushes this A.M.?” Ceepak shows me what looks like a smooshed dinner plate somebody stomped on while the clay was still wet, like the plaster handprint I made for my mom one Christmas that still hangs above the cabinets in her kitchen.

  “Did this come from the beach?”

  “Check. The State boys took a plaster cast of the bootprints we found in the sand.”

  “It's a Timberland,” I try out. “Just like we found this morning.”

  “Check. But remember-it's a very popular, very fashionable brand of boot. Lots of people wear them.”

  Ceepak refuses to eliminate too many possibilities.

  “Still,” he admits, “it's a link. A strong connector….”

  Ashley's mother comes into the room. She looks like hell on toast. She sees all the police putting pins in maps and talking into hand-held radios. Then she sees Ceepak.

  “Why aren't you out searching for her?”

  Ceepak puts down the bootprint plaster. I hope Betty doesn't use it for an ashtray. She's smoking again and there are gray ash flecks dusting the front of her black sweater. Her face looks ashen too, like it's been gray and drizzling all day and there's more precipitation in the forecast for tomorrow.

  “You said you'd protect her. When you raised your hand and made that vow? Ashley believed you. So did I.”

  The chief comes up behind her and places his big beefy hand on her shoulder. She turns to look up at him. He towers about two feet above her blond head, but he's a gentle giant and his touch seems to comfort her.

  “Ma’am, believe me-Officer Ceepak and all the other officers, in here and out in the field, will do everything they can to find your daughter. We're sorting through clues and organizing a massive search-and-rescue operation. We've called in the Coast Guard, the Rescue Dogs. We're setting up roadblocks, sending out a call for volunteers to assist in the search….”

  The woman nods her head. She understands.

  “Thank you. It's just that….” She takes a deep breath. “I'm afraid.”

  “Just let us do our jobs? Please?”

  She hesitates, then pulls herself together. “Of course, Chief. Of course.”

  They both nod their heads. The chief steps away. She turns to Ceepak.

  “Ashley really liked you.”

  “Don't worry. We'll find her.”

  She turns to go back to her bedroom and cry some more, when one of the State Crime Scene Investigators comes over carrying a small Dell computer.

  “Excuse me, ma'am?”

  She slowly turns around.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to bother you with this….”

  “Will it find my daughter?”

  “It could.”

  “All right.”

  “We've been working on your ex-husband's laptop. Trying to access his calendar, address book. See who he might have had recent contact with….”

  Betty closes her eyes for a second, like she needs to collect her thoughts to keep from screaming at this cop for worrying about a computer when he should be outside, finding her little girl.

  “You really think this will help you locate Ashley?”

  “Like I said, it could.”

  The chief now marches back to her side, looking every bit the big-hearted commander.

  “We think the murder and the disappearance are linked,” he says, using his confident coach voice-the one that tells you he knows exactly what play to call to win the game in the final five seconds. “So we really need your help.”

  “Of course.” She gives him a tense smile.

  “Any idea what his security code might be?” the crime scene guy asks. “It might help us crack into his database faster….”

  “BUSTER,” she says.

  “Ma'am?”

  “Buster was his dog when he was a boy. B-U-S-T-E-R is his security code for everything. ATM card, E-mail … everything.”

  “Thanks.” The guy with the laptop plops down on a sofa and starts tapping keys.

  “Thank you,” the chief echoes softly.

  “You're welcome. I think I'm going to lie down now. The doctor gave me some pills … I'm starting to feel a little groggy….”

  “Good. Sleep is good.”

  “Officer Ceepak?”

  “Yes, ma'am?”

  She steadies herself, wanting to say whatever it is she needs to say before her brain closes up shop for the day.

  “You made a very special connection with my daughter today. Somehow, I think she needs you more than all these others. She put her trust in you … told me you were her protector, her special champion.”

  Poor Ceepak. He's being pegged as Ashley's only hope, her knight in shining armor.

  He nods. I guess he sees himself the same way. The Code? It'll do that to you.

  “I'll find her,” Ceepak whispers. No “we” any more. This is personal. “I give you my word.”

  “Thank you.”

  Betty leaves the room, her five-day forecast looking extremely gloomy, indeed.

  “Ceepak?” It's the chief.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I want you and Danny on the morning shift.”

  “Fine. We'll work straight through….”

  “No. You need to go home and grab some sleep. Now. Both of you. I want you fresh and at your best tomorrow morning when we'll probably have more substantial leads.”

  “Roger.” Ceepak, as always, recognizes an order when he's given one.

  “Anybody know a Virgilio Mendez?” the guy working with the laptop asks the room.

  “Mendez?” The chief moves to the couch to look over the guy's shoulder.

  I think I've heard of him. Isn't that the guy Becca mentioned back at The Sand Bar? The Latino Soprano with the tattoos. But I'm sort of out of my league in this room so I stay quiet, let the big dogs bark first.

  “Hart met with Mendez on Friday. Noon. Place called The Lobster Trap. He had another meeting scheduled with him tomorrow. 10 A.M. Chesterfield's.”

  “Swankiest dining room in town,” the chief says.

  I nod. I've never actually been inside Chesterfield's. It's this three-story gingerbread Victorian painted purple and pink that hired a fancy chef from the city for its kitchen. That's why the scrambled eggs cost like twenty bucks.

  “So who is this Mendez?” Ceepak asks.

  The chief's on top of it. “Dominican. Works for the top boys in Ocean Town. Connected to the casinos….”

  “What's his relationship to Mr. Hart?” Ceepak asks.

  “I don't know,” the chief says.

  “I do.”

  When nobody was looking, our New York lady lawyer had slipped into the room.

  Cynthia Stone is standing there, doing that thing with her hands on her hips and her chest all pushed forward. She reminds me of this bird I saw once on a National Geographic special, always puffing up its breast, trying to scare everyone else away from the worm it wants.

  “Mr. Mendez has, in the past, done some work for Hart Enterprises as a real estate expediter,” she says.

  “Expediter?” the chief groans. He doesn't like words like expediter.

  “He handled certain matters for us. However, that calendar is incorrect. All scheduled meetings with Mr. Mendez were subsequently cancelled.”

  “Ms. Stone?” the chief says. “That's your name, right?”

  “Correct.”

  The chief moves real slow so she can see what a big, scary man he is. But she isn't buying into it. She stands there just like her name: rock solid-a concrete saint in a cement birdbath.

  “Thank you for the information,” the chief says, leaning in so he's about six inches from her face. If she wanted to, she could count the pores on his nose. “Now, I must ask you to leave. As you may know, Ashley Hart is missing….”

  The woman doesn't flinch.
/>   “Yes.”

  “We are very goddamn busy here and I don't see how any of this is any of your business-”

  “That's where you are wrong. It is my business. In fact, as a corporate officer, I have a fiduciary responsibility to-”

  “You have a what?”

  “Fiduciary responsibility.”

  “Oh? Really? Paint me a picture.”

  “Certainly,” she says. “Reginald Hart's will specifies a single beneficiary. His daughter.”

  “So?”

  “So as of 7:15 A.M., the time of death pronounced by the Ocean County Medical Examiner, Harriet Ashley Hart inherited everything her father owned. Your missing person? She is also my new chairman and CEO. Ashley owns Hart Enterprises.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Suddenly, Squeegee-or whoever grabbed Harriet Ashley Hart-looks like a genius. He's nabbed himself a kid who just inherited several billion bucks.

  I know what Ceepak is thinking: Squeegee isn't the only one who'd be interested in that kind of dough. Anybody who knew about the will is suddenly one of his “distinct possibilities.”

  We're out the front door and heading up the road to where I parked. All the good spots were already taken when I got here.

  When we're about two hundred yards away from the house I let Ceepak know what I think I know.

  “Ceepak?”

  “Yes, Danny?”

  “I think this Mendez guy is still in town.”

  “How so? Gut feeling?”

  “No. This friend of mine? Becca Adkinson? She works the front desk at her family's motel … The Mussel Beach Motel.”

  “Mussel Beach?”

  “Like, you know-the seafood?”

  “Okay. Go on.”

  “Becca said she saw these tough guys hanging around the pool all day.”

  “Tough guys?”

  “Yeah. You know-tats everywhere. Muscles. Scars.” I add the scars part because I think it makes the story a little better and besides I bet at least one of them had a scar-somewhere. “She thought they were a gang or something.”

  “I see. And what makes you think one of these gentlemen is our Virgilio Mendez?”

  “He was her favorite.”