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 amp;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 amp;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.
<
br /> “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 hike 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.
“You and Boyle stay here,” Santucci says to Ceepak. “Take her statement. We'll nab Winston. He can't have run too far.”
“What about the girl in the photograph?” asks Ceepak.
“Don't worry. We got other people on the street looking for her. Jesus, Ceepak-you think you're the only one who knows how to do this job?”
Ceepak turns to the couch. “Does your husband carry a weapon, Mrs. Winston?”
She shoots us a smoky spurt of a laugh. “Just the thing in his pants. He pulls that one out constantly.”
Ceepak turns back to Santucci. “I don't think your pursuit of this suspect warrants armed intrusions into….”
“Ceepak?”
“Yes?”
“Don't you even try to tell me how to do my job, okay?”
I see Ceepak's jaw popping in and out near his ear. Guess that stops him from telling Santucci to fuck off, which is what I'd do.
“Malloy?” says Santucci. “Let's roll.”
They saunter out, leaving the sour smell of testosterone in their wake. Sea Haven's Finest.
On the couch, Mrs. Winston turns toward the bay window. The vinyl blinds have been rolled all the way down to keep the sun out, the darkness in.
Ceepak takes a step toward the sofa. The floorboards squeak.
“Can you believe I'm the one who suggested this vacation?” she says to the window. She gives a snort. Laughing at herself. “Beautiful, sunny Sea Haven. Historic home of my husband's infamous frat-boy conquests. His glory days.”
Oh, man-if she starts quoting Springsteen, I might need to borrow some of those antidepressants.
“Now Teddy's picking up girls in the same house where he keeps his tired old hag of a wife locked up in her room. Typically he has the decency to carry out his vacation liaisons in some remote motel. I often find odd keys in the laundry bag when we unpack. Twisted up in his pants pockets.”
“Did he recently lose his key to this room?”
She turns to Ceepak. Smiles.
“Oh. You know about that?”
Ceepak shows her the key we found at the Palace pier. It's in a sealed plastic bag.
“Where'd he lose this one?”
“Ma'am?”
“He drops his drawers so often, he's forever dropping his keys as well. Two-no three-so far this week. He just pays the fee at the front desk and asks for a new one. He loses cash, too. Or so he says. In truth, I suspect he sometimes pays the young ladies for services rendered. That's why he never carries his wallet.” She cocks her head toward a bedside table. “Doesn't want his ‘dates’ taking his credit cards, too.”
Ceepak slips on a pair of evidence gloves and flips the wallet open. Flashes me the driver's license. I see Dr. Ted's DMV portrait. That'll help.
“Mrs. Winston, we noted your name in the guest book of The Howland House Whaling Museum.”
“So?”
“Were you there yesterday?”
“What can I say, Officer? I was bored out of my fucking gourd.”
“Did your husband go with you?”
She almost gags on a smoky chuckle. “Teddy?”
“Yes, ma'am. Was he with you at the museum?”
“Of course not. All he wants to do on our one vacation together all year is fish. First, he drags me on this charter boat with an imbecilic clown of a captain … “
That would be Pete.
“ … then, when I tell him how much I hate it, he drops me off at the dock and rents a dinghy for the day. Probably rented a first mate, too. In a bikini.”
Ceepak folds up the wallet, tucks it into a plastic bag.
“We need to take this with us,” he says. “We will return it as soon as possible.”
Mrs. Winston waves her cigarette around in the air. She could care less.
“What make and model of car does your husband drive?” asks Ceepak.
“Down here?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Porsche Boxster. The girls love his l
ittle hot rod. Until later, of course-when they discover what it is he's compensating for.”
The woman could write an antimarriage manual. It's like Springsteen says in that “Tunnel of Love” song: “Man meets woman and they fall in love. But the house is haunted and the ride gets rough.” I figure the Winstons’ ride ran off the rails ages ago.
“He collects their panties,” she says out of the blue. “Sometimes earrings. I found them. At home. In the basement. He has all his souvenirs lined up in a footlocker, sorted and stored in little plastic bags. He even labels them. Name. Date. Score. I believe five stars is his highest rating.”
“These labels,” says Ceepak. “Does he type them?”
“I don't recall. As you might suspect, I didn't spend all that much time admiring his collection. One fleeting glance was enough.” She grinds her cigarette out in the juice glass. I hear it sizzle when it finds liquid. She pulls a fresh smoke out of the pack.
“Do you have any idea where your husband has gone?”
“You mean now?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
She sends a jet of butane flame up to the tip of her cigarette. Sucks in to get it going. Blows out.
“Well, let's see. Your fellow police officers probably scared off his tea-cart tart downstairs. Therefore, I can only assume Teddy is once again on the prowl, hunting for fresh, young meat.”
Unexpectedly, she focuses on me. Gives me this lewd leer. Ceepak is watching her but she's zeroed in on the sidekick. So now he's watching her watch me. Meanwhile, I'm wishing I were somewhere- or someone-else.
“How about you, young man?” she says almost flirtatiously, flicking her tongue at the white stuff caked in the corner of her dry lips. “Where do you go to meet eager and willing young girls?”
I don't answer.
Suddenly, the idea of ever meeting another girl, for any reason whatsoever, is totally grossing me out.
In fact, it's downright frightening.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
We swing by the station house to drop off Dr. Winston's driver's license.
Denise Diego scans it into her computer and in ten seconds flat, Dr. Theodore A. Winston's headshot is displayed on Mobile Data Terminals inside cop cars up and down the island and over on the mainland.
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