“Yeah.”
Ceepak nods.
“You see why this should be considered important?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Ceepak nods again. I don't think he ever loses his temper. I wish he would. This quiet routine gives me too much time to realize just how royally I screwed up.
“Notice anything else that might be important?”
“At the beach?”
“Or anywhere. Take your time.”
Okay. Now I'm actually kind of pissed at him for staying so calm, cool and collected. At least when my dad's mad he screams at me and I get a pretty colorful and complete description of what I did wrong. Not with Ceepak. Maybe he wants me to stew in my own juices, go to my room and think about it, all that kind of crap. Well, screw him.
Did I notice anything else that might be important?
I suddenly recall the rust marks I saw on the wall in the men's room at The Pancake Palace, maybe because Ashley said the crazy guy with the gun smelled like pee-pee and maybe my astute observation could also be considered urine-related.
Then I remember the perfume.
“The lawyer? Cynthia Stone?”
“Yes?”
“She smelled like that perfume. The Victoria's Secret stuff.”
“Interesting.”
“You think she was there? At the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
“It's a possibility.”
I do the head-bob nod this time, like I've figured something out.
“But,” Ceepak says, “the more likely scenario is that the odor emanated from Mr. Hart's own clothing, suggesting he had contact with Ms. Stone earlier in the morning or late last night. Perhaps they were romantically involved. Good work, Danny.”
I can tell he means it, too.
“Thanks.”
He flips through his notes.
“Possibly our ‘crazy man’ was a tenant at some point in one of Mr. Hart's buildings … or knows someone who was.”
“On account of what he said to Ashley about her father being a slumlord.”
“Presents us with a long list of names to check….”
“Thousands.”
“We can also conjecture that the perpetrator used a semi-automatic weapon.”
“Because he had to keep squeezing the trigger?”
“Exactly.”
That one was pretty easy, but I smile anyhow. I'm starting to feel better.
Ceepak looks at his watch. It's 2:45 P.M. My shift is supposed to end at three but I'm willing to work overtime if it will help dig me out of the hole I think I dug for myself when I forgot to tell Ceepak about the lid over that other hole.
“I want to see Officer Kiger. The officer on beach patrol this A.M. …”
“Sure. No problem. I'm cool with pulling some O.T., won't even put in for it….”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“You're not in trouble. You made an honest mistake. You should have told me about the trapdoor, but you did not. Now, however, you have, so we move forward. I harbor no resentments. We all make mistakes. That's why my pencil has an eraser. I make mistakes too.”
“Yeah. Okay. Cool.”
“Now then, do you know where Officer Kiger lives?”
“Adam? Sure.”
Ceepak checks his watch again.
“I suppose this is when he typically sleeps.”
“Too bad,” I say, feeling juiced. “Let's go wake him up.”
“Roger that.”
I crank the ignition and blast on the air conditioner.
Ceepak is staring out the window, mumbling. I can barely hear him over the fan blowing cold air into my face.
“‘The greasers they tramp the streets or get busted for trying to sleep on the beach all night….’”
He's quoting Springsteen again. Now I know why he wants to see Kiger.
If Adam drives up and down the beach in his ATV every morning looking for vagrants, chances are he's met the greasers who frequent the Tilt-A-Whirl. He's busted a few tramps “trying to sleep on the beach all night.”
Maybe even the ones in charge of under-the-fence-tunnel maintenance.
On the ride over to Kiger's place, the chief radios to let us know that the State CSI team is at Betty Bell's beach bungalow retrieving Reginald Hart's computer and briefcase.
“You'll be happy to hear Lieutenant Slominsky is no longer with them,” the chief says. “He went home a little early….”
“How's that?”
“We got lucky, I guess.”
“Did you make a few calls?”
“Maybe one or two.”
“Roger that. Do we know where Ms. Stone is staying? Hart's lawyer?”
“Chesterfields—a hoity-toity place in town. Don't worry. We'll keep her on a short leash.”
“Check. We're heading over to talk to Kiger. See if he's ever bumped into our suspect.”
“Give Adam my best when you wake him up.”
“Roger that.”
“Squeegee,” Adam Kiger says when he looks at the sketch of our suspect.
We did, indeed, wake him up. But we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way over and the black coffee was, as advertised, “just the thing.” Especially since we also grabbed Adam a couple of those cakey chocolate doughnuts I know he loves.
“Yeah. That's Squeegee. I mean it sure looks like him.”
Adam wolfs down a hunk of doughnut.
“You've rousted him before?” Ceepak asks, folding up his copy of the sketch.
“A few times. He likes to crawl under the fence there at the Tilt-A-Whirl. A lot of our local druggies do the same thing. That's why I never took away their trapdoor or filled in the tunnel. Makes it easy to find ’em.”
“Check,” Ceepak says.
“One-stop shopping.” Adam chomps off some more doughnut. “Like a big roach motel.”
Adam Kiger is a little older than me, younger than Ceepak. He's been full time with the Sea Haven police for three or four years. He has the short, shaved-head haircut. The muscles. He and Ceepak look like cops.
“They the only ones who sneak in there? The users?”
“In the morning. Late nights, you get your high school and college kids looking for a dark place to make out. They crawl under the fence, too. But that's more a night-shift problem. Some guys catch all the luck. They get lovers’ lane, I get the pharmaceuticals convention.”
“So why do you call him Squeegee?”
“He used to work at the car wash sometimes. You know the place—just off Ocean Avenue?”
“Cap'n Scrubby's?” I say.
Ceepak rolls his eyes. I don't think he'll ever get used to the cutesy-poo nautical names in Sea Haven.
“Yeah,” Adam says. “Scrubby's. Squeegee used to be one of the towel guys at the end of the line working for tips. He'd rub down the inside of your vehicle, swipe his towel around your seat cushions, wipe the water off your windows….”
“Like a squeegee.” Ceepak gets it.
“Right. And he was so skinny, the name kind of stuck. He looks like a long, skinny pole….”
“Have you seen him lately?”
“About a week ago I did a swing by the Tilt-A-Whirl, gave him a wake-up call. It was raining, so he and a few of his buddies were up in the turtles. They use the ride for a shooting gallery because all the cars have those roof deals up top. You know, where the turtle necks stick out? Makes an excellent crash pad. Roof keeps ’em dry.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
“Up and down the beach. No known address. We don't even know his real name.”
“Check. So what happened this morning?”
“Approximately 0630, I get called off the beach. Had to go deal with that stupid tricycle theft up on Rosewood.”
“Right.”
“Missed all the fireworks.”
“Have you ever seen your friend Squeegee carrying a weapon?”
“What? A gun? Knife?”
“Perhaps a semi-automati
c pistol? Maybe nine-millimeter?”
“Not that I ever saw. But I wouldn't put it past him. For a longhaired hippie, Squeegee's sort of short on ‘peace, love, and understanding.’ He is one angry old dude. Extremely confrontational. Paranoid. Thinks everything is a Republican plot against him. Always gives me grief when I wake him up.”
“How so?”
“He's just a nasty hunk of humanity. Called me a ‘lackey tool of the capitalist pigs.’ Got up in my face real close, made me smell the sour booze on his breath. Liked to hiss stuff at me, like he was some kind of snake.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“‘Stupid slumlord stooge.’ Stuff like that.”
Slumlord. We're hearing that word a lot today.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Around six, I drop Ceepak off back at the Bell beach house.
“You want me to stay here with you?” I ask. “In case you need a ride somewhere?”
“No thanks. I'm staying put tonight, walking the perimeter.”
“Guard duty?”
“I gave that young lady my word.” He says it with a grin and looks much happier because I think he feels like we're finally getting somewhere.
Squeegee's our man.
“Go home and get some sleep, Danny. Big day tomorrow.”
“Roger that,” I say, sounding just like Ceepak. “You too.”
“Right.”
But I can tell he has other plans. I don't think he ever sleeps much—especially not when he's on guard duty.
“See you tomorrow,” he says. “0730. Here. Sharp.”
“Sharp,” I say.
Ceepak salutes “so long” and marches up to the top of the driveway to check in with the two state police. They point here and there, plot their positions.
I figure Ashley Hart's going to sleep peacefully tonight. She's got armed guards—and one of them is John Ceepak.
I'm feeling kind of pumped, like I clutched victory from the jaws of defeat and ended the day on a high note.
I turn in the cop car, punch out at headquarters, jump into my own wheels, and head home to lose my work clothes and grab a quick shower. Then, I think I'll head down to The Sand Bar, see what I can see, download my day.
I'm starting to think maybe I could be a cop. A real one, not just this part-time deal for the summer. Ceepak? He'll do that to you— he'll make you start thinking about being all you can be, like they used to sing in those old Army commercials.
The Sand Bar is buzzing.
It's 8:30 P.M. and I'm out on the deck with a few of my buds (most of whom are drinking Buds) watching the sun slip down behind the docks and sailboats on the bay side of the island. There's a screened-in porch with picnic tables, and sometimes we like hanging out here better than inside at the bar. You can hear most of the music but not as much of the bull people at the bar start spewing after their third or fourth beer.
Everybody wants me to tell them about the murder but I say “No comment,”like I've seen lawyers do on cop shows.
“Who do they think did it?”
“No comment.”
“You have some suspects though, right?”
“No comment.”
Sounds like I know everything without having to say anything at all.
Some of my friends wonder if Sunnyside Playland will ever reopen. And if they do, will they tear down the Tilt-A-Whirl? This one girl, my friend Becca, who works at her family's motel on Beach Lane, she thinks they have to.
“Would you want to ride on a ride where somebody was murdered? How gross….”
“No comment,”
’ I say.
“Jesus, Danny—is that all you're gonna say all night?” It's Jess. He's right. I sort of sound like a skipping CD somebody needs to whack so I'll move on to the next track.
“Can't you say anything else?”
“How about another brewski? I'm buying.”
“Okay. That's better.”
“Much better,” Becca adds. “And grab some popcorn.”
“Roger that,” I say.
“Who's Roger?”
I forgot I'm with civilians.
“Nobody. You guys want to eat?”
“Sure.”
“Grab some menus. I'll grab the beers.”
“10-4, good buddy,” Jess says. He's confused. By adding “good buddy,” he's doing Truck Driver instead of Cop. This stuff is kind of subtle.
I work my way inside and move through the crowd to the bar. It's noisy. The speakers hanging off the ceiling are thumping something fierce.
Down at the far end of the bar, I see this Abercrombie-Fitch type kid with a tray of Jell-O shots. He looks to be seventeen. Maybe sixteen.
He shouldn't be in here buying booze. So I do what I think Ceepak would do.
“Debbie?” I yell loud enough so my friend the bartender can hear me over the Saturday night racket. Debbie looks particularly fetching in her tattered-neck Sand Bar T-shirt and torn-off short-shorts. Add a parrot, she could be a pirate wench.
“Hey. What's up, Danny Boy?”
“That kid down there? I hope that's the Jell-O jiggler sampler you just served him. Something he could share with the whole class when he goes back to kindergarten in the fall….”
“Hey, man—I checked his driver's license. Says he's twenty-one. Says he's cool.”
“Is that so? Well, I got a piece of paper back home that says I'm Star Wars TIE-Fighter Commander on account of I drank enough Pepsi at Pizza Hut….”
“You goin’ all-cop on me, Danny Boy? Taking this summer job seriously all of a sudden?”
“I just don't want you guys to lose your liquor license. That's all.”
“Then ease up.”
“What if that kid gets in a car wreck?”
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“His father probably took away his keys. In case you haven't heard, there's this killer on the loose and nobody wants their kids driving anywhere until the cops catch the creep. If they can catch him. If they're not too busy running around town hassling people, checking fake IDs….”
Debbie can dish it out pretty good.
“I need three beers,” I say.
“Buds?”
“Yeah. Long-necks.”
Debbie moves back down the bar to the cooler.
I'm thinking about asking the kid with the fake ID a few questions like Ceepak would do. “So—you’re twenty-one? What year were you born? How many touchdowns did Mickey Mantle score that year? Hah! Gotcha. Mickey Mantle never played football….”
The kid's cell phone rings. He sticks his finger in his empty ear, looks at his watch, says something like “right now?” (from what I can read on his lips), and snaps his flip phone shut.
“Gotta bounce.”
I hear him say good-bye to the high-school buddies clustered behind him.
“I'm late for a blow job.”
I hear that one, too. His buddies slap him on the back and the kid slurps down a Dixie pixie cup of (I'm sure) vodka-soaked red Jell-O and walks out the door.
Debbie brings me the beers in a plastic bucket filled with ice.
“You got some ID, Danny?”
She's still busting my chops, but I play along and whip out my wallet.
“See? We card everybody in here.”
“Good for you, Debbie.”
And to think—we used to date. Back in high school, when I was the big man with the fake ID. Maybe Debbie's right. Maybe I'm taking this cop thing too seriously.
I uncurl five extra bucks and leave them on the bar as a tip so Debbie knows I'm sorry if I was acting like an asshole.
“You need popcorn?” she asks.
“Yeah. Popcorn would be great.”
She scoops me up a bucket and smiles. All is forgiven.
I hug both buckets and hustle out to the porch where my thirsty friends wait.
Becca, per usual, regales us with lurid stories of sordid motel guests. She works at the front desk,
so she sees and hears everything. This week, she says, it's “Latino Soprano” week at The Mussel Beach Motel.
“We've got all these tough customers hanging out around the pool. Mendez. Ramirez. Echaverra. And you should see the tattoos—which I, of course, did.” Becca is known to admire the sculpted male physique. Probably why she and I don't date. “This one guy? Virgilio Mendez? His chest and arms look like an art museum. He's pumped to the max and has the Blessed Virgin Mary inked on his right shoulder … Jesus with the crown of thorns on his left pec….”
Halfway through the beers—my second, their third—we decide it's time to order dinner. So we flag down a waitress and order some fried shrimp and fried clam tenders and a French-fried lobster.
The fried food always comes to the table fastest.
I'm just getting started on my clam strips and curly fries when my cell phone rings.
I figure it's Ceepak, calling to make sure I'm tan, rested, and ready for our big day tomorrow.
Caller ID confirms my hunch. It's my 9:30 tuck-in call.
“Yes sir?”
“Danny—how many beers have you had?”
“Two.”
“That'll work. I need you down here at the beach house.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Negative. Ashley Hart is missing.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I've never seen so many cop cars.
Red and white lights are swirling everywhere. The road is clogged with armed troops lugging all kinds of heavy firepower. I even see some guys with black Kevlar helmets and full body armor. I swear—it looks like we're about to invade the next town down the shore.
I see Adam Kiger. He's got another Dunkin’ Donuts coffee going. This one's iced, one of those slushy Coolatas they sell, because it's still hot and muggy and the wind isn't even blowing.
“Guess I'm never gonna get any sleep,” Adam jokes when I catch his eye.
“Yeah. You seen Ceepak?”
“Out back. That's where the girl snuck out.”
“Thanks, man.”
Snuck out? The plot thickens.
I find Ceepak in the back yard, out near the pool.
“She snuck out,” he says. “To meet her boyfriend.”
He points up to a small balcony on the second floor. There's a sliding glass door up there and it's open. The balcony's right near this trellis deal made out of four-by-fours and latticework with grapevines or something growing all over it. It'd be an easy little hop from the balcony to the top of the trellis and then a quick shimmy down to the ground. It's like Ashley has a backyard “Romeo and Juliet Playset” instead of the more traditional jungle gym.
Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 7
