Mayor Sinclair speaks first.
“Thanks for coming out, everybody. Well, we have good news and bad news.”
Did I tell you—our mayor can be a real jerk?
He's wearing khaki shorts, a polo shirt, and snazzy sunglasses dangling around his neck on a Croakie because he's the young, hip mayor of Fun-In-The-Sun City.
“First, the bad news. We recently received a ransom demand from Ashley Hart's kidnapper. The police will have more to say about that in a second. The good news? Well, the ransom note means Ashley is alive. It also means Sea Haven's pristine sandy beaches are once again safe for everybody else to enjoy! Folks, this whole tragedy is a personal matter between the killer-kidnapper and the Hart family. So come on down, enjoy your stay, and have a sunny, funderful day!”
The doofus is beaming, proud of how he worked in the Chamber of Commerce's slogan like that.
“And now—Chief Cosgrove?”
The chief gives the mayor a look. Thank God he's never used it on me.
“Thank you, Mayor Sinclair. I'm going to turn this thing over to Officer John Ceepak, who is heading up the task force on our end.”
Ceepak takes the microphone.
“Thank you, Chief. First, as the mayor stated, we are in possession of the kidnapper's monetary demands. I assure you we are taking all steps necessary to facilitate Ashley Hart's safe return. We intend to do whatever needs to be done. You have my word on that.”
I'm watching the video feed on a monitor set up on the lawn. The Code is oozing out of his eyes.
“As I said, the monetary demands are clear and appear quite doable. However, what remains unclear are the details. The where. The how. You mention a very specific time frame….”
Now everybody knows he's talking directly to the kidnapper.
“… and we hope to meet it. However, to do so, we require more information. Any clarification would prove most helpful. Thank you.”
Ceepak steps back.
“Are you using us to talk directly to the kidnapper?” a reporter shouts from the crowd.
Morgan steps forward and eases Ceepak to the side.
“We have nothing further to say.”
Now all the reporters are screaming.
“Are you paying the ransom?”
“How do you know the girl is alive?’
Morgan simply turns his back on the crowd, gestures to everybody else on stage to do the same, and the choir walks up the porch steps and goes back inside.
We're sitting inside the interrogation room—Morgan, Ceepak, and me.
The mayor is out walking the beach, personally encouraging everybody he can to stick around town.
On the table in front of us are copies of the ransom fax, the photograph, and the scribbled note that came with it.
“I've sent all this material to Quantico. We'll run a handwriting analysis, try to work up a psychological profile….” Morgan has circled the phone number in the header with a felt-tip pen.
“Your man drops a lot of clues, doesn't he?” he says to Ceepak.
Ceepak nods. “You think he wants us to catch him?”
“You mean is this one of those ‘stop me before I do this again’ calls-for-help you see in the serial-killer movies?”
“Right.”
“Nah.” Morgan takes a sip of coffee. “I think he's trying to be clever. Show how smart he is. He knew you'd trace the fax number in about five minutes flat. That's why he did the auto-dial deal. Why he left the picture for you to find. He's Hansel, dropping bread crumbs like crazy.”
Ceepak rotates his copy of the Polaroid to show Morgan where he's been doodling on it with his pen, outlining something blurry in the background.
“More like a bread loaf, I'd say.”
“What you got? Lighthouse?”
“Could be.”
“The north shore,” I say.
“Danny's a local,” Ceepak explains. “Knows this island like nobody's business.”
Morgan hands the photo to me.
“Yeah. Okay. That looks like the old Ship John lighthouse. See how it's got this big band painted around the middle of the tower, here? Makes it look like a barber pole or a rugby shirt: white stripe, red stripe, white stripe. Makes it a daymark too.”
“Where's Ship John?” Ceepak asks.
“Bottom of the ocean. They named the lighthouse after a ship that sank in the shoals. That's why boats needed to see the lighthouse day and night … the shoals….”
“Hence the red band.”
“Right.”
“You know how to find this lighthouse, Danny?”
“Sure. It's been closed for years, but I know where it is.”
“Excellent.” Ceepak actually claps me on the back. Then he turns to Morgan. “Looks like he's sticking pretty close to familiar stomping grounds. We know he used to squat in an abandoned hotel up that way. Might be prudent to do some RST up that way. Reconnaissance, Surveillance, and Targeting.”
“I don't know.” Morgan leans back in his chair and rubs his eyes. “You don't want him going all jumpy. Don't forget—the guy's a junkie. No matter how smart he thinks he is, when he's wired he could do something pretty damn stupid.”
“That's why we'll go up tonight. Cover of darkness.”
Morgan looks at Ceepak for a second.
“You want me or my guys to go with you?”
“No, sir. Like you say—a big crowd will only draw unwanted attention. Danny and I can handle it. We're just going up for a look-see. Get our bearings for tomorrow. We have to figure the money drop will be somewhere in the general vicinity—”
Gus sticks his head in the door.
“Uh, excuse me, fellas. Ceepak?”
“Yeah?”
“Chief said to grab you guys. Another freaking fax is coming in.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“You got the number?” Morgan asks.
“Yeah,” the chief says. “We're on with the phone company … pinpointing the location.”
We're all standing behind Gus's desk, staring at the fax machine as it prints out page number three.
“It's a self-serve machine on Ocean Avenue,” Jane Bright yells from a desk phone. “Boardwalk Books. 1733 Ocean Avenue.”
“Helen?” the chief barks into the dispatcher's cubicle. “Who's close to 1733 Ocean?”
“Cochran?” Morgan's yelling at one of his men.
“Pescatore and Murphy,” the dispatcher yells back to the chief.
“Send them!”
“Boardwalk Books!” Morgan's bellowing at a guy who must be Cochran. “1733 Ocean. Take the forensics team. Go!”
“Sir?” Ceepak says to the chief.
“No, you can not go. We need you here.”
Ashley's mother walks through the front door. She's wearing her black wig and floppy hat, and she freezes when she sees all of us standing behind the front desk staring at a beige box grunting out paper.
“What's going on? Is it him?” Is it the kidnapper?”
“We think so.”
“What does he want now?”
“It looks like he's honoring our request for more specifics,” says Ceepak.
“Is that good news?”
“Yes, ma'am. I believe it means we're one step closer to bringing Ashley home.”
“Can I read it?”
“No need,” the chief says. “We'll handle it from here.”
“Are you sure?”
“It's for the best,” Morgan chimes in, giving the official FBI seal of approval to the chief's suggestion.
“In fact,” the chief suggests, “you might be more comfortable at your own home. I can have Officer Bright drive you.”
“All right, Robert. You know best.”
Ceepak and me look over at the chief, who's sort of blushing.
We've never heard anybody call him “Robert” before.
Of course Pescatore and Murphy found no one at Boardwalk Books. The coin-operated fax machine is tucked in a corner, h
idden behind bookcases filled with beach reads. The sole employee was up at the cash register. Business was extremely slow, so he was sipping cappuccino and reading. He hadn't seen the fax sender walk in or out. Preoccupied with his froth. End of story.
Also, the bookstore doesn't believe in security cameras. The owner, this guy I've met a couple times, is a big fan of George Orwell's 1984 and doesn't want us “to go down a slippery slope” to governmental mind control or world domination, I forget which. Besides, what kid is going to shoplift books on his summer vacation?
Cochran, the FBI guy, dutifully dusted the fax machine for prints. He even impounded all the quarters in the money box. I'll bet you there's three or four in there without any fingerprints on them at all.
That would be our guy's loose change.
So all we have is the fax.
Once again, we have copies, and the interrogation room looks like a Barnes & Noble, everybody hanging out reading. The chief, Morgan, Ceepak, and me—we're all studying what the kidnapper wants us to do next:
Mrs. Hart.
Listen carefully! We have your daughter and have not yet harmed her in any way even though I have been tempted.
If you want your daughter to stay safe and unharmed you will put ten million dollars in cash in several rolling suitcases. $100 bills are fine so are $1000s but please give me some $20 bills too.
You are to place the suitcases inside the Ship John Lighthouse at noon tomorrow. The first floor. Just inside the door. The padlock and chain have been removed and you will be able to enter. When you do so, you will find instructions as to where to find your daughter at precisely 2 P.M.
Yes. Sorry. You will have to wait two hours.
I have friends who are with Ashley.
Any deviation from these instructions will result in the immediate execution of your daughter.
The friends watching over your daughter did not like your late husband so do not provoke them.
Ceepak is to bring the money and then leave and not look back.
If he stays, if he brings the FBI agent with the sunglasses, if he even brings a dog, your daughter dies.
If the money is marked or in any way tampered with she dies. If the Coast Guard tries to stop me from leaving the island, she dies.
You stand a 99 per cent chance of killing your daughter if you try to out smart us. Follow our instructions and wait until 2 P.M. and you stand a 100% chance of getting her back. Don't try to grow a brain. Don't underestimate us. It is up to you now.
Victory!
Squeegee
Everybody finishes reading about the same time. We know we will have to show this to Betty, just not right away.
“ We,” Ceepak says. “Us.”
“Yeah,” Morgan chimes in. “Saw that too.”
“Stands to reason he'd have associates,” the chief says. “Ten million dollars is a lot of money.”
“I thought you guys told me Squeegee was a junkie.” Morgan is leaning back in his chair.
Something doesn't smell right.
“We found drug paraphernalia near the Tilt-A-Whirl,” Ceepak says. “In the spot where we know the man in the Timberland boots was hiding.”
“Right. Behind the bushes.”
“What's your problem, Morgan?” the chief sounds grouchy, upset at Morgan for slowing things down.
“It just doesn't make sense.”
“I know what you mean,” Ceepak says.
“What doesn't make goddam sense?”
“Chief Cosgrove,” Morgan speaks in this slow, easy rhythm. “Since when is a junkie capable of pulling off something this big? Most junkies can't even mastermind their next score or their next bath, let alone an elaborate scheme like this. Yet, every step of the way, this thing's been carried out with military precision. The hit at the Tilt-A-Whirl. The grab on the beach. The smooth nautical getaway. The photo. The timing of the faxes.”
“What's your take, Chris?” Ceepak is interested.
“Let's run this thing down,” Morgan says. “If Squeegee is in the bushes because, let's say, he tailed Mr. Hart and his daughter to the Tilt-A-Whirl, why doesn't he just nab the girl then? If the ten-million-dollar ransom money is his ultimate motive….”
“Don't forget,” the chief says, “he called Hart a ‘fucking slumlord.’”
“I remember. So first he takes a little revenge and pops seven bullets into Hart. Fine. Then, he wants to sweeten his revenge by grabbing the daughter and ripping off the slumlord's estate for ten million bucks. Okay. But if that's the plan, why doesn't he just grab the girl at the amusement park? He's got a gun. The girl's in no state to resist. Why didn't he grab her then?” Morgan asks it again. “Why does he wait?”
“Only about fourteen hours,” the chief answers.
“Still, he waits.”
“He knew,” Ceepak says. “About the will. The probate. The potential for delay. The need to find the executor, contact the insurance companies….”
“Exactly,” Morgan says. “Sound like typical junkie thinking to you guys?”
“No, sir.”
“Sounds more like the mob,” the chief is getting with the program now.
“Or a gang,” Morgan adds.
“Danny?” Ceepak swivels in his chair. “Your friend Becca? What was it she told you?”
“You mean about Mendez and his crew?”
The chief stands up. “His crew?”
“Yeah. He and his buddies were hanging out around the pool, flexing their muscles….”
“Danny? Focus, okay?”
“I remember some of the names. Mendez. Ramirez. Echaverra. All these tough dudes, she said.”
“Gentlemen,” Morgan says, “we may have found us our ‘us. “
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Good thing we have Mendez locked up in the back. Unfortunately, the chief never did cook up a good charge against Cynthia Stone, so the lawyer went back to her room at the B&B to plot her revenge.
“I will make myself available at 3 P.M.”
Her steel-tipped voice now emanates from the chief's speaker-phone.
“We'd prefer to talk with Mr. Mendez sooner,” Morgan says. “We'd prefer to talk to with him sometime closer to now!”
“I'm sure you would, Mr. Morgan. However, he will not speak to you without his lawyer present. Me.”
Ceepak nods. He knows it's the right way to proceed.
“It is currently 1:15,” Ms. Stone says. “I have a few final matters to attend to, regarding the transfer of Mr. Hart's assets into Ashley's name.”
“Three is fine,” the chief barks. “Not a minute later.”
“I'll be there. You have my word.”
The chief jabs the speaker button to make sure Ms. Stone is gone. I don't think he likes her.
“Gentlemen?” Morgan moves toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go grab a quick bite with my guys. There's something I want them to look into….”
“What?” the chief asks. “Anything we should know?”
“No. Don't think so. But if it turns out to be something, I'll let you know. Probably won't. Just … I don't know. I'll keep you posted. Where's a good place for a sandwich?”
“Just head over to Ocean,” I suggest. “There's sub shops and delis up and down the street.”
“Thanks, Boyle. We circle back up at, say, 1445?”
“Make it 1420,” the chief says.
Morgan leaves.
“Close the door, Boyle.”
“Yes, chief.”
He waits until I do it before he speaks again.
“Ceepak?”
“Sir?”
“I want you up on the north shore tonight.”
“That's my plan.”
“Good. Mendez and his gang might be involved, but I don't think those gangbangers are the kind that get their rocks off with teenaged girls.”
“Check.”
“Squeegee, on the other hand …”
The chief walks over to a locked closet. He
slips in the key and opens the door.
There's a long case sitting on the floor. It looks like the kind of hard-sided storage box you'd pack your power tools in if you had some tool that was about three feet long.
The chief props the case up on his desk and snaps open all four latches.
I was right about SWS. It's a rifle.
Inside the case, tucked into specially cut foam slots, are all the pieces of an Army issue M-24. The stock, the barrel, the scope, even a silencer. I see Dymo-pressed label tape: “M-24 Sniper Weapon System.”
SWS.
“Just in case,” the chief says.
Ceepak snaps the latches shut and picks up the case.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“Let's go grab some lunch.”
We almost go out the front door. Then we remember the reporters. Ceepak is sort of a poster boy for this case, talking directly to the kidnapper on TV and all. If the newshounds see him, they'll start screaming questions again and chase after us like twelve-year-old girls on the heels of Justin Timberlake or whoever they're squealing after these days.
We slip out the back.
I take Ceepak to this totally out-of-the-way restaurant.
Actually, to call The Rusty Scupper a restaurant is a stretch. It's really just this four-table grease pit with a grill and a waitress over on the bay side of the island that practically nobody ever goes to except starving people with boats because it's located right off the public dock. In fact, you can smell the salty air and listen to the water slap against the barnacle-crusted pilings while you wait for your burger to be burnt.
I come here to ogle the waitress. Gail.
She's at the “staff table” painting her toenails. She has her bronzed leg up on a chair, her back arched, her long hair hanging forward. She is incredibly tan and likes to wear a skimpy bathing suit on the job so she can stay that way.
Two tables have customers, chewing their burgers over and over and over, nibbling droopy fries out of red plastic baskets with tissue paper dotted with grease blots. The décor is simple: red-and-white vinyl tablecloths with tomato-red rings wherever a dirty-bottomed ketchup bottle sat in the past week. Gail is not a big table wiper.
Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 14
