“She was probably holding the soap when our doer came at her from behind,” Botzong continues.
“How so?” says Ceepak.
“She really dug her nails into it. Gouged the bar. We found the soap burrowed up under all four fingernails on her right hand.”
“So, your hypothesis is that the assailant broke into her home and surprised her while she was showering?”
“No,” says Botzong. “We inventoried her home when we went through it. She used Pantene and Dove. I’m figuring she knew the guy who did this. Went to his place. Maybe she wanted to clean up before or after they did what they went there to do.”
“He probably dismembered her in the shower as well,” says Ceepak. “He would be able to wash away the evidence.”
“Right. We find the shower, we’ll find blood, I guarantee it,” says Botzong. “You can’t scrub it away completely. We get in there with Luminol and a UV light, we’ll find residue.” He pauses. “Of course, the scenario doesn’t make much sense.”
“Because Dr. Kurth estimates the time of death to be one A.M. Friday?” says Ceepak.
“Exactly. Maybe she’d take a shower that late, but shampoo? I don’t know. Her hair was long, down past her shoulders. Wouldn’t dry right away. And who hits the sack with sopping wet hair, especially if it’s not your own bed or pillow?”
“Good question,” says Ceepak.
There’s a knock at the door. Denise Diego. She waves a sheaf of papers to let us know she’s found something.
“Detective Botzong?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“We have just been joined on this end by Officer Denise Diego, who has been running down Gail Baker’s cell phone records. We, of course, have not had time to analyze or filter her findings.”
“That’s okay. Give it to me raw.”
Ceepak motions for Diego to come into the room. Gestures toward the speakerphone. The floor is hers.
“Okay. There’s a lot of data in the dump. Ms. Baker worked her cell to the max. Calls. Texts. E-mails. On my first pass, I concentrated on her final twenty-four hours.”
“Good call,” says Botzong on the voice box.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What’d you find?”
“Couple things. First-she made dozens of calls to the same number, an M. Minsky, here in Sea Haven.”
“That’s Marny,” I say. “One of her best friends.”
Another item goes on the To Do list.
“What else, Officer Diego?” says Ceepak.
“A couple of calls to Mike Charzuk.”
“The trainer at the gym,” I say.
“What time?” Botzong asks.
“The last one was eleven forty-five P.M. Thursday.”
“When did we issue Ms. Baker the warning ticket, Danny?” asks Ceepak.
I try to remember what I wrote down. “Like, eleven.”
“So, she most likely contacted the personal trainer immediately afterward.”
“Why would she do that?” asks Botzong. “Why call her calisthenics coach?
“They were, you know, talking about hooking up,” I say. “Maybe they finally did.”
“Someone else for you guys to talk to.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “He is definitely on the list.”
And moving up. If he talked to her that late, the hookup may have ended with a hammer and hacksaw in the shower.
“Anything else?” asks Ceepak.
“That’s it until right after midnight. Twelve-oh-five A.M. she sent a short text message.”
“Short?”
“Not much data in the transfer. That was the last time she used her phone.”
“To whom did she text?”
Diego runs her finger down two different sheets of paper, looking for a match.
“Area code 609. Another local number. Mr. Patrick O’Malley.”
19
Okay.
Maybe Skippy is a better detective than we gave him credit for.
“Does that last number appear elsewhere in the phone records?” Ceepak asks.
“Yeah,” says Officer Diego. “Several times. Earlier in the month. Almost once a day through last Saturday morning, then nothing until last night.”
“You know this Patrick O’Malley?” asks Botzong.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “One of Sea Haven’s most prominent businessmen. His wife died last Saturday from a heart attack during the inaugural ride of Mr. O’Malley’s new roller coaster.”
“Yeah, I read about that. You think maybe the heart attack might’ve been caused by something besides an adrenaline rush?”
“We had no reason to think so previously.”
Yeah. But maybe now we do. Maybe the wife was giving Mr. O’Malley too much grief about his girlfriend Gail.
“Twice in one week …” I mumble.
“What’s that?” says Botzong on the speakerphone.
“Danny?” This from Ceepak.
“It’s what Mr. O’Malley’s son said. ‘Twice in one week.’”
“Implying,” says Ceepak, “that his father was implicated in Ms. Baker’s death as well as that of his wife.”
“Guess you guys better go have a chat with this Mr. O’Malley. See if he has any receipts from Home Depot for hacksaw blades.”
As soon as we’re off the conference call, Ceepak gives Diego a new assignment: Search the public real estate records and find out who owns number One Tangerine Street.
Good. Means we’re not going back to All-A-Shore Realty to talk to Mrs. Starky. I won’t be verbally castrated again until the next time Sam invites me over for Sunday dinner.
While Officer Diego clacks her keyboard and scours historical real estate transactions, Ceepak and I hit the road and head north on Beach Lane.
Time to talk to Skippy’s poppa-if we can find him at the Rolling Thunder. Meanwhile, Dylan Murray, who stayed on the clock after Santucci punched out, is on the street with his partner, Ron Edison, tracking down Mike Charzuk, Gail’s personal trainer and the second-to-last person she called. Mrs. Rence is also helping out, calling Santucci’s cell phone. Repeatedly.
“He must have it off,” she reported in her last radio transmission. “No answer and no busy signal.”
“Keep trying.”
We’re moving past the Sea Spray Hotel when Dylan Murray radios in.
“Unit A-twelve, this is Baker-six.”
Ceepak’s at the wheel, so I take the call.
“This is A-twelve, go ahead.”
“We’re with Mr. Charzuk at Beach Bods gym. He has one more client scheduled. How shall we proceed?”
I glance over to Ceepak.
“Have them ask Mr. Charzuk to join us at the house at twenty hundred hours.”
“Dylan,” I say into the mic, “we’d like to talk to him in an hour-at eight.”
“At the house?”
“Right.”
“We’ll offer him a ride.”
“Thanks. Let us know if he turns down your invitation.”
“You got it. Out.”
It’s nearly seven now. I sense Ceepak’s plan. We spend the next hour with the last guy to communicate with Gail, then head back to the house to chat with the second-to-last guy. There’s a pecking order to these things.
We pull into a municipal parking lot butting up to the boardwalk and have our pick of spaces, because, like I said, our seaside resort stays pretty sleepy until the end of June. We hike up a ramp that will have us hitting the boards pretty close to Pier Four, home to the brand-new Rolling Thunder. The tarry scent of creosote is almost strong enough to overpower the food odors sputtering out of the open-air concession stands. Almost. Italian sausage sandwiches with onions and peppers put up a pretty good stink fight.
“Looks like they are testing the electricals,” says Ceepak.
On the horizon, we’re treated to a disco inferno of flashing colored lights. They must have all the bulbs on the Rolling Thunder synched up to a hig
h-tech computer. They flicker, blink, strobe, and streak like chaser lights up and down the humps of the wooden scaffolding. Then they blast through a rainbow of color bursts. It’s pretty awesome. Probably even more amazing when you’re slightly buzzed. Trust me. My high school buddies and I could sit and stare at a blinking Ferris wheel for hours after chugging a few brewskis and smoking something I’d have to arrest myself for smoking these days.
“Hello, Samantha.” Ceepak sees her first.
“Hi, guys! You still on the clock?”
“Roger that.”
“Hey, Sam,” I say, kind of sheepishly, because a) her mother royally reamed me out a couple of hours ago, and b) she’s with a group of six or seven other kids her own age. I say that because Samantha Starky is four years younger than me. The crowd looks like her college buddies.
“How’s it going, Danny?”
I shrug. “We’re, you know, following up on a couple things.”
“Cool.”
“Is this the Danny?” asks one of her girlfriends.
“Yep. Oh, shoot-I forgot. You’ve never met any of my friends from school, have you, Danny?”
Okay. I think that was a dig.
Three girls and two guys are clustered around Sam now, nibbling on fried candy bars, sizing me up. A third guy who just paid for his fried Twinkie joins them. He’s wearing a Rutgers Law School sweatshirt and shorts. Go Scarlet Knights.
“You’re Danny?” The way he says it, I think he was expecting someone bigger, more intimidating. “We’ve heard so much about you.”
“What is that thing, Richard?” Sam asks Sweatshirt Man with a flirty little giggle.
“Twinkie,” Richard says with a mouth full of sponge cake and cream. “I thinkie.”
The college kids laugh. They’re into witty word play. Me and Ceepak? Fuhgeddaboutit.
“Meet Richard Heimsack and the rest of my study group,” explains Sam. “We’ve all been working so hard, we wanted to blow off a little steam.”
“Thanks for letting us borrow Sam tonight,” says Heimsack, his mouth full of creamy mush. “She sure knows how to show a guy a good time. On the boardwalk, I mean.”
He winks. I think that was another funny. Richard Heimsack must be the class clown in Tort Reform 101. With a last name like that, he better be.
Ceepak flips up his wrist, checks his G-Shock watch. “Danny?”
Yeah. I agree. Time for us to say buh-bye.
“We need to hit it,” I say to Sam.
“Right.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Stay safe, you guys.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak.
We march across the boardwalk toward the thunderbolt neon lights spelling out Rolling Thunder.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Ceepak.
“About what?”
“Sam and her friends. Slowing us down.”
“Not to worry.” We keep walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ceepak pursing his lips, trying hard to think of what to say. “Danny … this job … it can put enormous strain on one’s personal life and relationships.”
“Yeah. I know.”
It’s a wrecking ball.
The Rolling Thunder isn’t open for business; they’re just testing out the lights, running empty trains around the track, greasing the rails. We go under the blinking entryway sign and head for the ticket booth.
We bump into our second surprise guest of the night: Sergeant Dominic Santucci, all decked out in black boots, black cargo pants and a black commando-style shirt. There’s a radio clipped to his belt. It’s black, too.
“Dom?” says Ceepak.
“Ceepak.”
“What are you doing here?”
Santucci gestures with his head toward the ticket booth. “Running security for Mr. O’Malley.”
“But the ride isn’t even open.”
“Doesn’t matter. Mr. O’Malley asked me to escort him around town tonight.”
“May I ask why?”
“He pays, I show up. Badda bing, badda boom.”
“We need to talk to Mr. O’Malley.”
“About what?”
“A matter related to our ongoing investigation.”
“What? The dead chick in the suitcases?”
“Is Mr. O’Malley here?”
“Well, duh, Ceepak. What kind of security operation you think I run? Get hired to guard a guy and not guard him? Jesus.”
“Let me be more specific. Where is Mr. O’Malley?”
“He and his son, Kevin, are walking the track. Making sure everything’s copacetic for the big opening tomorrow.”
“When will he be back down?”
“Five, ten minutes I figure.”
“We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Hang on.” Santucci unclips his radio. “Mr. O’Malley? This is Security One, over.”
We wait. Santucci chews his gum. Loudly.
“What the hell is it, Dom?” comes a snarl out of his radio.
“Couple of my buddies from the Sea Haven PD just dropped by. Say they want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Santucci turns to Ceepak. “What about?”
“The murder of Gail Baker.”
Santucci chews his cud a little more slowly. Fewer pops. He brings the radio back to his mouth.
“That girl I was telling you about. Over.”
“Mr. Santucci?” says a new voice on the radio. “This is Kevin O’Malley.”
Santucci’s back stiffens. I get the feeling Kevin is in charge of hiring security guards for O’Malley Enterprises. “Yes, sir?”
“Kindly inform the officers that we’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Will do. Over and out.” Santucci clips the radio back to his belt. It’s black, too. “They’ll be down in five.”
Right. We were paying attention.
“We’d also like to ask you a few questions, Dom,” says Ceepak.
“Me? What about?”
“Did you remove an article of clothing from the suitcases?”
“What?”
“When you went searching for ID in Ms. Baker’s clothing, did you take anything out of the two bags?”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You think I grabbed a souvenir or something?”
“Did you?”
“Fuck you, Ceepak. Okay? I’m off the job, so I can say it. Fuck. You.”
“How long have you been employed by Mr. O’Malley?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“What sort of things has he asked you to do in the past?”
“Keep annoying assholes like you out of his face, you jarheaded jag-off.”
“Did you know about Mr. O’Malley’s relationship with the deceased?”
“What, his wife?”
“Gail Baker.”
Santucci’s eyes slide back and forth a couple of times. He swipes at his mouth with his hand. “If he had a relationship with her, he didn’t tell me.”
“Does he pay you extra to lie for him?”
“What?”
“You do it pretty well,” says Ceepak. “However your eye movements and hand gestures betray you, Dom. Avoiding eye contact. Touching your face.”
Santucci gives us his donkey laugh, but it comes out sounding stilted. “You watch too much fucking TV, Ceepak.”
“Dom?” Kevin O’Malley and his father emerge out of the darkness behind the ticket booth. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. O’Malley, I’m Officer John Ceepak. This is my partner Danny Boyle.”
“We know who you are,” says Kevin.
“We need to ask your father a few questions.”
“About what?” says the older Mr. O’Malley, stepping forward. It’s a warm June night, but he’s wearing a seersucker suit and white buck shoes. He was wearing the same outfit last Saturday. Must be his official uniform.
“Your relationship with Gail Baker.”
“Don’t say a word
, Dad,” advises Kevin. “Lou Rambowski is on the way.”
Ceepak’s eye twitches. Every cop in Sea Haven (and most of New Jersey) knows and despises the lawyer Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski, ever since he helped a punk up in Newark get a free pass by making the jury believe it was a dead cop’s own fault he got shot in the back of his head.
“Very well,” says Ceepak, “we’ll escort Mr. O’Malley to police headquarters and-”
“I know how to find headquarters,” says Santucci. “I’ll drive Mr. O’Malley.”
“When will your lawyer arrive?” asks Ceepak.
“Late,” says Kevin. “He’s driving down from Montclair.”
“How about we do this first thing tomorrow morning?” suggests Mr. O’Malley.
“We’d prefer discussing this matter this evening.”
“Sure you would,” says Kevin. “When my dad’s lawyer’s burned out after a three-hour drive.”
“Look, fellas,” says Big Paddy. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got a goddamn roller coaster to open tomorrow. I just buried my wife …” His voice catches. “I am not a flight risk.”
“Fine,” says Ceepak. “How early might you and your lawyer be available?”
“What time is the opening, Kev?”
“Ten.”
“Will eight work for you, Officer Ceepak?” asks Mr. O’Malley, turning on his Irish charm.
“Seven is better.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he grumbles. “We’ll bring the goddamn donuts. Come on, Dominic. Drive me home. This has been one helluva lousy day.”
20
“I wonder if the personal trainer lawyered up, too,” I say as we cruise back toward the house.
“It would be his right, Danny, and, even when innocent, an advisable move.”
Ceepak. The guy not only plays by the rules, he thinks they’re there for a reason besides making me wake up way too early on a Saturday morning.
“Before we talk to Mr. Charzuk,” says Ceepak, “let’s swing by Tangerine Street. See if the residents of number one are home tonight.”
I’m at the wheel, so I keep us headed south on Beach Lane when we hit Cherry, the street where the municipal buildings and stationhouse are all clustered together. We roll through a forest of alphabetical tree-named streets and come to the corner of Tangerine.
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