Mind Scrambler

  Katie and Mook are now both dead.

  “I saw her this afternoon,” I say. “Katie.”

  Now it’s Becca’s turn to nod.

  “I always thought that, you know, someday she and I would get back together.”

  Becca blows her nose into that napkin. “What?”

  “Katie and me. I figured, one day, you know, we’d get married.”

  Man, does Becca shoot me a look. “No, you did not.”

  “Yunh-hunh.”

  “Ha! You did not!”

  “Did too!”

  Sometimes, when you hang out with friends you’ve known since the third grade, you revert to your third-grade level conversational skills.

  “Get out of town! That is so bogus!”

  “For real, Becca.” I think we just leapfrogged forward to middle school.

  “Danny, when was the last time you even talked to Katie?”

  “I told you: this afternoon.”

  “Cha. Sure. But before that?”

  “I dunno. After she left town. We talked on the phone.”

  “When?”

  “This one time. I forget the exact date, okay?”

  “You call her any time in the last twelve months?”

  “I sent her a Christmas card.”

  “That e-card with the singing dogs you sent me?”

  Busted. “Yeah.”

  “Danny, come on—what do you even know about Katie?”

  “I might know more than you think I do. I met her new boyfriend this afternoon.”

  “No, you did not.”

  “Yunh-hunh. Did too.” Yeah, I’m back to third grade. Maybe kindergarten. “His name is Jake. Jake Pratt. He’s a dancer. Looks like he used to work at Chippendales.” I don’t mention that I think he killed Katie.

  “He was a hunk?”

  “Yeah. I guess.” Becca has always been interested in the chiseled male physique. Buys a dozen hot-firefighters calendars every year, rotates them.

  She shakes her head. “You don’t know crap about Katie.”

  “What?”

  “For your information, Danny Boyle, Katie never, ever dated hunks. Preferred a big brain and a sense of humor to bulging biceps or six-pack abs.”

  Okay. She did date me, and I’m not currently featured on any hot-cops calendars.

  “And,” Becca continues, “just for the record, her last boyfriend was not some guy named Jake. It was Ed Kaufman.”

  “Who?”

  “Ed Kaufman. A sixth-grade teacher out there in San Mateo. They worked at the same school. They were hot and heavy for almost a year.”

  “A year?”

  Wow. Katie probably showed this Kaufman guy my electronic Christmas card.

  “They broke up a month ago. He wasn’t ready to ‘settle down.’ His words, not Katie’s.”

  “She wanted to marry this Kaufman guy?”

  “I think so. We talked about it. Whether she should have a beach wedding out there or back here.”

  Becca wins. I know absolutely nothing about who Katie Landry is—or, I guess, was. All I know is who she used to be to me and who I made her out to be in my mind—all of it, of course, based on ancient memories and a big dose of present-day guilt.

  “Why do you think Katie quit a job she loved and went to work for the Rocks? Do you think she was really working on her master’s degree in elementary education so she could become a nanny to two spoiled brats? Well, one spoiled brat. She told me she liked the boy. What’s his name?”

  “Richie.”

  “Yeah. Little Richie Rich, she called him. Like in the comic books.”

  “You talked to Katie?”

  “All the time, Danny. It’s something girls do better than guys. We keep in touch with our friends—even after they move. It’s how we stay friends.”

  My turn to nod again.

  “Wow,” is all I can say.

  My mind is further scrambled.

  Misperception meets reality. More mirrors, only this time, they’re angled upstairs in my brain, reflecting back what I wanted to see.

  Becca reaches over. Squeezes my hand. She and I dated once. A long, long time ago. Back when, for some reason I thankfully forget, we were all urging each other to “Get Jiggy Wit It.”

  Neither one of us speaks. Which is a good thing. Gives me a second to think about what she’s been trying to say.

  Don’t tell Ceepak, but I’ve been seriously violating his code.

  I’ve spent half a day lying to myself.

  Imagining that Katie Landry was my soul mate. How could she be, when I haven’t even talked to her for more than a year? How could I pretend that one day she and I would get married when I don’t even know what kind of cereal she likes for breakfast? She might prefer eggs. Maybe Eggos. Who knows? Not me.

  So, I’ve been more or less moping around, hiding from the truth.

  I don’t love Katie Landry.

  Hell, I don’t even know who she really was.

  Maybe that’s why I feel so guilty about her dying.

  I used to know every freckle on Katie’s face, back, and chest. Used to trace constellations between them. But, with time, we lost touch with each other. It happens. Just ask Springsteen. He’s sung all sorts of songs about people who swore they would never part and then, little by little, drifted from each other’s heart.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You want to go home? Sit and sulk in your apartment?”

  “No, thanks. My room here is nicer.”

  “Then grow up a little, okay? This isn’t about you. This is about Katie. Somebody killed her.”

  “I know that. I’m the one who found the body.”

  “Good. Because you’re a cop and that’s exactly what Katie needs right now. She needs you and Ceepak to stand up for her and find out who the hell did this! She needs that a lot more than she needs you feeling ashamed about not calling her on her birthday last year.”

  Becca gets up from her stool.

  “Where you going?” I ask.

  “Wherever they take Katie.”

  “The morgue?”

  “It’s what I can do, Danny. You and Ceepak, on the other hand, can do a whole lot more.”

  True.

  First off, we can go find Jake Pratt.

  The guy who, according to Becca, wasn’t Katie Landry’s boyfriend.

  But—he might’ve been her killer.

  20

  Becca Adkinson climbs into the back of an ambulance parked at a loading dock behind the Shalimar Theater—out where the casino crowds can’t see it and think somebody had a heart attack when they hit the jackpot.

  She’s going to ride with Katie Landry’s body to Shore Memorial Hospital, which leases morgue space to the Atlantic County medical examiner.

  “Danny?” Ceepak flicks his chin toward the door.

  We have work to do inside and Katie needs us in there doing it. The ambulance drifts away quietly. No need for sirens or speed, not on this run.

  “Come on in, youse guys.”

  Detective Flynn motions for us to join him in something called the Golden Dragon Room. It looks like a corporate boardroom. Must be for business meetings to justify the tax deduction when a bunch of bond traders decide to take a quick junket down to Atlantic City.

  A dozen red-leather rolling chairs are lined up on either side of a black-lacquer table as long and wide as an aircraft carrier. There are no windows—just thick, red drapes to make you think there might be one. The curtains match the carpet. So much so, it’s hard to tell where one red sea ends and the other begins.

  Two chairs on the far side of the table are already occupied. In one sits the skinny man with the greasy hair we met earlier in the theater lobby. The skeevoid Ceepak politely asked to stop swearing in front of all the little children. Krabitz. I think that’s his name.

  David Zuckerman sits in the other chair. He flips open his aluminum clipboard cover.

  “Youse guys met?” asks Fly
nn, jabbing a backward left hook toward Krabitz and Zuckerman.

  “I believe so,” says Ceepak.

  “You’re that fucking meathead who gave me the fucking lecture in the lobby. What the fuck are you doing here?”

  “Detective Flynn asked for our assistance.”

  “What?”

  “They’re cops, Kenneth,” explains Zuckerman. “Police.”

  “Well, stay the fuck out of my way!”

  Ceepak grins. “Excuse me?”

  “Stay the fuck out of my way!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ll find this guy before you two twits ever do!”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  Now Flynn acts like a ref in the middle of the ring, holds up both hands.

  “Breakitup. Everybodysitdown.”

  He tugs up on his suit coat. Does a couple shoulder dips. When the twitches subside, he rummages around in a pocket. Finds a scrap of paper. Roll of breath mints. Business card.

  He squinches his eyes to read it.

  “Deputies Ceepak and Boyle, meet Mr. Kenneth Krabitz.” He flips the card over a few times, looking for more information. “Apparently, he’s a PI. Private investigator.”

  “That’s right,” says Krabitz, leaning back in his chair. “I’m on a full-time floating retainer with Rick Rock Enterprises.”

  “Not for nothin’,” says Flynn, “but you really ought to consider printing the PI information on your business card.”

  “Duly noted,” says Krabitz. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “I wanted this sit-down,” says Flynn, “because Mr. Rock has asked his PI, Mr. Krabitz here, to aid in the search for his stolen property. The notebooks.”

  “We now suspect Jake Pratt was involved in their theft,” says Zuckerman.

  “You mind explaining how you made that logic leap?” says Flynn, leading with his chin a couple times.

  “Easy,” says Zuckerman. “Young Mr. Pratt has stolen things from the show in the past. Costume pieces. Stage props. Items from the souvenir shop in the lobby. In Vegas, he was suspended without pay for two weeks when we discovered that he had set up something of a Richard Rock emporium on eBay.”

  “So,” says Krabitz, “I’m gonna go out there and find the little fuck.”

  “You, of course, know we’re looking for Pratt, too,” says Flynn. “He is a person of interest in the death of Ms. Kathleen Landry.”

  Krabitz tosses up both his hands. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’ll turn the chorus boy over to you guys just as soon as he gives me the fucking notebooks. Scout’s honor.”

  “Have you checked his room at the Holiday Inn?” Zuckerman asks Flynn.

  “Yeah. Pratt wasn’t there. Our people talked to his roommate, dancer by the name of Mr. Magnum.”

  “That’s his stage name,” says Zuckerman.

  “So I gathered. This Mr. Magnum says Pratt hasn’t slept at the motel since Saturday. Didn’t come home last night. Or tonight, of course.”

  “So,” says Krabitz, “that means he must be hiding somewheres else.”

  F-ing brilliant deduction, Sherlock.

  “Well, it’s late,” says Zuckerman, closing his clipboard holder. He and Krabitz stand up to leave. “We will, of course, keep you in the loop on anything and everything we discover in our burglary investigation.”

  “Appreciate it,” says Flynn as the crack Stolen Notebooks Investigative Team heads toward the door.

  Halfway there, Zuckerman stops.

  Does one of those classic “oh-I-forgot-to-mention-something” pivots.

  “Oh. By the way.”

  Here it comes.

  “There’s one more thing you gentlemen should probably know.”

  “What’s that?” asks Flynn.

  “Christina Crites, our stage manager, the one who helped you with the list of cast accommodations.”

  “What about her?”

  “She just texted me. Said the prop pistol is missing.”

  “What?”

  “The revolver. Silver barrel. Black handgrip. We use it in the bullet-catch number.”

  It was in the show tonight: Richard Rock has a volunteer from the audience load a bullet into the barrel. His wife shoots at him. He catches the bullet with his teeth. The bullets and the pistol looked very real. Sounded real, too.

  “Is it a real revolver?” asks Ceepak.

  “Yes,” says Zuckerman.

  Told you.

  “Smith and Wesson. Five shot, thirty-eight caliber.”

  I remember it. Snub-nosed. Looked like something Dick Tracy might carry.

  “When the stage manager locked up the prop room tonight, she noticed that both pistols were missing.”

  “Both?” Flynn is leading with his chin again, yanking at his shirt collar.

  “We always travel with two. The hero and an understudy.”

  “What about the ammunition?” asks Ceepak.

  Zuckerman nods. “That’s missing as well.”

  21

  “It’s one AM,” mumbles Flynn. “We should call it a night.”

  “Agreed,” says Ceepak.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll follow through with MCU. Continue to coordinate the search for Mr. Pratt. We’ve got every cop in the state on the case. We’ll find him.”

  “Where can we be of best use?”

  “Lady Jasmine. Go talk to her up at Trump’s place. I’ll call ahead. Set it up for nine.”

  “Roger. Will do. We’ll also attempt to identify the members of her entourage.”

  “How many were with her?” asks Flynn.

  “Three. A dwarf, another female of Asian ancestry, and a rather large man whom I took to be her bodyguard.”

  “Dwarf?”

  “Performer known as Mighty Mo-Mo. He is Lady Jasmine’s costar at the Taj Mahal. According to the show’s most recent advertisements in the Atlantic City Weekly, he lifts an elephant with one finger and flies on a magic carpet the size of a hand towel.”

  Ceepak. The man does his homework.

  “Lady Jasmine and the others arrived well after Mr. Rock’s performance had begun,” he continues. “It is conceivable that they, somehow, gained access to the backstage area undetected.”

  Right. The dwarf. He could’ve crawled through an air-conditioning duct or something.

  “You honestly think Lady Jasmine and her crew killed Katie so they could rip off Rock’s notebooks?” I ask Flynn. “How’d that work? Jake barged in on Katie, sent the kids out for ice cream, made Katie put on the S and M gear, got busy with her, and then Lady Jasmine barged in on the two of them?”

  This gets Flynn’s neck popping again. “Maybe. Don’t know. Need you two to find out.”

  Ceepak nods. “Danny, even if Lady Jasmine and her entourage had nothing whatsoever to do with this evening’s incidents, eliminating them as suspects is a prudent course of action.”

  “Well, I don’t think she’d murder Katie just to get her hands on a couple composition books,” I say.

  “Really?” says Flynn. “Why’s that, Officer Boyle?”

  I shrug. “First off, Lucky Numbers is just a frigging magic trick.”

  Flynn shrugs back. “A trick worth millions. Magicians? Fugghetaboutit. Very competitive individuals.”

  “Wait a second,” I say to Ceepak. “Did you see the way Lady Jasmine shook her head and laughed at the end of the Lucky Numbers bit? She figured it out just by watching it.”

  “Or,” says Ceepak, “she knew what was coming because she had just read all about it in Mr. Rock’s journal.”

  Ceepak and I agree to meet out back on the boardwalk at 0845.

  He and Flynn head left. I head right and follow the Xanadu’s magic carpet back to the Crystal Palace Tower and my high-roller suite.

  In a minor acknowledgment of what time it actually is, some of the shops in that fake Chinese town square are closed, even though the puffy clouds in the domed ceiling remain colored twilight pink. I notice, however, that the bar
s and nightclubs up on the second level are rocking. I can hear the beat reverberating through the walls. So, I head up the escalator on a beer quest.

  Joe Mulligan has already started his final set at Yuk-Yuk-Ho-Ho’s Comedy Club and I really don’t want to walk in late so he can make fun of me. (“You’re from New Jersey? What exit?”) So I head over to the Pandamonium nightclub. The girl at the front is in one of those cat-suit body stockings the color of gray flannel. The way she looks at me? I’m not dressed properly to join the beautiful people inside sipping flirtinis.

  So I try the Forbidden City.

  Twenty-five-dollar cover charge. Champagne is fifteen bucks a glass. The waitresses don’t wear very many clothes, just lacy undergarments.

  So, on the beer front, I have one option remaining: Lip Sync Lee’s.

  The karaoke bar.

  Sometimes, when he’s thirsty, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.

  It’s dark and loud in here. There’s a small dance floor in front of a giant-screen TV, which is currently playing what looks like the washed-out footage from a late-night commercial from 1975 for Every Love Song Ever Recorded. Guy and girl in meadow of flowers. Slow-motion hand-holding on beach. Playful car-wash hose-squirting action.

  Song lyrics scroll across the bottom of the frame.

  A tipsy sorority sister with half her dress sliding down one shoulder is swaying in front of the screen destroying a Carly Simon song: “You’re So Vain.” The “Don’t you? Don’t you? Don’t you?” bit is all the same note repeated very loudly off-pitch.

  This is worse than the first week of American Idol auditions.

  Over at the bar, I see a pair of squirrely guys flipping through a three-ring binder the size of an airplane-maintenance manual. Must be the book where they keep the list of songs available to be karaoked.

  “The Carpenters?” gushes one. “I love Karen Carpenter!” He is not drinking beer. His upside-down pyramid-shaped cocktail glass is turquoise blue.

  His buddy flickers eyelashes. “Which song? She only sang like a hundred before she went all anorexic and died.”