Fun House (John Ceepak Mystery)

  “Sorry, fellas. I can’t give you nothing else,” says Axel. “Georgio wasn’t wearing a wire or nothing, not when he’s chauffeuring Bobby Lombardo around town. He did that, he’d be a dead man.”

  “Well,” I say, “maybe your friend Georgio can help us I.D. the contract killer.”

  Axel is shaking his head before I finish.

  “No way. First, he would never do that unless, like I said, he wanted to send his wife over to the funeral home so she could start picking out what color casket to bury him in. Second, he wouldn’t know who the killer is. Neither would Bobby Lombardo.”

  “But Lombardo called the hit man.”

  “That’s not how it works. Bobby reaches out to someone who reaches out to someone else who talks to people who talk to people. At the end of the day, nobody knows who the hired gun is. Everybody can deny everything. Money moves around in a screwy circle can’t nobody follow, but everybody gets to dip their beak and take a cut. It’s why these things take time to set up and are impossible to cancel, once you give the green light.”

  “There’s no ‘off’ switch?” I say.

  “No. Not in the last 24 hours or whatever. The doer goes dark. Executes his mission.”

  “May we keep these photographs?” asks Ceepak.

  “Sure,” says Axel, slipping his sunglasses back on. “I went with the double prints instead of the free roll of film.”

  I think he’s making a joke.

  Ceepak isn’t smiling. He slides the three pictures back into their envelope. “Here is my business card. If you hear anything else, please call. Any time. Day or night. Danny?”

  We head out the doorway and hit the boardwalk.

  “So,” I say, when I’m sure the biker boy can no longer hear us, “we need to go back to the Fun House and talk to Layla, right?”

  “Roger that. We can certainly ask her why she was getting into a Lincoln Town Car with reputed members of the mob.”

  Yeah. Didn’t her parents teach her about getting into a car with strange mobsters?

  We’re headed down the steps to the parking lot when our radios start squawking at us.

  “This is base for Ceepak. Base for Ceepak.”

  Ceepak yanks the small handy-talkie off his civilian belt.

  “This is Ceepak. Go.”

  “We have a Code 13.”

  Geeze-o, man! That’s a shooting.

  “What’s the 10-28?”

  “Hickory Street and Shore Drive. He was at the stop sign.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy who almost got shot,” says Mrs. Rence, her voice panicked—like mine would be if I were the one back at the house making this radio call.

  “Dorian?” says Ceepak, rock-solid as always. “Slow down. Please I.D. the victim.”

  “Martin Mandrake.”

  Geeze-o, man.

  “Some guy wearing a motorcycle helmet tried to shoot him!”

  39

  MANDRAKE WASN’T WOUNDED, JUST STUNNED.

  Apparently, after the shooter missed, Marty stomped on his hot little Mercedes’s accelerator and tore up Shore Drive from the Hickory Street intersection at like sixty miles an hour, completely ignoring all those cute 15 MPH speed-limit signs, the ones that say “Yes, You Can Drive That Slow.”

  When he hit Dogwood Street, Officers Ken Green and Kent Peterman, who were on patrol in that residential area—and not used to seeing sporty convertibles drag-racing up the road everybody else uses for bike riding, jogging, and pushing their grandkids’ strollers—flipped on their lights and siren and initiated pursuit.

  One block north of Dogwood is the Cherry Street parking lot for police headquarters.

  When Mandrake saw the cop car chasing him plus all the cop cars lined up in tidy rows in the lot, he screeched into a hard left turn, pulled up to the curb in front of the station house, hopped out of his convertible (with the engine still running), and ran in the front door of the SHPD “screaming like he was having a heart attack,” according to Officers Green and Peterman, even though I think, technically, screaming is sort of impossible when you’re having a heart attack, what with the chest pains and difficulty breathing.

  Anyway, Ceepak and I are currently headed down to the house to have a word or two with Mr. Mandrake.

  Ceepak radioed Mrs. Rence to have her pull the file we have going on Paulie Braciole’s killer. He wants Marty Mandrake to look at those security-camera still frames, see if his motorcycle dude looked like the one hauling Paulie’s body over to the Knock ’Em Down.

  We issued an APB for an assailant in a helmet and racing suit on a motorcycle, but both Ceepak and I are pretty certain that, as soon as the hit went bad, the shooter was out of his costume faster than that quick-change couple on America’s Got Talent. He also, more than likely, ditched his motorcycle somewhere on one of the side streets. We have people looking for it too.

  “If he even rode his motorcycle today,” says Ceepak as we cruise south on Beach Lane.

  “He was wearing the helmet and leather racing gear,” I say.

  “But I doubt he had plans to transport Mr. Mandrake’s body away from the kill zone as he did with Paul Braciole. Also, he struck in broad daylight. He may have worn the racing gear simply to mask his identity.”

  “You think it’s the same shooter who did Paulie Braciole, right?”

  “Affirmative. It fits with Detective Wilson’s description of the execution technique.”

  Right. The hit man walks up to your car while you’re waiting at a stoplight, or, in this case, a stop sign. They whip out their pistol, and bam.

  “But if this guy’s a pro, how could he miss?” I ask.

  “I suspect, Danny, that Mr. Mandrake is one of those drivers who does not come to a full and complete stop when they encounter a stop sign.”

  Ah, yes. We see a lot of those. Usually people from New York or Philly, always in a rush, think stop signs are a government plot to ruin their vacation. Typically, a “rolling stop” will earn you a warning, maybe a ticket if you do it on Shore Drive, which is jammed with kids riding bikes with training wheels. Today, a rolling stop may have saved Martin Mandrake’s life.

  I’m wondering if Ceepak will write him up for it anyhow, when his business cell starts chirruping.

  “This is Ceepak. Go.”

  Behind the wheel, I tilt my head sideways. Try to make out who’s calling. I get nothing.

  “I see,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely disappointed. “And is your decision final?”

  Uh-oh. I’m figuring it’s Ohio. Maybe they’re taking away that job offer. Maybe they don’t like seeing their future chief of detectives on TV so much anymore.

  “But sir, as you know, we are in the middle of a very knotty investigation.”

  I shake my head. As much as I don’t want Ceepak to leave, I want it to be his choice, not some Buckeye sheriff’s.

  “Have you informed Mayor Sinclair of your decision?”

  Oh. Okay. Time out. This has more to do with Sea Haven than Cincinnati, the only city besides Cleveland I know in Ohio.

  Ceepak pinches the top of his nose. Closes his eyes. “What would you like me to do, Buzz?”

  Buzz is Chief Baines. And Buzz is really his name; it’s not a nickname for something dorky like Arnold or Elmer. I saw it on the Florida State college diploma he has hanging on his office wall. I think the chief’s parents didn’t want to set unrealistic expectations for him, so they named him after the second guy to walk on the moon.

  “Very well. Yes, sir. I understand. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

  I’m pulling into the municipal parking lot behind police headquarters. Ceepak is folding up his cell phone.

  “That was Chief Baines,” he says, when I shut down the engine.

  “Huh,” I say as if I couldn’t tell.

  “He has been offered a private-sector job as security chief for a major insurance corporation in Florida. Their headquarters is very close to where he grew up. It is, and I quote, ‘his
dream job.’”

  “So he’s quitting his job here?”

  “Roger that. He has already telephoned Mayor Sinclair and tendered his two-week notice to the city council.”

  “Geeze-o, man,” I mumble. “First you’re leaving, now the chief.…”

  Ceepak yanks up on his door handle. “I may need to reconsider my options. We can’t all go home again, Danny.”

  I smile weakly. “Well, I never actually left.”

  “Perhaps your choice was the wisest. Let’s go.”

  We head inside to talk to Marty “I Don’t Brake For Small Animals Or Children” Mandrake.

  40

  MARTIN MANDRAKE IS WAITING FOR US IN THE INTERVIEW ROOM.

  His choice. He requested a room “without any windows,” according to Sergeant Broadwater, who’s got the desk duty this afternoon.

  “I think he’s spooked,” the sergeant says to Ceepak.

  “Understandable. Have you been able to reach Detective Botzong from the State Police Major Crimes Unit?”

  “Yeah. He said to tell you …” He reaches for a pink While You Were Out message pad. “That a ‘Detective Jeanne Wilson is at the municipal garage where we impounded the vehicle and was able to remove a slug from the Mercedes in just about the same spot where we found the hole in the Mustang.’ That make any sense to you guys?”

  “Indeed it does,” says Ceepak. “Thank you for taking such a detailed message, Sergeant.”

  Broadwater shrugs. “It’s the job. Oh, here.”

  He hands Ceepak an envelope.

  “From Mrs. Rence?” Ceepak asks.

  “Yeah,” says Broadwater. “Some kind of printout you wanted.”

  “Thank you.”

  We head up the hallway, past the empty Chief’s office. Guess it will stay empty until the town fathers get around to hiring a replacement. I hope, this time, Ceepak puts his name in the hat. Or tosses his hat into the ring. Or that a hat in the ring has his name in it. One of those.

  The last time the job became vacant, right after our first case together, Ceepak declined all offers to take over the top cop slot. But that was a few years ago. He had only been in Sea Haven a couple months. Now, there’s nobody better.

  We push open the door to the interview room. It looks a lot like a conference room but with crappy furniture, a box of old Christmas decorations in one corner, some files and magazines in another, and a humongous wall mirror that’s actually a one-way window. Mandrake is on his phone, pacing at the far end of the long table.

  “Ask Layla.” He waves at us to “come in, come in,” like our SHPD Interview Room is suddenly his new production trailer. “Ask Layla. Look, I am temporarily indisposed. If anybody has any questions, send them to Layla. I don’t give a shit. I almost died. This is the second time a man has pulled a gun on me. The first was back in ’Nam. Some Viet Cong asshole didn’t like the way I was looking at his girlfriend in a bar. This was worse. This asshole fired.” He puts his free hand up to his free ear. “You ever hear a bullet whizz by, inches from your brain? I was like Lincoln, sitting at that stop sign.”

  Except, of course, Abraham Lincoln was president, freed the slaves, and won the Civil War. Martin Mandrake? He makes cheesy TV shows about kids playing Skee-Ball, hopping into each other’s beds, and puking up beer.

  “I gotta go. Some more cops want to talk to me. Talk to Layla. No. No! Don’t even think like that. We cannot cancel the finale. The show must go on.” He punches the OFF button on his iPhone.

  “Where the hell were you two?” he snaps at us.

  “Excuse me?” says Ceepak.

  “You’re in charge of security! How come you didn’t stop this nutjob?”

  “You chose to leave the secure location,” says Ceepak. “To venture outside the Green Zone.”

  “Because I needed a Vegan Philly Cheese Steak.”

  Ceepak gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

  “Did you catch this creep?”

  “Not yet,” says Ceepak.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “We suspect the same person who transported Paul Braciole’s body to the boardwalk.”

  “Skeletor? No way. He’s dead.”

  Yeah, I think, because you paid Bobby Lombardo to whack him.

  “Mr. Braciole was not murdered by Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor.”

  “Oh, right. You think I did it.”

  “No, sir. I never said you were the triggerman. However, I suspect that, through various intermediaries, you hired this man to do your killing for you.”

  Ceepak pulls a black-and-white printout from the envelope Mrs. Rence has left for us at the front desk. It shows two guys on a motorcycle. The one in front wears a sleek racing helmet and a leather jumpsuit.

  “Who is this?”

  “On the back of the seat is the corpse of Paul Braciole. The motorcycle operator is, we hypothesize, one half of the professional hit team that Bobby Lombardo contracted on your behalf to murder Mr. Braciole.”

  Mandrake is staring hard at the picture.

  “We figure someone else shot Paulie,” I say. “Came up alongside his vehicle while he was parked at a stoplight, whipped up his pistol, and boom.”

  “Only,” says Ceepak, “Mr. Braciole had come to a full and complete stop. Therefore, the bullet did not ‘whizz past his ear,’ as you just described. It coursed through both hemispheres of his brain.”

  Mandrake is still frozen. Everything except his hands. They’re starting to rattle the picture he’s staring at.

  “Next time,” I say, “he’ll know that you roll through stop signs, so he’ll compensate for the moving target. Next time, he won’t miss.”

  “Jesus,” Mandrake mumbles. “The helmet, with the lightning bolts. The flames on the jacket shoulders. It’s the same fucking guy?”

  “You tell us,” says Ceepak.

  “It’s the same fucking guy! This is the maniac who came at me, put a gun to my head.…”

  He puts the paper down on the table and reaches for a bottle of water. Liquid sloshes out of his lips. The man’s hands are quaking because he’s finally put two and two together and come up with five, maybe six.

  The tables have been turned.

  The great Martin Mandrake has been double-crossed.

  The killer he contracted to kill Paul Braciole and Thomas “Skeletor” Hess has a new target: Martin Mandrake.

  “Mr. Mandrake?” says Ceepak, “the time for deceit and prevarication is over. If you want us to protect you, then you must start telling us the truth. Immediately.”

  “This wasn’t part of the deal,” he mumbles. “This wasn’t part of the fucking deal!”

  41

  AT APPROXIMATELY 3:15 P.M., BARELY THIRTY SECONDS after mumbling his semi-confession, Marty Mandrake totally clams up.

  “I need to call my lawyer,” he says. “I have the right to consult with an attorney and have that attorney present during questioning.”

  The guy has been in TV so long, he has the Law & Order version of the Miranda warning memorized.

  “That, of course, is your right,” says Ceepak. “However—”

  “Don’t try to strongarm me! I need to consult with an attorney.”

  “Would you like some privacy for your phone call?”

  “What? You think I have a death wish? Suppose you two leave and this crazed killer bursts through that door to finish what he started? I’m unarmed here!”

  He’s also extremely paranoid, but I guess Abraham Lincoln would’ve been paranoid too, if John Wilkes Booth had missed. So we babysit him while he calls his lawyer.

  Ceepak and I both cringe when we hear his lawyer’s name: Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski, the same creep hired by the O’Malleys earlier this summer when we were working the Rolling Thunder case. Every cop in the SHPD (and most of New Jersey) knows and despises Rambowski, ever since he helped a thug up in Newark waltz out the door by convincing the jury that it was a dead cop’s own fault he got shot in t
he back of his head.

  Today, it turns out, Rambowski is working out of his New York City office and needs to finish up “a few things.” He’ll have his driver whisk him down to Sea Haven ASAP, probably around four. At the start of rush hour. When the Lincoln and Holland tunnels are so clogged with cars, they need Drāno.

  This means we don’t expect to hear any more from Martin Mandrake until 7, maybe 7:30 P.M.

  We leave him in the interview room. He asks for an armed guard. Ceepak promises he will lock the door and “take personal responsibility for the key.” That means he’s going to slip it into one of his cargo pants pockets.

  “Is he talking?” this from Special Agent Christopher Miller, FBI, who’s hovering in the corridor outside the Interview Room. So are about six other serious-looking individuals—male and female—dressed in suits, sunglasses, and Secret Service-style earpieces with wires resembling see-through pigtails. All six plus Miller are sporting suspicious bulges beneath the breast pockets of their natty jackets.

  They’ve all got sidearms in shoulder holsters.

  “He wants his lawyer,” says Ceepak.

  Miller nods. “Probably wants to cut a deal.”

  “If he gives up Bobby Lombardo, he might just get one,” says a woman with a severe haircut (like she does it herself with a pair of orange-handled knitting scissors) and a serious scowl.

  “John, Danny,” says Miller, “this is Lisa Bonner. Works with the New Jersey State Police Organized Crime Unit. These other folks are with me. And we’re expecting more guests any minute.”

  “Such as?” asks Ceepak.

  “Some friends of mine from our Organized Crime Task Force, as well as a few folks from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Everybody wants Bobby Lombardo to go away, big-time.”

  And I thought all these nice people in suits were here to help us catch the hired killer on his motor scooter.

  “I suggest you all make yourselves as comfortable as possible,” says Ceepak. “Coffee and soft drinks are available in the break room. We do not expect Mr. Mandrake’s lawyer to arrive for another three hours. Check back with me at 1900 hours for an update.”