“An apt description, Danny. As the speed increases, you barely realize you’re moving because everything you can see is moving with you. You can’t turn your head from side to side. All you can see is whatever’s right in front of your eyes.”
In the Hell Hole, it was the guy in the devil horns pushing buttons in the booth at the circle’s center.
“Such has been the ride Corporal Smith’s killer has sent us on. We have only seen what he wanted us to see.”
“How do you mean?”
“He put the tissue paper ring around Smith’s neck to stop anyone from seeing blood on the floor, orchestrating a delay of the body’s discovery.”
“But some blood trickled down the back wall and he had to come back to mop it up.”
“Again, he was concerned with what would be seen and when it would become visible.”
“So what else did he want us to see?”
“For one, the cartoon devil on the Hot Stuff heroin packet.”
“He left that there on purpose?”
“I believe so. Remember, the packet was only one piece of the drug paraphernalia found scattered in the adjoining stall. Clearly, the killer wanted us to know that Shareef Smith abused drugs. It would help justify the apparent suicide.”
True. Slominsky came in, saw a suicide, saw the drugs, case closed.
“But, wait—then we started investigating the Hot Stuff heroin.”
“And, the killer was clearly aware of our efforts. Knew that the trail of clues would eventually lead us to a boarded-up ride on a fenced-off pier. By seeing only what the killer intended for us to see, we ended up exactly where he wanted us.”
Well, almost. I think he actually wanted us in body bags.
“Danny, why do you suppose Shareef Smith had a MapQuest printout tucked into his shirt pocket? Why did he even need a map to find his way to the party house if he was meeting Lieutenant Worthington at the rest stop?”
“Yeah. I wondered about that. Earlier. Honest.”
“I’m sure you did. More specifically, why did Smith need to write down Lieutenant Worthington’s cell phone number when we know he already had it captured in his own phone? Why was that number written where the police were certain to see it?”
“Because whoever did this wanted the state troopers to call the house on Kipper Street when they found the body?”
“Exactly. They also wanted someone from the Sea Haven police department to witness that incoming call.”
Geeze-o, man. The killer wanted me, or some other cop, to see the soldiers partying it up at 1:00 AM, to give whoever did it an alibi.
“So many beers …” I mumble.
“Come again?”
“That’s why there were so many empty beer bottles heaped in the recycling bin when Starky and I got there Friday night.”
Ceepak nods. “Exactly. Evidence that they had all been at the house drinking all night long.”
“Even if one of them had actually run down to the rest area to meet up with Worthington and Shareef,” I say. “But wait—Smith’s toilet stall was locked. The janitor had to use his pocket knife to flip the latch up.”
Ceepak nods. He’s obviously already considered this. “Do you remember the layout of Smith’s stall?”
“Yeah. Sure. I mean the toilet stalls in every men’s room in the world are basically the same. You go in the door, there’s a wall behind the toilet, some kind of panels on both sides.”
“And how high off the floor are those two side walls?”
“About a foot. Maybe more.”
“Do you think you could crawl underneath them?”
“On the wet floor of a public toilet?”
“Think like a killer.”
“Yeah. Okay. If there was a dead guy sitting on top of the toilet with half his brain splattered against the rear wall, yeah, I could crawl under that side panel pretty fast.”
“The locked door was just another item the killer wanted us to see. To make Smith’s death look like it had to be a suicide.”
“Well, where the hell was Smith’s drug buddy Worthington while all this was going on?”
“We’ll discuss that later,” says Ceepak, avoiding my question because, like he told me earlier, he has his theory but not the motive. “Pull in here.”
I turn into the Holiday Inn’s parking lot and glance up into the rearview mirror again.
They’re right behind me.
Good. Maybe these two are legit. I hope so. I’m starting to think we might need a small army to go up against the clever bastard who took out Smith and almost nailed me and Ceepak—twice!
36
Okay, this is seriously spooky.
As I’m sliding the transmission up into park, I see a flurry of activity in the parking space beside us. The big man, Cyrus Parker, comes flying out of the shimmering black SUV like a twinkle-toed hippopotamus. His buddy, Graves, comes around the front bumper of their vehicle and tramples a flower bed. Both bodyguards are swiveling their heads side to side like they’re tank turrets, scanning the horizon, scoping out potential threats.
“Clear!” Parker yells.
“Clear!” Graves agrees.
Ceepak and I haven’t even opened our doors yet. The two men in the dark suits are flanking both sides of our cruiser. I feel like the president climbing out of his limo or Justin Timberlake arriving at the MTV awards. Parker is staring at the building in front of us. All I see are some shrubs, a motel lobby, and four stories of brick, glass, and rubber-backed curtains.
Graves is staring the other way. Toward the highway and the Holiday Inn sign where the reader board welcomes all the guests celebrating Chuck and Charlotte Gudorp’s 30th Wedding Anniversary.
I look over at Ceepak in the passenger seat.
I notice he’s checking his weapon. I do the same.
We step out of the vehicle. Now Ceepak is the one scanning the horizon. I do the same. I don’t see any trouble. Just some guy wrestling suitcases out of his trunk while his wife watches and tells him how he could do it better.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” Ceepak says to Parker. “We’ll take it from here.” He steps onto the sidewalk that leads up a small slope to the canopied driveway in front of the main lobby. I follow.
“One second, sir,” says Parker. “Bravo team, report.” This he says to his sleeve.
I hear sound leak out of his earpiece like somebody playing their iPod too loud: “Clear, sir.” Now I see a triple flash of headlights up the hill, another colossal SUV in the parking lot on the far side of the sheltered entryway. It’s parked alongside an empty state police cruiser. I’m wondering who’s guarding the two Worthingtons since half the D.C. crew seems to be on Danny and Ceepak duty today.
“The advance team indicates you’re good to go,” Parker reports.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak.
Wow. They sent an advance team and Starky got us state troopers? Forget Justin Timberlake. We’re Brad Pitt.
Ceepak and I continue up the curving concrete pathway.
“Don’t you think this is kind of overkill?” I whisper while we walk.
“Perhaps,” Ceepak whispers back. “Or perhaps Parker and his team know who and what we’re up against. At this point in time, I welcome any and all assistance to insure the safety of Smith’s sisters.”
“What about your mom?”
“She and Rita have already evacuated to a more secure location.”
“Will I get to meet her later?”
“Sorry, Danny. Given my father’s arrival, I feel it best to limit knowledge of her whereabouts to immediate family members only.”
“I’ll bet she’s a great lady.”
“That she is. Springsteen could’ve written a song about her similar to the one he wrote for his own mother.”
I can’t believe this. We’re strolling up a sidewalk under the watchful eye of bodyguards in case some unseen enemy tries to kill us for the third time in one day and we’re still swapping Springsteen trivia.
/>
“Which song?” I ask, mostly so I don’t think about what an easy target I am right now.
“‘The Wish.’ You’ll find it on the Tracks album.”
“Any specific lyrics?”
“We should probably discuss that later, Danny.” He gestures toward the double doors.
I see what he sees: Samantha Starky, frantically waving both arms over her head like she’s lining up an F-14 Tomcat for a landing on an aircraft carrier. Inside the glass walls of the lobby, she has her own personal bodyguards: William Wilson Goodson, Jr. and a female trooper with some serious New Jersey—authorized firepower strapped to her hip.
“We’re in here, sir!” The glass muffles Starky’s shout.
Ceepak motions for Starky to stay where she is. She retreats a half step. Now I can see Tonya and Jacquie Smith behind her. They step backwards too. We enter the lobby. We are not greeted by a hail of bullets.
“Good evening, officers,” Ceepak says to the troopers.
“Good to see you again, sir,” says Wilson.
“Any trouble?” Ceepak asks.
“No, sir.”
“Except the towels,” says Jacquie. “We needed more hand towels but I guess somebody forgot to send any up.” She says it loud enough for the terrified woman in the blue blazer behind the front desk to hear.
“We have plenty of fresh towels at police headquarters,” says Ceepak. “We also have a shower in the women’s locker room.”
“What’s going on?” asks Tonya.
“You’re coming back to Sea Haven with us.”
“You arresting us?” demands Jacquie.
“No. We simply want to insure your continued safety by transferring you to the most secure location we know.”
“What?” asks Tonya. “Why?”
“This location has been compromised.”
There’s a whoosh of hot outdoor air behind us. I spin around. Expect to see the enemy. It’s Parker.
“We need to move, sir,” he says to Ceepak. “Now.”
“Who’s he?” snaps Jacquie.
“A friend,” says Ceepak.
“Whose friend?”
“Yours,” says Parker. “I’m sorry for your loss, ladies.” He’s not directly addressing the two sisters because his head is too busy swinging back and forth looking for trouble.
“Ladies?” Ceepak gestures toward the door. “You’ll ride with Officer Boyle and myself. Troopers? Could you please follow behind us and transport Officer Starky back to base?”
“Will do.” says the one named O’Loughlin. I figure she likes to drive. Fast.
“We’ll lead the way,” says Parker. “Smith sisters on the move,” he says into his sleeve.
“Clear,” leaks out of his left ear again.
Parker pushes open the door and all the armed individuals form this phalanx around the two scared sisters and the one weaponless part-time summer cop—all following a six-foot-six bear in a dark-blue suit and sunglasses.
I just hope we don’t scare off any of the Gudorps’ party guests.
We make it back to police headquarters in Sea Haven at 7:15 PM without incident.
No roadside bombs. No tire blowouts. No drive-by shootings. But I think I just got a small idea of how it must’ve felt for Ceepak when he was over in Iraq, driving in a convoy, just waiting for all hell to break loose on an innocent-looking stretch of road. I have never been so glad to pull into our own parking lot. We’re in the Green Zone again. Behind the wire where the bad guys can’t get us. At least I don’t think they can. Inside, we have shotguns and stuff. Tear gas too.
Ceepak asks me to escort the Smith sisters to the interrogation room. He moves over to a quiet corner behind the front desk to have a quick word with Parker. As I walk the two women up the hall, I look over my shoulder and see Parker nodding. Ceepak shakes his hand and Parker hurries out the front door, talking to his sleeve, ready to do whatever Ceepak just asked him to do—that is, if he’s really on our team and not just pretending.
“Would you ladies like a soft drink?” Ceepak asks when he joins us at the conference table. “Coffee?”
“No, thank you,” says Tonya.
“You got a Sprite?” asks Jacquie.
“I think we can arrange that.”
I start up from the table because, as the junior partner, I’m usually the soft-drink-fetcher. Ceepak gestures for me to sit back down. Then he nods toward the mirrored wall.
“Officer Starky will handle the refreshments.”
Guess Ceepak wants me in here with him. Cool.
“Ms. Smith?” Ceepak says to Tonya. “Do you know where we might find your brother’s digital camera? We suspect it contains photographs he intended to show to me.”
She shakes her head. “No. I don’t even know if he still has it. We gave it to him before he shipped overseas that first time. But, like I told you before, he hasn’t e-mailed us any pictures all year. I think he may’ve lost it over there—”
“He broke it,” says Jacquie.
“In Iraq?” asks Ceepak.
“No. My place. Last week.”
Tonya looks surprised to hear it. “Jacquie?”
“He came over for dinner. He was stoned again.”
“When?” asks Tonya.
“Wednesday. You had to work the late shift, remember?”
Tonya nods. “Shareef dropped me off at the hospital. Borrowed the car. That was in the afternoon. Three PM. He wasn’t high or I swear I would not have given him the keys.”
“Well, sister, he was ring-dang-doo ripped when he came by my place. Almost drove through my garage door. I ran out to see what happened after I heard him hit my garbage cans. I was carrying my Kodak because I wanted to get a picture of Shareef looking sharp in his uniform before he shipped back, only he wasn’t wearing it.”
“And it was on Wednesday that he told you about damaging his own camera?” asks Ceepak.
“Oh, he didn’t tell me. He saw my camera and started screaming how cameras don’t do nothing but give you nightmares. Then he reached into that car, practically crawled through the window, and came out with the Sony we gave him all clutched up in his fist.”
Tonya lowers her head.
“All of a sudden,” Jacquie continues, “Shareef cocks back his arm and winds up like he’s pitching for the Orioles and hurls that little camera right up against the side of my house. I heard it hit the brick and break but that wasn’t enough for Shareef because, like I said, the poor boy was on some kind of drugs that made him mean and nasty. So first he lets loose with a string of the foulest language I ever did hear and then kicks that little camera out into the street. I say, ‘Shareef, you know how much that Sony cost your sister and me?’ He doesn’t answer. Just stands there staring at that camera lying in the middle of the road. I yell at him, tell him to go fetch it, and maybe we can take it in and have it fixed but it’s like he’s asleep and can’t hear a word I’m saying.”
I hear Tonya sob. Hell, if this keeps up, I might join her.
“Then,” says Jacquie, sadness creeping into her voice too, “this big ol’ truck came rumbling up the road. Garbage truck. One of those big demolition company ones. Had a dirty teddy bear strapped to the front grille. We both heard it crush Shareef’s camera. Heard the metal snap, the lens crunch. That’s when Shareef finally turned around to face me. You know what he said?”
Ceepak shakes his head.
“He said, ‘What’s for dinner, sis?’”
37
The digital camera everybody’s been trying to find? It doesn’t exist.
Shareef didn’t have it in his car when he drove up to see Ceepak or meet Worthington or do whatever it was he meant to do when he headed north on the Garden State Parkway Friday night. Whatever was recorded on its memory stick has been forever erased by a dump truck.
Starky brought Jacquie her Sprite but Jacquie didn’t drink any of it. She also offered to bring them dinner but neither sister was hungry.
“If you c
hange your minds,” said Ceepak, “just let Officer Starky know. She’ll get you anything you want.”
Starky sat down at the table, right next to Jacquie. Then she reached out her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said. Jacquie looked up. Took Starky’s hand. Truth be told, there are some things Officer Samantha Starky can do a whole lot better than I’ll ever be able to.
Ceepak and I head across the hall to the tech room.
“Should I go get the CD player so Tonya can identify it?”
“Not now, Danny. Let’s give the sisters some time.”
“Sure.”
“I’d like to look at the crime-scene photographs. The CSI team’s and yours.”
“The ones I took with the cell phone?”
“Roger that.”
“They’re on the Web.”
I feel like a walking advertisement for Verizon’s PixPlace. Lose your cell phone in a near fatal car wreck? Don’t worry—you don’t have to lose your pictures when you almost lose your life!
Ceepak halts at the tech room door, his hand frozen on the knob.
“We’re missing something, Danny.”
“Yeah. The motive. Shareef Smith’s pictures.”
“Something else. Something that’s not right in front of our faces. Something the killer didn’t want us to see.”
He’s riding the Gravitron again. Trying to wrench his head away from the wall and look to his left or right and see what’s right there where no one wants him looking.
“Well, let’s go find it!” I say, probably sounding way too gung-ho for anybody except Ceepak.
“Roger that!”
He pushes open the tech room door with renewed vigor. Ceepak rallies faster than anybody I know. However, his surge of energy nearly evaporates when we hear the tender strains of a love song wafting out of Denise Diego’s computer speakers.
And then it cuts out because Diego just heard us walk in.
“Sorry for the mushy music, guys,” she says, one hand on her computer keyboard, the other buried wrist-deep in a bag of cool ranch Doritos. “I’m cutting together a slide show for my friends’ wedding. Casey and Michele. It’s a This Is Your Life type deal set to music to embarrass the hell out of’em both at the rehearsal dinner.”