Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

  He checks his watch again.

  “Well then….” He polishes off his beer. “Early day tomorrow. Taking a charter out. Maybe catch a few bluefish.”

  “Have fun,” I say, since it's our civic duty to say that kind of stuff to tourists.

  He heads toward the door, checking out every midriff-baring babe he passes along the way. A few of the girls check out Mr. Princeton, too—the ones in the naughtier T-shirts.

  As I said, I don't like this guy.

  I don't like his spiky hair or creased jeans. I don't like him trying to buy Ralph's love for fifteen bucks. And I absolutely hate the fact that his plans for the evening include grabbing a six-pack and heading over to Smuggler's Cove, our local Hotel No Tell, for his own private version of Girls Gone Wild.

  “He was in here last night, too,” Ralph now says to me.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. That bit with the twenty? He pulled the same shit. Then he waltzed out with this totally tanked chick young enough to be his daughter, you know what I'm saying?”

  “Yeah.”

  I think it's pretty clear why Mrs. Princeton was so pissed this morning. Hubby probably crawled home ten minutes before I saw them. And maybe when she'd last seen him, he was wearing his socks.

  I put my five-dollar bill back on the bar.

  “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I told you—it's on the house.”

  “If he can tip you, so can I.”

  Ralph cracks a grin and slides my money into his tip jar. “It's really not a club you want to join.”

  Yeah. And I probably couldn't afford the membership fees.

  Both doors of my Jeep are closed and locked. The top is zipped into place. No one has broken in to steal my loose change again, but it doesn't really matter since I was totally hoovered out the first time.

  At the far end of the lot, underneath a streetlamp, I see Mr. Princeton. He's looking at his watch again. Guess his lady friend stood him up.

  Good. Serves him right. Maybe he'll have better luck tomorrow, hooking up with some striped bass.

  Time to head home. Roll call comes early: seven-thirty A.M.

  “Hey, Teddy!” I hear this female voice from the darkness. It sounds familiar. Husky. “Am I like totally late?”

  “Well, my dear, we did say nine-thirty.”

  “Sorry….”

  Okay. I'm at least thirty feet away but now I can hear all sorts of slurpy lip-smacking.

  When the streetlamp catches the orange glints in her hair, I realize: Stacey has returned to the scene of the crime. She's not currently robbing her new guy—unless, of course, she's simultaneously picking Mr. Princeton's pockets while kneading his butt cheeks with both hands.

  Finally, they break out of their lip-lock.

  “Come on!” he says.

  They race up the sidewalk.

  She's wearing the Hello Kitty backpack.

  Somehow, I don't think my twenty's still in it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  You have a good weekend, Danny?”

  “Not bad,” I lie. “How about you?”

  “Excellent, my friend. Absolutely excellent.”

  “Awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  It's 7:25 on a Monday morning but behind the front desk, Sergeant Reginald Pender is already feeling frisky, despite the fact that the big man never drinks coffee—says it only serves to dehydrate an individual. He's our new desk sergeant, having taken over from grumpy Gus Davis who retired last winter after almost thirty years on the job.

  Reggie couldn't look more different than his predecessor, who was old and white and hipbone scrawny; Reggie is young and black and carries a small paunch above his belt buckle. He looks like a football player who doesn't run his wind sprints anymore but still eats everything on the training table. A lineman.

  “You better hustle, Officer Boyle,” he says with a jerk of his head toward the wall clock.

  I check it out: 7:27.

  I head for the duty room.

  Ceepak, of course, is already seated in the back row. He likes to say, “If you're not five minutes early, you're ten minutes late.”I still don't really understand what that means—guess that's why I'm always the last cop in the room.

  Ceepak has his notebook open on his desk. His pencil looks freshly sharpened. Every hair on his head is neatly combed and plastered into its pre-assigned position.

  Ceepak likes to be prepared.

  I know thinking ahead helped save his ass a couple times over in Iraq. Once, he saw a dead dog lying by the side of the road and, since he'd done his homework, he knew that canine carcasses were often used by the insurgents to hide their improvised explosive devices. He saved everybody in his Humvee that day because he saw the wires sticking out of the animal's jaws before its belly blew.

  All the other cops in the room are busy finishing their coffee and doughnuts, scanning the Sandpaper to see if they made the Crime Blotter, waiting for Chief Baines to make his 7:30-sharp entrance. Old Buzz likes to do the early Monday roll call himself. The rest of the week, he lets Pender handle it.

  “Find a seat, Boyle,” snarls Dominic Santucci. He has his sunglasses on—indoors. He likes the way they make him look menacing and mysterious. He also doesn't like me so much.

  “Danny?” Ceepak motions to the chair next to him, which he has saved for me like kids used to do for their friends on the school bus.

  “Thanks.”

  When I sit down, my holster squeaks. The leather is that new. Last summer, I was a part-timer without a gun. This summer, I wish I didn't have to carry one. Unfortunately, last summer, I also saw what bullets could do.

  Now Ceepak checks off an item on a list he has inside his spiral notebook.

  “I ran the milk carton data by Officer Diego,” he says. “She's going to run some searches on Mary Guarneri.”

  “Cool.”

  “She'll also do a data sweep on Lisa DeFranco. See what she comes up with.”

  Special Operations Officer Denise Diego works in the computer room here at Police Headquaters, what we all the station house. She's a self-proclaimed techno-geek. I think that's how come she can recite every line from The Lord of the Rings. All three movies.

  “Of course,” Ceepak continues, “Officer Diego will only work on this project during downtime and lunch hours.”

  “Of course.”

  “We don't want our private investigation interfering with the normal flow of official police business, no matter how fascinating.”

  “Right.”

  Truth be told, Ceepak's a lot more charmed by the Case of the Buried Charm Bracelet than I am. But I don't let on.

  He flips through his notebook and stops when he reaches a page near the middle. I lean over to see what he's looking at.

  There, in the center, surrounded by a spiral of circles, is one word:

  DOVER

  I have no idea what it means. Maybe he wants to visit the white cliffs in England. Maybe he's thinking about fish for dinner tonight. With Ceepak, sometimes you just never know.

  Chief Baines strides into the room. You could set your watch by this guy, which I go ahead and do since mine thinks it's eight P.M. on a Tuesday. I got it free from Sports Illustrated.

  Buzz Baines has a chiseled, movie-star face and thick, fluffy hair. He's good at his job and even better at posing for pictures in the newspaper.

  “Gentlemen. Ladies. According to the calendar, we're halfway through the summer and, so far, things have been dull, quiet, and boring.” He looks smugly around the room. “Let's try to keep it that way, shall we?”

  We all answer dutifully, “Yes, sir.”

  “Fine. Now. Not much to report from the night shift. At one A.M., Pete Turner noticed a car running without its lights. When he pulled the young man over it became readily apparent that the driver was unable to locate the headlights switch on his dashboard, or the nose on his face.”

  Dutiful once again, we give a collective chuckle.

&
nbsp; “All right, guys. Today starts a new week and a lot of well-earned vacations for our visitors. Ceepak and Boyle?”

  “Yes, sir?” Ceepak answers for us.

  “You're working the sand castle set-up over on Oak Beach?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Let folks enjoy the show but try to keep the kids a safe distance away from the heavy machinery.” Chief Baines checks his notes like he can't believe what he's reading. “They actually use backhoes? To make sand castles?”

  “And bulldozers,” says Ceepak. He's done his homework again.

  “Whatever happened to the old-fashioned sand bucket and plastic shovel?”

  “They use those as well, sir. However, many of the master sand sculptors prefer nursery plant containers. The holes pre-cut into the bottom help drain away excess water while maintaining even pressure against the sand grains.”

  Roger that. By now, everyone in the room is used to this sort of stuff from Ceepak.

  “Oh-kay,” says Baines. “Thank you, Officer Ceepak. Now everyone get out there and keep Sea Haven a safe haven!”

  I can't complain.

  We've pulled a pretty cushy assignment today, basically sitting on the beach working on our tans. We've set up two folding chairs near the entrance to what will eventually become the Sand Castle Kingdom. It's a fifty-foot by two-hundred-foot plot of white sand situated between the high tide mark on Oak Beach and the sea grass up on the dunes. The Chamber of Commerce has roped off the area with white plastic chains strung between portable PVC posts sunk into the sand every eight feet or so. It's an outdoor, summer version of Santa Land at the mall.

  Today, the heavy equipment is being off-loaded. Tomorrow, the sand sculptors show up and start to work. Wednesday, they finish up. Thursday, the public will come gawk at a gigantic sea dragon, a chess set with life-size kings and queens, and a ’57 Chevy convertible—all made out of sand.

  It's now almost three P.M. The most exciting part of the day so far was when Ceepak told me to take five about an hour ago. I wound up helping this kid from Indiana learn how to ride his skim board. That's a flat wood disc you stand on, then slip and slide up and down the wet sand ahead of the waves. It should be an Olympic sport by 2012.

  I'm glad Ceepak has settled into a groove here on the island. Over in Iraq, he saw even worse stuff than dead dogs blowing up by the side of the road. Somehow, my partner came out of it all with his soul intact. I think it was The Code that pulled him through. As long as he could hold on to that, he could hold on to who he is.

  Anyway, it's good to see my man sitting in a folding chair, guarding the entrance to Sea Haven's First Annual Sand Sculpture Competition, smiling up at the sun warming his face. He's earned it.

  I finish a quick stroll around the perimeter and plop down in my beach chair.

  “Tough duty.”

  Ceepak smiles. “It's all good.”

  I reach into the small cooler we brought along and grab a bottled water.

  “Officers!”

  I squint. A hairy guy is huffing and puffing up the sand toward us. He's bare-chested but wearing a gold neck chain and several gleaming gold bracelets on both wrists.

  “Officers!”

  A chubby kid who has to be the man's son is following behind him.

  “Is there some problem?” Ceepak is up and focusing fast.

  “Yeah.” The dad catches his breath, props his hands on his hips. His heaving chest looks like a curly shag carpet. So do his arms. He could comb the tops of his shoulders. “Thief,” he pants. “Robber. Girl.”

  “She tried to steal my wallet!” his son squeaks.

  “Tell us what happened,” says Ceepak.

  “Tell them, Max.”

  “Okay. I was like on my boogie board and all, and when I came out of the water I saw this girl in a bikini and she was like looking inside our beach bags and so I like yelled at her and my dad, that's him, he came running up as fast as he could from the ocean and we both kind of like scared her away and stuff.”

  “I almost nabbed her,” says the father. “Had my hand wrapped around her wrist but she slipped away. I'd been down in the surf, putting sunblock on my wife's back … “

  Ceepak nods.

  “ … so my hand was kind of greasy.”

  “Did she take anything?”

  “No,” says the boy. “She almost got my new wallet but Dad stopped her.”

  “Can you describe this girl?”

  “She had orange hair,” says the boy. “And….” He stops. Looks at his dad.

  Ceepak sinks down on his haunches so he can look the boy in the eye.

  “And what?” he asks gently.

  The boy's eyes cut up to his father.

  “Go ahead, Max. Tell him.”

  Max still hesitates. “She had big boobs,” he finally says.

  Ceepak nods. I try not to smile.

  “I saw something else,” says the father.

  Wow. Wonder how he managed that?

  “What was it, sir?” asks Ceepak.

  “She had this thing stamped on her hand. You know, like they do at Six Flags so you can get back in after you exit?”

  “Yes, sir. What did this stamp look like?”

  “It was a sun. An orange, smiling sun.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Ceepak reaches for our radio, which had been enjoying the shade underneath my folding chair.

  “The Life Under the Son Ministry,” he says.

  “The guys who run that booth on the boardwalk?”

  “Roger that. They also operate a soup kitchen of sorts in the motel nearby.”

  “The motel lets them do that?”

  “The ministry owns the building. Has its offices inside. Rita volunteers there some mornings when she isn't busy at the bank. They serve a hot breakfast to anybody who walks in hungry, no questions asked. However, to gain access to the chow line, you need to have your hand stamped.”

  “With a bright orange sun.”

  Ceepak nods. “I'm going to radio in a request for the chief to relieve us, assign another team to this location.”

  “So we can head over to the boardwalk and check it out.”

  “10-4.”

  • • •

  Billy Trumble, the evangelist guy who does the early morning preach-a-thon Sundays on WAVY radio, also runs the Life Under the Son Ministry.

  Their booth up on the boardwalk is staffed by born-again Christian kids who sit inside and reach out to all the young sinners happily strutting through life in string bikinis and Speedos. They'll tell you about the hell that awaits those who fornicate outside the sanctity of marriage— and they don't just mean the hell of having to wake up with each other after the beer goggles wear off. They'll even try to convince you not to gamble at the boardwalk arcades, to avoid the Wheel of Chance, which, if we're honest, is just another spin on roulette, and even the humble Whack-A-Mole, this game where you bop furry little critters on the head with a mallet while more moles pop up in the holes you're not whacking.

  It's very hard to win at Whack-A-Mole. Even attempting to do so, the Life Under the Son Ministry will advise you, is the first step down a slippery slope that leads directly to losing your shirt and pants and the family farm at Trump's Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Next stop after that? Hellfire and damnation.

  It's a tough sell.

  But they do, apparently, serve a hot breakfast to anybody who walks in hungry.

  The chief approves Ceepak's plan, freeing us to head up the island to The Sonny Days Inn, the motel that doubles as worldwide headquarters for Reverend Trumble's ministry and outreach programs. I think it used to be a Days Inn. They only had to paint two extra words on all the signs to make the switch.

  A young girl comes out of the office to greet us. She's probably seventeen, with a bright open smile and a gray T-shirt that says CHASTITY IS REAL LOVE. The “o” in Love is a heart.

  I see other girls up on the second-floor balcony, leaning against the railing, wondering why
a police car just pulled into their seaside sanctuary. Some of them stand next to vacuum cleaners. Others hold armloads of linen. They must be the Lord's handmaidens doing double duty as chambermaids.

  “Good afternoon, Officers,” says the official greeter. “How can I help you?”

  “We're investigating a minor incident on the beach,” says Ceepak.

  “Oh, dear. An incident?”

  “Minor, ma'am. We'd like to talk to Reverend Trumble.”

  Her face blossoms into a beautiful ball of tranquility. “Of course.” She leads us toward the motel office. “Would you gentlemen care for some lemonade while you wait?”

  “Lemonade would be wonderful,” says Ceepak.

  “I'll tell Reverend Billy you're here,” she says.

  “Thank you, ma'am.”

  As she walks away, I check out the sky. It's gone greenish gray. The thunderheads bubbling up over the ocean all day long look like they're finally ready to unload a torrent of rain—or hailstones.

  In a few moments, our personal handmaiden comes back. We follow her through the small lobby, past the front desk, and into the Reverend's office. After she leaves, a different girl soon appears with two frosty glasses of lemonade and a plate of sugar cookies. She's a blonde. Maybe seventeen, too. Looks wholesome, like she grew up in Nebraska.

  Ceepak takes his lemonade. “Thank you … I'm sorry, I don't know your name.”

  “I'm Rachel.”

  “I'm John. This is Daniel.”

  I can't believe Ceepak just called me that. Daniel's what my mother used to call me—but only when she was real mad.

  “Thank you for the refreshments, Rachel.”

  She leaves. Ceepak puts down his glass and drifts behind the small desk to study the framed photographs hanging on the paneled walls.

  “Interesting,” he says.

  The pictures all have that hazy, washed-out look of snapshots that have been sitting in the sun too long.

  “These photographs were taken during a baptism on the beach,” says Ceepak. “Out in the ocean.”

  “These, too.” I point to a frame holding six pictures: 5-by-7s laid out comic-strip style, telling a story from left to right.