“Hey, Danny.”
“Hey, Gail.”
Gail shakes her frosted hair out of her eyes and sees Ceepak.
“Ohmygod. You're that guy from TV!”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“How totally cool! You were just on TV.”
Gail is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, as they say. She's sort of forgetting why Ceepak made his television debut earlier in the day.
“Ohmygod,” she repeats, unable to believe she's about to serve a greasy hamburger to a television star.
I sort of wish I had taken Ceepak someplace else.
“I'll have a burger,” Ceepak says.
“Hunh?”
“Two burgers, Gail.” I say, trying to snap her out of her adoring daze. “Okay?”
“Oh, right.”
Gail scribbles on her green pad.
“How'd you like that cooked?”
Ceepak does a quick survey of his surroundings. Sees the flies buzzing in and out through the holes in the screen door. The lipstick stains on the tops of our clean water glasses. The grill cook wiping his nose and chewing a toothpick on the other side of the kitchen pass-through.
“Very well done,” he says.
“You want him to like cook the shit out of it?”
“Yes, ma'am. I surely do.”
“Cool.” Gail twirls on her heel and bounces over to tell the cook what kind of meat to massacre next.
“Like I said, nobody much comes here.”
“She a friend?”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak nods. He can see why.
“That Morgan's pretty sharp, hunh?” I say, trying to start some idle conversation that might help us forget about our increased risk of contracting mad cow disease.
Ceepak nods again. He's thinking.
“Wonder what the other thing is he's checking out….”
“Something in the note,” Ceepak says.
“Really?”
“FBI guys read a lot of ransom notes. Something about this one struck him as peculiar.”
“How do you know that?”
“Saw it in his face. Like he smelled bad fish.”
Gail comes bopping back to our table carrying a crumpled newspaper.
“Hey guys—that girl? You know, the one whose father was like shot in Playland? Was she like kidnapped or something?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Oh….”
The fifteen-watt bulb in her brain is now illuminated.
“So that's why you were on TV!”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Cool. Funny, we get a lot of TV people in here lately….”
“The reporters?”
“No. Just that weather girl who married Hart. The kid's mom.” She taps her curved fingernail extension on the front-page photo of Betty Bell Hart. “She was all like secretive and like leave me alone-ish and all. I guess on account of what happened to her ex-husband and her daughter. She looked kind of sad, you know?”
“When'd she come in? Earlier today?”
“No. Friday.”
“Friday?” Ceepak says before I do.
“Yunh-hunh.”
“You sure?”
“Uh-yeah. She ordered fish sticks.”
“And?”
“Duh! We only serve fish sticks on Fridays. For the Catholics or whatever. Makes sense she'd want to be left alone after all this. I know I would if my ex got killed or my kid got kidnapped. Not that I'm married or anything….”
Neither Ceepak nor I mention that all “this” took place on Saturday. Not Friday. Not when Ashley's mother was, according to what she'd told us, at her apartment in the city.
“Danny?” Ceepak stands up.
“Yeah.” I push back my chair and smile up at Gail. “We gotta run.”
“Really? Your burgers are almost done.”
I can hear the cook squeezing the sputtering life out of our chopped meat patties on his griddle. I give Gail ten bucks for our uneaten lunch.
“We'll take a rain check.”
It's not that we're afraid of The Rusty Scupper's burgers.
We just need to talk to Ashley's mother about the fish sticks.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“She what?”
“She was in town on Friday night.”
“Fuck….”
I can tell the chief is upset by our news flash. He doesn't usually swear like that over the radio.
“I'll meet you there,” he barks. You can almost hear the acid indigestion churning up in his stomach. The guy is a Tums time bomb.
“No need, sir. Danny and I can cover it.”
“I'll meet you there, goddammit!”
We reach the Beach Crest Heights subdivision's gatehouse and tin the rent-a-cop standing inside his hut. That means we show him our badges and he doesn't ask a whole lot of questions—he just opens the gate. I always wonder about these unarmed, white-shirt security guards. If they look at your driver's license and decide you're a bad guy, what do they do?
Whack you in the head with their clipboard?
We pull into the circular driveway. Ceepak rings the doorbell.
“Yes?”
It's that butler dude again. I wonder if he did it. He does everything else butlers do in the movies, so maybe he's the one who murdered Reggie Hart. Maybe he and Mendez were working together, too.
“We need to see Mrs. Hart,” Ceepak says.
“She is temporarily indisposed.”
“Tell her it's Officer Ceepak.” With this, Ceepak simply sidesteps the loyal manservant and glides into the glass-walled front room. I glide in after him.
“But sirs …”
Ceepak folds his hands behind his back, up near the belt loops, standing at what they call parade rest, ready and willing to wait.
“We're kind of in a hurry,” I say.
“Please wait here.” Nose held high, the butler strides slowly to his right.
“Is she in the sunroom?” Ceepak asks.
“Sir, if you'll kindly wait….”
Ceepak remembers the way. I bring up the rear. Behind us, I hear the chief make his entrance.
“Ceepak?”
“This way.”
“But … sir … really….”
Sounds like the chief is pushing past the butler, too. Maybe the poor guy ought to go back to working for Joe Millionaire.
“Yes. I was in Sea Haven on Friday night.”
Betty is sitting on the couch sipping tea. She has on white pants that cuff above her ankles, white strappy sandals, and this white-and-gold top that sparkles in the sun.
So much for widows wearing black.
“I took a motel room—”
“Where?” the chief asks.
“The Smuggler's Cove.”
“Jesus,” the chief groans.
“What?” Ceepak is curious.
“The Cove? They rent out the same goddamn room ten times a night. It's a hot sheets hotel! Hourly rates. Adult movies….”
“I see.”
“They are also very discreet,” Betty says defensively. “Gentlemen, I am not proud of my deception, but I fail to see how my being here on Friday has anything to do with Ashley's kidnapping. Why aren't you out searching for her? Why are you wasting your time here, questioning me?”
“So what were you doing here, ma'am?” The chief cuts to the chase.
“Looking out for my daughter.”
“How's that?”
“He had her in the house here with him. In front of my daughter.”
“Had who?” The chief puts his fist to his stomach like he just burped up a bubble of something nasty.
“The lawyer? He had her … here.”
“Were Mr. Hart and Ms. Stone romantically involved?” Ceepak asks.
“Yes,” Betty says and sets down her teacup. “She was Reginald's most recent conquest.”
The chief rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds a lot like “Jesus Fucking Christ.”
If I w
as Betty Bell Hart? I'd talk to Ceepak and forget the chief who really looks like he's going to explode some time soon. He's hardly even sitting in his chair any more, his fists are digging into his thighs, and he's grinding his teeth louder than he knows.
Yeah, I'd talk to Ceepak.
“So,” Ceepak says, “you were the one who had Ms. Stone's suitcases tossed out into the driveway?”
“Yes.” Betty smiles slightly. “I'm afraid I was miffed.”
We look at one another, Ceepak, the chief, and I. Miffed.
“Ashley said she heard them,” Betty says. “Up in the master bedroom.”
Ceepak closes his eyes. Some people severely disappoint him. I think Reggie Hart is now one of them.
“Prior to that,” Betty says, “Ms. Stone was flouncing around the house in nothing but a frilly push-up bra, panties, and a garter belt.”
“Ashley told you all this?”
“Yes. She called me and said it was like a Victoria's Secret fashion show out here.”
“That would explain that perfume you told me about,” the chief says to Ceepak. “That stuff you smelled on Hart?”
“Yes, sir,” Ceepak says. “It sure might. They came up Thursday? Mr. Hart, Ms. Stone, and Ashley?”
“Yes. Thursday afternoon. Ashley amused herself. Swam in the pool. Her father did some paperwork with Ms. Stone. Went to a ‘meeting’ with her, somewhere downtown. Then they all went out to dinner. O'Riley's, I think. The fashion shows, the sexcapades? That all started Thursday night. After dinner.”
“So you drove up on Friday?”
“I did.”
“Do you use E-Z Pass?”
“Excuse me?”
“To pay the tolls. Do you have an E-Z Pass transponder unit installed on your windshield?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We'll want to run a check,” Ceepak says. “Verify your whereabouts. The timeframe.”
“What?” She tucks her legs up under her on the couch. “Don't you trust me, Officer Ceepak?”
Ceepak lets that one go unanswered.
“So, Ashley called you?”
“Of course she did. Snuck outside and used her cell phone so her father wouldn't hear. I told her I would come, but it had to be our secret. I knew what Ms. Stone was up to.”
“Banging her boss?” The chief kind of blurts it out. “Sorry.”
“Ms. Stone wanted Reginald to restructure his will.”
“Why?” Ceepak asks.
“She probably told him it was in the best interest of the corporation.
That it wasn't prudent to leave everything to Ashley. However, I suspect Ms. Stone fancied herself the next Mrs. Hart.”
“Were they that serious?”
“She might have been. Reginald, I'm certain, was not. She's not really his type. Oh, sure—he'd have his fun with her … for a while. But eventually he'd move on to something younger. He always does….”
She'd mentioned this before. I guess all billionaires prefer that their trophies be youngish.
“He wouldn't change his will. Never. He simply loved Ashley too, too much to even consider it. And he certainly didn't need a new wife, no matter how fetching Ms. Stone may have appeared in her lingerie. I gave Reginald the only child he ever wanted. He could date any woman in the world. Why would he ever want to get married again?”
“Where were you Saturday morning?”
Ceepak has to ask it.
“You mean when Reginald was murdered? Is that what you mean, Mr. Ceepak?”
“Yes, ma'am. Saturday. Around 7:15.”
“Let's see. I woke up. Brushed my teeth. Took a shower. Got dressed. Combed my hair. Put on my makeup. Made a cup of coffee right there in my motel room.” The standard run-down, delivered deadpan. “They have a miniature Mr. Coffee machine in every room at The Smuggler's Cove. Did you know that, Officer Ceepak?”
“No, ma'am. After coffee? Go anywhere?”
“Yes. I went to the bank. The cash machine. I didn't dare use my credit cards for anything.”
“Or we might find out you were in town when you weren't supposed to be?”
“Something like that.” She tries to bat her eyes at Ceepak. It doesn't work.
“You know an ATM takes a photograph during every transaction?”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“So if I'm lying, you'll soon know—won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am. I will.”
“Isn't technology marvelous? First the E-Z pass, now the ATM? It's a wonder we don't all wear collars around our necks and send out radio signals, like some sort of endangered geese.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I was at the bank.” Betty enunciates every word, like she's doing closed captioning for the hearing-impaired. “I withdrew two hundred dollars. But I suppose you'll verify that as well, won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Ceepak makes a note.
She sighs.
“Look, I'm sorry I lied.”
“Well, you should be!” the chief snaps.
“Won't you forgive me?” Betty looks at Ceepak the way she used to look at the baby bunnies when she did her Easter Sunday forecast. “Please?”
Ceepak is sorry she lied, too. I can tell by the way he bites his lip while he nods his head. He might forgive her, but he sure as hell won't forget what she did.
Guess that's how The Code works. If folks follow it, you can trust whatever they say, you can even follow them into battle. If they don't? If they lie? You have to watch your back any time they ask you to believe a word they say.
The chief stands up.
“Okay. The damage is done. We move forward. I'll get Santucci or somebody to do the bank and EZ Pass calls.”
Ceepak stands, too.
I guess we're done with Betty.
“You'll bring my little girl home safe?” she asks, eyes moist.
“We'll do our best,” Ceepak tells her stiffly.
“Let's head back to headquarters,” the chief now says, checking his watch. “Time to talk to Mendez—”
The chief's radio squawks.
“Jesus. What now?”
I don't think the chief likes the way this Tilt-A-Whirl case keeps spinning him around and making his stomach lurch.
He stabs the radio talkback button with his thumb.
“Yeah?”
“It's Adam Kiger, sir.”
“What you got, son?
“Gus's gun. We found it.”
“Where?”
“In the trunk of Mendez's car.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ceepak is staring out the car window, watching the beach roll by, thinking.
He asked me to take the scenic route home—up 247, the coast road, which turns into Beach Lane when it hits the town limits of Sea Haven proper.
I'm doing a little thinking too.
I'm starting to wonder if crime one and crime two are even connected.
Maybe somebody killed Hart because, as they say down South, he needed him some killing. Then maybe somebody else pulled the kidnap, figuring the kid had to come into some pretty fat money when her old man's ticket got punched.
“‘With her killer graces, and her secret places….’” Ceepak's mumble-singing again. Another Springsteen song. I know this one. It's called “She's the One.”
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Two things. One. We need a warrant. I want to search that woman's car.”
“What sort of secrets are we looking for?”
“Car-wash coupons. Air fresheners. Cash-register receipts….”
“From Cap'n Scrubby's?”
“Roger that.”
“You think she hired Squeegee?”
“It's certainly a new possibility. Two—let's swing by the bank.”
“Now? We're with Mendez at three—”
“Mr. Mendez can wait. I need to use the cash machine.”
The First Atlantic Bank is located on Oc
ean Avenue between Snapper's Grill and Mango's Swimwear, about three blocks down the street from The Pancake Palace.
I park out front and follow Ceepak into the lobby. He dips his card into the ATM.
“You need cash?” I ask.
Ceepak doesn't answer. He tilts his wrist and punches a button on his G-Shock.
“Okay,” he says, “I'm taking out $200.”
I'm a little jealous. Ceepak's actually got $200 to withdraw.
While he waits for the machine to spit out ten twenties, he smiles up at the black plexiglass over the ATM.
“Cheese,” he says.
Ceepak tucks the bills into his pocket.
“Okay. Follow me.”
He heads out the door and up the block to the corner of Ocean and Maple. The light is red. We wait for it to change.
When it does, Ceepak checks his wrist and says, “Thirty seconds.”
We head across the street. On the other side of Ocean Avenue, Maple Street creates one corner of the Sunnyside Playland property. So the fence leading down to the beach is on our left;
on our right, rental houses. Two blocks’ worth. The closer we get to the ocean, the higher the rents.
The sidewalk ends, and now we have to walk up planks laid across the sand dune to reach the beach.
“Three minutes,” Ceepak says. I can tell he's trying not to walk too fast or too slow—he's just walking with what they call a sense of purpose.
We're up and over the dune and on the beach.
The first thing I notice is how empty it is for a hot Sunday afternoon. Guess folks weren't listening when the mayor told them Sea Haven was open for fun in the sun again. As far as I can see, there are only maybe five umbrellas, and the little kids are building their sand castles pretty darn close to where mom and dad sit in their beach chairs, terrified to take their eyes off their children.
We head left a gain. The ocean's on our right. Playland's chain-link fence is on our left.
Behind the fence, I can see parts of Playland. First, the Kiddie Rides: “Hot Doggers Hot Rods,” tiny race cars shaped like hot-dog buns that putter around in a circle; “The Beachball Express,” a little train that chugs around in a circle; “The Sandpiper Cub High Flyer,” little airplanes that sort of fly around in a circle.