Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

“Red kicked Henry in the butt because we had this mattress upstairs last winter and Henry wanted to sleep with us because the floor was cold. Henry? He has a gas problem. He's old, he's earned it. Henry farts and Red kicks him. Kicks him ’til he yelps, I kid you not. He yelps. Jerry?” She waggles the newspaper clipping to remind us Jerry is Squeegee. “He and I aren't even dating or messing around back then, but the next day, when we're all, you know, hanging out, doing our thing, Jerry tells Red to cut that dog-kicking shit out. Says dogs are not pets, they're our spiritual companions in this earthly realm. Who made man king of the jungle, anyhow? Tarzan? Reagan?”

  She tugs at the tie-dye shirt.

  “Jerry lent me his T-shirt because I was cold. You got any food?”

  Ceepak pulls one more Power Bar out of his pants.

  Henry hears the wrapper crinkle and lifts his head. He's interested. Ceepak pulls a Pupperoni jerky strip out of another pocket. The guy lives the Boy Scouts motto. He is always prepared!

  “Can your dog have a treat?”

  “Is it all-natural?”

  “I'm not certain. It's what they call a Pupperoni.”

  Henry is licking his chops.

  “Pupperoni?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Fine. But if he farts? It's your fucking fault.”

  Ceepak bends down and lets Henry eat out of his palm.

  “Here you go … good boy….”

  The bag lady is staring at the Power Bar.

  “Jesus. You got like a veggie sandwich or something? Maybe tomato-mozzarella on a baguette with some pesto or something?”

  “I could check another pocket.” Ceepak is trying to make a little joke.

  The lady does not know this. She waits.

  So he checks another pocket.

  “Sorry.”

  “Jesus.” She settles for the Power Bar. “What the hell is in this thing? Chemicals and chalk?”

  “Yes, ma'am. I believe so.”

  “Fucking yuppie food. Next time, bring me that sandwich.”

  “Roger that.”

  “And grab some chips. Taro chips. Snapple, too. But none of that NutraSweet shit. That's a plot. A conspiracy. All about mind control. The fucking Republicans….”

  “Will do.”

  “You’re a cop, right?”

  “Yes, ma'am. I work with the Sea Haven Police.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. How's Scooter Boy?”

  “You know Officer Kiger?”

  “Don't get me started. That kid Kiger wakes us up all the time. Comes along on that goddamn scooter. ‘Wake up, wake up, you sleepyheads. Get up, get up, get out of bed.’ Kicks us off the beach before the rich people show up. Fascist fuzz….” She stops to fan the air in front of her face. “Whoo! Thank you Mr. Pupperoni.”

  “Ma’am—do you know where Jerry is now?”

  “Why do you keep calling me ‘ma'am’ like that?”

  “Just trying to be courteous….”

  “Well, knock it off. Jesus. You sound so fucking subservient. Why? No bourgeois man or woman is your better. All power rests with the people!”

  She raises her fist in some kind of salute. I think she might be an intellectual when she's not stoned. Or a socialist. One of those.

  “So, just so we're all clear here,” she says, “Jerry didn't do it.”

  “Didn't do what?”

  “What the papers say he did.” She waves the newspaper in Ceepak's face. “Murder? Kidnapping? Lies and bullshit. Just because it's in the paper doesn't make it true. It's just propaganda—paper and ink and lies and bullshit. Republican bullshit.”

  “If that's the case, Mr. Shapiro has nothing to fear from me.”

  “Bullshit. You're the fucking fuzz. Can't trust the fuzz.”

  “You can trust me,” he tells her.

  “Really? How come? What makes you so super-special?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word? Like your solemn vow?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Wow. That's some heavy, serious shit. You give me your word? Wow. Just like Nixon? He gave us his word. ‘I am not a crook.’ So did Clinton. ‘I didn't have sex with that woman.’ Bush. ‘Saddam has nukes.’ Fucking Republicans.”

  She's staring at Ceepak, trying to figure out who he might really be.

  “You can trust him,” I say.

  “What?”

  “He cannot tell a lie.”

  She stares some more at him.

  “Really? Who is he? George Fucking Washington?”

  “Officer Ceepak doesn't know how to be dishonest,” I say.

  Now she's studying his eyes.

  “What's the matter? Your parents never taught you how?”

  “They tried,” he says. “However, they failed.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Uh-uh-uh. You did that damn ma'am thing again.”

  “Sorry. Do you know where Jerry is?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I'd like to talk to him.”

  “You won't hurt him?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “When I was cold? He gave me his shirt. His favorite fucking shirt.”

  “I will not hurt him.”

  The bag lady bends down to rub the dog's head.

  “Upstairs,” she says. “Room 215.”

  “Thank you. Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stay here with….”

  “Gladys,” she says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ceepak holds out his hand to me.

  “I need the keys to the car.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Gladys is sitting on the floor in front of me, petting her dog. Her legs are splayed out and Henry is nuzzling against her knee.

  “He likes it when you scratch under his ears.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  Behind her, I see Ceepak out front where we parked the Ford. He's unlocking the hatchback. Opening it. Pulling out his rifle.

  “Ah, Jesus. I think he has a tick.”

  I glance down to see Gladys pinching something buried in Henry's fur.

  “Got it.”

  Whatever she got, she flings across the dark lobby like I might flick a wad of earwax when no one's watching.

  I look out front again and see Ceepak toting his sniper weapon system around the side of the car and heading to what I can only guess is some kind of alternate entrance. Maybe where the fire steps exit into the parking lot.

  He probably doesn't want to deal with climbing up the same staircase we recently scrambled down.

  He probably doesn't want Gladys to see him going upstairs with a sniper rifle.

  “You have a dog, kid?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Jesus. What's with you fucking fuzz? Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your partner? Slezak?”

  “Ceepak.”

  “Yeah. Ceepak. He seems like a good man. Decent.”

  “Yes. He does.”

  He sure seems that way.

  You ever talk to a bag lady for fifteen minutes? It's totally random. A barrel of laughs.

  Gladys tells me all about Karl Marx and the redistribution of wealth and how Henry will always have the Milkbones he needs provided he contributes to society to the best of his ability.

  Then she gets into some guy named Friedrich Nietzsche and says his tendency to seek explanations for commonly accepted values in the less-elevated realms of animal instinct was crucial to Sigmund Freud's development of psychoanalysis.

  I nod and say “Is that so?” a lot.

  All the time, I keep waiting to hear the rifle shot, the snap-pop report, but I guess I won't because Ceepak screwed on that silencer.

  He's been up in Room 215 a long time.

  I'm sure he's interrogating Squeegee, pumping him for information about Ashley. If he gets what he needs, will he still pump a bullet into the guy? I hope not. But I keep thinking about
a certain pedophile chaplain in Germany who, as far as I know, nobody ever heard from again.

  And why does Ceepak need a sniper rifle?

  If his animal instinct is telling him Jerry Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, needs to die, why doesn't he just use his pistol? The rifle with the sniper scope seems kind of dramatic. Seems like overkill. But maybe he forgot to pack a silencer for the pistol. Maybe a pistol silencer is the one thing he doesn't have in his cargo-pants pockets.

  “Danny?”

  Ceepak is on the staircase behind me. He's holding the rifle at his side.

  I sniff the air, searching for “transient evidence,” just like he taught me to. The air reeks of gunpowder.

  “Jesus!”

  Gladys sees the rifle.

  “What did you fucking do?’

  “Ma’am, you need to leave here. Now.”

  “What did you fucking do, you fucking liar?”

  “You need to take your dog, find any of your friends who may be habitating here with you in the hotel, you need to find them and tell them all to leave. You have ten minutes.”

  “Where's Jerry?” She lurches toward the staircase. Ceepak holds up his hand and stops her.

  “Ma’am, you do not want to go upstairs. You want to vacate these premises.”

  “You motherfucking …”

  “Ma’am, like I said—you need to take your dog, find your friends, and evacuate this location. You need to do so immediately.”

  Ceepak checks his watch.

  “You now have nine minutes and thirty seconds.”

  Gladys is crying. I can see the tears clearing a white path down her dirty cheeks.

  “You lied to me … gave me your fucking word….”

  Ceepak doesn't say anything.

  “You goddamn motherfucking son-of-a-bitch liar!”

  Gladys tugs her twine leash and Henry stands up.

  Her shoulders are shaking as she drags Henry toward the front. When she steps outside, she hesitates, thinks about coming back in to drag her friend's dead body out of the room upstairs.

  “You have nine minutes,” Ceepak shouts.

  “Motherfucking fuzz!”

  Henry snarls.

  The two of them run and disappear into the darkness.

  I turn to Ceepak.

  “Did you?”

  “Danny? Don't make me say things I'd rather not say.”

  I've never seen Ceepak look so intense. Veins pop out of his arms. His eyes dilate. It's as if he's possessed of some unnatural energy.

  Guess killing a man gives a guy a rush.

  “Don't force me to tell you a lie,” he says.

  “You mean another one?”

  Ceepak just lets it hang there.

  He steps off the staircase and leans the rifle against the railing and pulls out his pistol. He checks the clip, slides off the safety.

  He points it to the floor and fires.

  The explosion rings in my ears.

  “Listen up!” Ceepak shouts. “If you can hear me, you need to leave here immediately. It is not safe for you to remain in this location. Repeat—it is not safe to remain here! You have eight minutes!”

  He puts his gun back in his holster.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I am so quitting this job.

  It sucks.

  Ceepak sucks.

  “Danny?”

  “What?”

  Now there's some kind of sadness in his eyes. Like he wants to explain something but he can't.

  “Do you know where the old train depot is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to go there. Immediately. To release Ashley.”

  “He confessed?”

  “He told me where we could find Ashley.”

  Ceepak stalks across the lobby. I follow him because, at the moment, I don't know what else to do.

  We negotiate our way across the crumbling parking lot and climb into the Ford. I feel like creamed shit on toast. My muscles ache, my joints creak, I feel like I'm somebody's grandmother with arthritis. I need a beer.

  Ceepak takes the walkie-talkie off his belt and motions for me to drive away from the hotel.

  “We need to relocate to a more secure position or we run the risk of becoming collateral damage,” he says. He's in that cold, military-speak mode. Sort of numbs you to the horror of what you're actually doing if you use big words to describe it.

  Ceepak radios headquarters.

  “This is Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

  I start up the engine. Ceepak points to the abandoned Ship John lighthouse, like I should drive over there. I'm on autopilot, so I head in that direction.

  “Ceepak for Cosgrove. Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

  “This is Cosgrove, go.”

  “Implement the mobilization plan.”

  “You found her?”

  “We have high-probability intelligence on her location.”

  “Where? Where did the bastard stash her?”

  “The old Pennsylvania Depot up here at the north end. She is detained in the baggage room. Request an ambulance and all available backup.”

  “Do you have the perp in custody?”

  The Ford rocks. I hear something bang the rear window like a sonic boom from a low-flying 747. I check my mirror.

  The Palace Hotel has just exploded.

  “Repeat—did you apprehend the perpetrator?”

  “Negative. We encountered an unanticipated snag.”

  A snag?

  “It seems the hotel was wired to blow.”

  “What?”

  “Implosion. I suspect Mendez. Demolition and arson are his areas of expertise. I sense he went overboard. C-4 plastic explosives coupled with strategically placed petrol canisters. Like dropping a stick of dynamite down a gas pump. The hotel has collapsed and is on fire. Request immediate fire department support.”

  “Are you guys okay? You and Boyle?”

  “Affirmative. We were able to vacate the building two steps ahead of the fire.”

  “So Squeegee is dead?”

  Ceepak waits a second before he responds.

  “I did not see him exit the building. Copy?”

  “Roger. Copy.”

  I figure he's got a plan. This is how you hide the bullet when you gun down your suspect instead of arresting him. You set off the C-4 and gasoline you were lucky to find all wired and ready to blow. You burn down the whole building so everything melts. You cremate the body in a towering inferno, which then turns into a pile of rubble. It's messy, but it works.

  “Grab the girl!” the chief growls. “We'll meet you up at the depot!”

  “Roger that. And chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Alert Ashley's mother to our situation. Be best if you did so immediately. Her daughter is safe. It's all good.”

  “Will do. I'll tell her you kept your word!”

  There are some more explosions behind us. The fire must've found extra gas cans.

  “Request second alarm on fire department response….”

  “Will do. Ceepak?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Good job.”

  “10-4.”

  Ceepak snaps off his radio.

  “Let's go get Ashley.”

  We're the first unit on the scene, of course.

  The old train depot is really more like a covered platform with a small hut attached. On one side of the hut is the arched window where they used to sell tickets. On the other is the baggage room where they stored suitcases and packages.

  It's not so dark any more. The fire from the hotel, about a half-mile farther north, is lighting up the sky pretty good.

  “Careful,” Ceepak says as we walk across the weedy railroad bed. There's no rails, just the rotting, tarry ties and some compacted gravel.

  As pissed-off as I am, I realize he's right. We need to be careful. There might be armed guards keeping watch over Ashley. Mendez's men could be inside with their own sniper weapon
systems or shotguns or whatever you use to guard a kidnapped kid.

  “Should we wait for backup?” I ask.

  “I don't anticipate that will be necessary. But try to remain quiet.”

  Ceepak tiptoes ahead and climbs up on an old rusty barrel so he can peek in a window to the baggage room. He sees something because he holds up his hand to tell me to stay still, not make a sound. He watches for a second, then slowly slips down and motions for me to follow.

  We move around to the back of the depot. I see the door to the baggage room. There's a locker-room-size padlock through a hasp on the door.

  “Ashley?” Ceepak calls out.

  “Yes?” It's her voice. It's weak and trembling, but I recognize it.

  “This is Officer John Ceepak. I am here with my partner Danny Boyle. The two of us are coming in, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We may have to kick down the door.”

  “Hurry! Please! Before he comes back! Hurry!”

  Ceepak walks to the door.

  But he isn't hurrying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I think every vehicle in the county with any kind of flashing light bar on its roof is parked in a circle around the train depot.

  Ashley is covered with a thick wool blanket and sitting in the back of an open ambulance while a doctor and nurse check her out. Her mom is with her on the little bed, hugging her. The kid was in pretty good shape when we kicked down the door and rescued her: She was sitting on an old steamer trunk with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles handcuffed together so she couldn't run. Fortunately, Squeegee didn't tie the knots too tight, so Ashley didn't have rope burn on her wrists. The handcuffs securing her legs were pretty loose, too. They didn't pinch into her ankles at all.

  Ashley was, however, still wearing the skimpy outfit she'd been forced to put on for the Polaroid. It's why she's wrapped up in the blanket now.

  The chief had some of the guys set up a perimeter so the reporters who raced up here behind all the police cars and fire trucks could be held at bay. The TV klieg lights are making it feel like high noon, even though it's closer to midnight.

  I see Ceepak over near a black sedan, talking to Morgan. They're nodding at each other. I guess the FBI agent understands—sometimes you have to shoot a guy in order to stop him from molesting more kids.

  The chief looks happier than I've ever seen him. Completely free of acid indigestion. He's bouncing around, shaking hands with everybody he bumps into. He struts over to the reporters and TV cameras to make a statement, looking like the football coach who just won the big game. Mayor Sinclair is beside him.