“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief says, “I am pleased to report that, thanks to the diligent efforts of some very brave Sea Haven police officers and the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group, Ashley Hart is going home. She's safe. Unharmed. She's doing great.”
“Do you have the kidnapper?
“Did he shoot Ashley's father?”
“Did he confess? To the murder of Reginald Hart?”
The chief holds up his beefy right paw to calm the crowd.
“We do not have all the answers. Unfortunately, the kidnapper died in tonight's fire and explosion at the old Palace Hotel….”
“How'd the fire start?”
“We're not certain, but we suspect arson,” the chief says.
“Are the crimes related? The arson, the kidnapping, the murder?”
“I really can't speculate about that at this time….”
“Was it just a coincidence? That the kidnapper happened to be in the hotel when an arsonist burned it down?”
“As I said, I am not in a position to speculate on those matters at this time. An investigation is ongoing. The fire department is on the scene, working the hotel. State arson investigators are on their way as well. We hope to have more answers for you folks ASAP. But right now—well, I'm just damn glad we got Ashley! She's safe, folks! She's going home!”
“And,” the mayor steps up to the microphones, “tomorrow is Monday! A sunderful new week begins here in Sea Haven. We're thinking of throwing a big beach party to celebrate Ashley's homecoming! Free refreshments….”
The reporters ignore him.
“Chief? When can we see Ashley? Can we talk to her? How's her mother holding up?”
“Guys? Come on. Give the kid a break….”
“There she goes!”
One reporter points and all the cameras swing to see what he's pointing at.
Ashley, covered in the blanket, walks with her mother to their Mercedes sedan, surrounded by a crowd of state and local police. Looks like they'll be traveling home in their very own motorcade.
Ashley's in such good shape, I guess she doesn't need to go to the hospital.
She just needs to go home.
I walk over to where somebody has set up a folding table with food and drinks.
Hey, what's a successful end to a manhunt without a few snacks and cold beverages?
Unfortunately, there's no beer in the Igloo cooler, just Pepsi. I looked.
“Boyle?”
It's the chief.
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work.”
“Thanks.”
“What's wrong, son?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit. You look like somebody just shot your dog.”
Nope. No dogs were harmed in this evening's activities. Just this one homeless guy. Jerry, a.k.a. Squeegee. A guy who gave his girlfriend his favorite shirt because she was cold.
“Listen, son—Ceepak did what he had to do. He did what needed to be done.”
“Do you know what he did, sir?”
“No. And I don't need to know any details. The end justifies whatever means he deemed necessary, understand?”
No. Not really.
“Yes, sir. Of course.”
“You want to be a cop, you have to come to peace with this sort of thing. The greater good, Boyle. The greater good.” He's actually wagging his finger at me. “The Greater Good.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How's Ceepak holding up?”
“Okay, I guess. Considering.”
“Yeah,” the chief sucks in a chestful of night air. “Rough duty whenever you bring a man down. There will be an investigation. They'll want to ask you a bunch of questions. How did the fire get started? What happened to your suspect? Why didn't you apprehend him prior to the conflagration? That sort of thing. They might even recover the bullet … provided they find the body.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You think you can handle it, son?”
“I hope so.”
“You just need to give the right answers. It's actually pretty easy to do. Tell you what, when you're ready to go over your story, work up the details of what you remember, come see me, okay?”
“Thank you, sir.”
Great. I never had a Code or anything but, on the other hand, I've never intentionally lied about something this big before, either.
Now, it seems like lying is going to become part of my job.
I go looking for Ceepak.
Hey, I'm still on the company dime and it's my job to drive the guy home.
Tomorrow?
I'll probably start the sunny, funderful new week by quitting. Or at least asking for a new assignment. I've decided I don't want to be the hitman's chauffeur any longer. And I hope the department can whitewash their internal investigation without me, because if they ask me any questions, I will tell them no lies.
“You seen Ceepak?” I ask this state cop standing guard outside the baggage hut.
“Inside.”
I walk in and find him on his hands and knees studying the floorboards.
“You ready to head home?”
“In a second.”
“Still looking for evidence?”
“Roger that.”
“I thought the case was closed.”
Ceepak doesn't respond.
“Was he wearing boots?”
“Excuse me?”
“Squeegee. Was he wearing boots?”
“Of course. Timberlands.”
“Unh-hunh. Find anything interesting in here?”
Ceepak stands up and walks to a dark corner.
“Ice chest.”
He squeaks off the styrofoam lid.
“Filled with Milky Ways, water bottles, a turkey-and-brie sandwich….”
“Squeegee treated her pretty good.”
“Danny, your friend Joey T.? The guy who sweeps the beach. Do you know where we might find him?”
“Tonight?”
“Is that doable?”
“He's probably sleeping. His shift starts at like five or six in the morning.”
“I see. Did he work today?”
“No. They usually get Sundays off.”
“Come again?”
“They usually get Sundays off.”
“They don't rake the sand on Sundays?”
How many times are we both going to say the same damn thing?
“They used to. Then there were these budget cuts. Joey does a major sweep on Saturday, gets Sundays off, hits the beach again first thing Monday morning….”
“Awesome! Do you know when he empties the hopper?”
“The what?”
“The bin where the surf-rake stows its trash. When does he typically empty it? Pre-sweep or post-shift?”
“How the hell would I know that?”
“Right. I just thought….”
“Do you want to go wake up Joey T.? Ask him when he dumps his load?”
“No. I'll catch him at 0500. Does he park his gear at the municipal garage?”
“Yeah.”
“Terrific. You up for some O.T., Danny? I'd like to check in with your friend before first light … before he sweeps the beach again.”
“I'm feeling kind of bummed, you know what I mean?”
“Sure.”
“I've never actually been that close to an actual execution. Never been in the building when a man was gunned down by the firing squad. So tonight? I think I need to get shit-faced. I think I need to stay up drinking ’til three or four in the morning and get drunker than I've ever been before. Who knows? Maybe I'll even go home and slap some snot-nosed brats around in the basement or something.”
I hope it sounds as nasty as I mean it to.
Ceepak's eyes show that hurt again.
Good.
“We'll touch base tomorrow,” he says.
“Whatever. You want me to drop you at the house?”
“That'd be great. Thanks, Danny.”
/> We leave the baggage room, walk back across the ancient railbed, and climb into the Explorer.
“Seat belts,” Ceepak says.
I refuse to put mine on. I just start up the car.
“Chief talk to you yet?” Ceepak asks.
“He sure as shit did.”
“Good. You tell him what happened?”
“I confirmed what he already knew. How the ends justify the means. The greater good. That kind of shit….”
“Good.”
Ceepak keeps nodding, like everything is hunky-dory and peachy-keen.
If he says “It's all good,” like he says about five hundred times every day, I might have to shoot him—even if I don't have a gun. I'll borrow one of his.
“We'll regroup tomorrow. 0730? Pancake Palace?”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
He turns to look at me but I won't look at him.
“It's going to be okay, Danny,” Ceepak whispers.
“What?”
“I give you my word.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
You ever polish off a six-pack in under an hour? Me neither.
Until last night.
This morning, I'm still wearing the same clothes I had on when I fell asleep in my lumpy TV chair.
Must be why no one wants to sit near me at The Pancake Palace.
The waitress brings me a mug of coffee and a plastic carafe so I can continue to pour my own and self-medicate. I rip open a little plastic packet of Tylenol I picked up at the 7-Eleven. It's my second pack of the morning and I chew the tablets like they're Flintstones vitamins. Sure the stuff is bitter, but hell—so am I.
It's 7:40. My partner's late. Highly un-Ceepakesque behavior. There are no syrup-stained rugrats stealing tips this morning. In fact, The Palace is even emptier than it was on Saturday. I guess things will pick up tomorrow—when the world celebrates the safe return of Ashley Hart with a mad dash back to the beach. I'll bet you the Tilt-A-Whirl, the train depot, the burnt-down hotel—they'll all become brand-new tourist traps. “This is where they shot him! This is where they found her!”
I'm thinking I could come up with a catchy, kidnap-themed T-shirt or sell “write-your-own-ransom-note” refrigerator magnets, make a million bucks and retire.
I need more coffee.
I pour another cup and try to read the newspaper. The headlines are all kind of blurry, but I think it's my eyes that are fuzzy, not the ink. Pictures of Ashley and her mother cover the front page. The chief, too. Everybody looks all huggy and happy. I find my name buried in the continuation of the front-page story on the sixth page.
Officer John Ceepak and his partner Daniel Boyle were the first to find the kidnapped little girl inside the abandoned railroad terminus.
What's a terminus? Sounds like the train had a bad disease.
Anyhow, I'm an official hero. The newspaper has declared it so.
Here comes Ceepak.
He takes off his cap and smiles at the ancient cashier who's smiling at him, her hero. His eyes sweep the restaurant to make sure I'm in the window seat where we always sit. He smiles again when he sees I'm where I'm supposed to be.
“Morning, Danny.”
I grunt.
“You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“I'm famished.” He waves to the waitress.
“Good morning,” she says, probably hoping for another huge tip like the one he came back to give her on Saturday. “Hey—congratulations. Thanks for finding the little girl!”
“Just doing our job.”
“All set?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Fruit and cereal?”
“No. This morning I'd like to try your Lumberjack Special.”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma'am. I figure it's time I ventured over to the second page of your marvelous menu.”
Damn, he's chipper.
“All righty. How would you like those eggs?”
“Sunnyside up, of course.” Ceepak winks at her.
The waitress writes up the order and walks away with a cute little bounce in her step. Damn. Everybody's got their sunny side up this morning. Everybody except me.
“Your buddy Joey T. is quite disciplined,” Ceepak says while he mindlessly shuffles the sugar and Sweet ’n’ Low and Equal packages into orderly, color-coded stacks in the table tray.
“Really?”
“It's not every young man who's willing to start work at five in the morning.”
I slurp my coffee to let him know he's absolutely right on that one.
“I believe Mr. Thalken is a Virgo. He possesses tremendous organizational skills and, as I said, self-discipline.”
“Right.”
“Seems he cleans out the hopper each morning prior to sweeping the beach. He says he is better able to concentrate on the task at hand if he's not pre-occupied with racing back to the municipal yard to unload at the end of his shift.”
“I see. So?”
“Saturday's sweep? The debris was still in the hopper. You see, to achieve a well-manicured beach, the Surf Rake's moldboard levels uneven areas while stainless steel tines on a moving conveyor belt rake debris toward an adjustable deflector plate….”
Jesus.
Sounds like Joey T. and Ceepak really hit it off. They discussed this crap before the sun was even up.
Ceepak keeps going.
“The non-sand objects are then transported to a hopper which can be hydraulically dumped.”
“Wow. Great. What'd you do? Climb in and go on a treasure hunt?”
“In fact, that is correct.”
“Find anything interesting?”
The waitress brings a platter loaded down with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and butter tubs.
“This'll work,” Ceepak says. He rubs his knife against his fork tines and looks over to me. “You sure you're not hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
In fact, the smell is causing the remains of the six beers in my belly to slide down to my intestines where they can make loud, rumbling noises.
Ceepak checks his watch.
We must be on a schedule, even though I figure our big case closed around midnight last night.
He digs in, letting the egg yolk ooze across the pancakes with the melting butter and warm syrup.
I think he's purposely trying to make me hurl.
And he never says whether he found anything—because it's not polite to talk with a mouth full of eggs.
Ceepak devours his Lumberjack Special and downs several quick cups of coffee. He hasn't actually been to bed since I dropped him off at the police station last night.
He says he was “working on a few things” while I was home drinking and passing out. Now he's raring to go.
We walk to the car.
“Standard patrol, sir?”
“No, Danny. Let's swing down to Beach Crest Heights. I'd like to talk to Betty Bell.”
“Why? The case is closed.”
“Loose ends.” Ceepak says. Then he starts humming because, of course, Springsteen has this whole song called “Loose Ends” and Ceepak can't resist.
“They have returned to the city,” the butler says.
“Do you work for Miss Bell?” Ceepak asks.
“I am attached to the house in a management capacity.”
I think that means he's like a live-in maid with attitude.
“I see,” Ceepak says. “So you also worked for Mr. Hart? Whenever he came out here?”
“Certainly. However, he was rarely in residence.”
“Mind if we come in?”
The butler does a sniff that lets us know he does mind but he steps to the side and gestures for us to come in if we must.
I have no idea what the hell we're doing here, but we walk into the sunroom.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Me?” The butler does a good shocked. He even flutters his hand near his heart like he might faint. “I thoug
ht the unfortunate situation had been resolved.”
“Indeed. The kidnapping? That's done. When did Ashley and her mother head back to the city?”
“Before dawn.”
“Well, we're just tying up some loose ends. Investigating the arson up at The Palace Hotel.”
We are? Why?
The butler scrunches his face. “Nasty business, that. I understand the kidnapper, this Squeegee fellow, I understand he perished in the blaze?”
“So it seems,” Ceepak says. “Did you know that Mr. Hart owned that hotel?”
“No. I am not often privy to the details of Mr. Hart's real-estate holdings.”
“Of course not. Ms. Stone, however, was?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“When she stayed here with him, was it all business?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was there anything romantic? Between Ms. Stone and Mr. Hart?”
“However would I know? I was not their confidante.”
“They didn't sleep together?” Ceepak presses him.
“Of course not. Ms. Stone stayed in the guest cottage. Out beyond the pool.”
“Is that where she spent Thursday and Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“It's where all her things were. When Ms. Bell told me to remove Ms. Stone's luggage, I went into the cottage to retrieve it. I had to pick up a few loose articles of clothing off the floor. I suppose Ms. Stone assumed she would be returning here on Saturday.”
“Was there a great deal of lingerie?”
“No. None. I believe she slept in very long T-shirts.”
“Really?”
The butler blushes, realizing that maybe he knows a little too much about Ms. Stone's sleeping attire.
“I found one such nightshirt hanging on a hook in the bathroom. It featured a large canary on the front.”
“Tweety?” I say.
“Perhaps.” The butler doesn't know from Tweety Bird.
“Tell me,” Ceepak says, “in your opinion, were your employer and her daughter close?”
“Oh, yes. Extremely so. Inseparable, I'd say. Certainly, Mrs. Hart could be a stern disciplinarian, something of a perfectionist, but she and Ashley were, as you say, quite close. Quite close indeed.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ceepak says. “Not always the case with teenage girls and their mothers.”