Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

  “Has she ever been in here?”

  Ceepak places a photograph of Betty Bell Hart on the glass counter in front of the droopy-eyed clerk. The guy looks like he reads too much. I know when I read, I always get sleepy. He's wearing a T-shirt showing Shakespeare in swim trunks holding a small beach ball in one hand, rubbing his chin with the other. It's the Boardwalk Books logo.

  The clerk rubs his chin and studies the snapshot.

  “Yeah … the old weather girl … she's in here all the time.”

  The clerk sips coffee from a mug with a different Boardwalk Books logo printed on it. This time, I think it's Charles Dickens in the swim trunks. He's building two sand castles.

  “She lives in that glass McMansion down on the south beach? Right?”

  “Right,” Ceepak says. “She come in here often?”

  “Sure. She loves books. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? I mean she's still pretty hot and all.”

  “What kind of material does she read?” Ceepak asks.

  “Harlequin romances. True crime. Those Motley Fool investment guides.”

  “Was she here on Sunday?”

  “Sorry, I didn't work this weekend. Duane did. You want me to call Duane? He's the manager.”

  “She ever use the fax machine?”

  The guy thinks about it for a second, tilting his head sideways.

  “Nope.”

  Ceepak looks disappointed.

  “Wait a minute….”

  Bingo.

  “She did use it this one time. I had to help her. This was a couple weeks ago. Yeah. I remember thinking she was acting so totally blonde, you know what I mean?”

  Ceepak nods.

  “I mean, it's pretty simple. Just like a copy machine. You lay your paper down, lower the lid, punch a few buttons on the keypad, and bam—you're done. It's why it's totally self-serve. But she kept asking questions. Made me show her how to do it, over and over, like a hundred times.”

  “Guess she wanted to make sure she got it right.”

  “Yeah,” the guy chuckles. “In case she ever had like, you know, a fax emergency.”

  Or if she was ever in a hurry to fax a note spelling out the details of where to deliver ten million dollars in ransom money.

  “Where to next?”

  We're sitting in the Explorer out front of Boardwalk Books. I can tell Ceepak has a list of spots he wants to hit before he busts the bad guys. He checks his watch.

  “Remember that tricycle theft?’

  “No.”

  “Saturday morning? Adam Kiger caught the call?”

  “Yeah. Okay….”

  “We never did solve that crime, did we?”

  “No. We've been kind of busy.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Still,” he says, “that trike owner is a tax-paying citizen. Well, his parents probably are. They're entitled to a full and proper criminal investigation.”

  “They are?”

  “It's our sworn duty, Danny.”

  “Oh-kay….”

  “Besides—it was the first crime of the day.”

  Solve the first crime, solve the second.

  Advice from Dr. McDaniels. Okay. Got it.

  Maybe it was no coincidence Officer Kiger wasn't on the beach Saturday morning to give Squeegee his wakeup call, wasn't there to see folks crawling in and out under the fence, shooting people on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

  Maybe he was taken out of the game a half hour before kickoff.

  They sent him to answer a call on Rosewood Street.

  The mayor's sister's house. The kind of summons you usually can't refuse, especially if you want to keep your job.

  We're in the bushes near the front porch steps. Rose bushes. Thorns, wild tangles. I guess if your street is called “Rosewood,” you're officially obligated to grow the prickly buggers.

  Ceepak has his magnifying glass out, looking for fibers, I bet. The trike thief could have snagged his shorts on the thorns. I know I just did.

  “Excuse me. What are you gentlemen doing in my bushes?”

  I think it's the mayor's sister. She's very tan. And very stacked.

  “Good morning, ma'am.” Ceepak is, of course, friendly, courteous, and kind. “We're investigating your report of a stolen vehicle.”

  “You work for my brother?” she asks Ceepak.

  “We work for Sea Haven Township.”

  “Like I said … you work for my brother?”

  “Yes, ma'am. I suppose we do.”

  “I'll have to commend him on his new hiring policies.”

  Ceepak steps back from the bushes and onto the lawn.

  “Sorry to bother you like this, ma'am.”

  “Oh, it's no bother.”

  “We have a few questions.”

  “So do I. Are you married?”

  Ceepak actually blushes.

  “Was the tricycle situated here on the porch?” he asks.

  “The tricycle?”

  “Yes, ma'am. Was it on the porch?”

  “Are you really investigating a missing tricycle?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “What a waste of manpower.” Now she's arching her back, like she's yawning, like maybe she needs to go back to bed and maybe somebody should go with her.

  “Miss?” I say. “We're kind of in a hurry.”

  “Who are you?”

  Figures. When you're with Ceepak, women don't even notice you.

  “What is this? Take A Stupid Kid To Work Day?”

  The mayor's sister? She has this nasty side. And when it comes out is when she squinches up her nose and glares at you. Then you notice where the plastic surgeon didn't do such a hot job.

  “Where exactly did you go to cop school?” she asks me. “Some doughnut shop?”

  I'm no Boy Scout, so I don't have to do the courteous bit.

  “Where'd you get that tan?” I say. “Sears, or Costco?”

  “Oh, I see. You're the comedian cop?”

  “He's part-time,” Ceepak says.

  “He's going to be no-time after I call my brother.”

  “No need to bother your brother,” Ceepak says, whipping out his little notebook. “I'll take care of it.” He jots something down.

  “What're you doing? You writing him up?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Hah! Good.”

  “Now if you could … could you please tell us what happened?”

  “Of course.” She acts like she's composing herself, smoothing out any crinkles in her shorts, front and back. She spends more time smoothing out the back than the front. “My son left his tricycle on the porch steps like he always does, even though I tell him not to. Maybe if his father were still living with us, maybe if I was still married—which, incidentally, I'm not—maybe things would be different….”

  “When did you first notice it was stolen?” Ceepak asks.

  “When he was stealing it! The thief made so much noise! He banged the thing against my screen door!”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. I called the police right away. I was all alone … I didn't dare confront him….”

  Now she's doing a damsel-in-distress thing that makes it look like she's a ship flashing Morse Code because her eyelids are painted baby blue and every time she blinks we get a dot or dash of bright light.

  “You must have been terrified,” Ceepak says.

  “Oh, I was. He was right here. And my bedroom? It's right there….”

  She points dramatically to a window. I can make out chintzy pink curtains on the other side and one of those hurricane table lamps catalogs say add a touch of romance to almost any room.

  What all this means is that the trike bandit banged it against the door just to make certain anybody inside knew he was out here stealing something.

  The thief wanted her to call the cops.

  “He even kicked over one of my potted plants.”

  “We'll write it up … additional damage … for your insurance
claim….”

  Ceepak jots down another note in his pocket pad.

  “And, look down there….” She points to the other side of the porch. “He crushed my Fairy. My beautiful pink Fairy.”

  “Your Fairy rosebush?”

  Oh. Ceepak knows horticulture, too.

  “Yes! See?”

  “Yes, ma'am. What a shame.”

  “I'll say.”

  “Fairies are prolific climbers,” Ceepak says.

  “I'm impressed. You know your roses….” She's leaning on the porch railing again.

  “A little,” Ceepak says, looking down at the shrubbery instead of up at the mountains. “I'm no expert. Not like you. You did an excellent job mulching these flower beds.”

  “Moi?” She gives Ceepak a coy, “silly boy” look. “Hardly. I hire a man to do it for me. He says mulch is the only way to retain moisture in our sandy soil. It's so hot down here.”

  She says “hot” like she said “man” earlier.

  Ceepak studies the trampled rosebush.

  “What a shame. He crushed it under his boot,” he says.

  I look down and see where the moist, mulched soil has retained a print.

  “His Timberland boot?” I ask.

  Ceepak nods.

  “Only kind he ever wears.”

  We're back in the car. Working Ceepak's punch list. Off to dig up more evidence.

  “So,” I say, “the chief sent the first ransom fax? Because of the boot prints, right? Outside the hotel room? On that patio there?”

  “Solid analysis, Danny. I may need to write you up in my little blue book again.”

  “Are you really going to give me a reprimand for mouthing off?”

  “Negative. I said I was writing you up. I was contemplating penning a letter of commendation to place in your personnel file.”

  “Excellent. It'd be like my first, I think.”

  “Perhaps. But I doubt it will be your last.”

  I glance over. Ceepak has the proud-big-brother smile on his face again.

  It's all good.

  “The way I see it,” Ceepak says, “Chief Cosgrove wore his Timberland boots whenever he wanted us to think Squeegee had been somewhere. I speculate that Cosgrove had met Mr. Shapiro and knew of the man's fondness for thermal boots, even in the summer months. In fact, it's highly probable that, once the chief and Miss Bell selected Mr. Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, as their scapegoat, they paid keen attention to such telling details. It's why they chose the Tilt-A-Whirl. They knew we'd find evidence linking the location to Squeegee, even if he wasn't sleeping in the bushes Saturday morning. They knew we'd find his blood sample in the hypodermics, his muddy footprints on the platform….”

  “Why'd the chief wear his boots to the mayor's sister's house?”

  “Simple.”

  “What?”

  “He made a mistake. Most criminals usually do. It's how we catch them. He never anticipated we'd investigate a tricycle theft.”

  “Hell, you wanted to do it first thing Saturday morning!” I'm feeling kind of jazzed, like you do after chugging two cans of Red Bull and snarfing down some Hostess Ding-Dongs. “Remember? Before any of this other shit even went down. You wanted to ‘swing by and check it out.’ Remember?”

  “Did I?”

  “Hell, yeah. Fuckin’ A!”

  “Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall expressing an interest. And Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Next stop is The Smuggler's Cove Motel, where Ceepak suspects our suspects “had their trysts.” I think that means they went there to have sex on a regular basis.

  “She stayed there Friday night because she knew, as she stated later, ‘they're very discreet.’”

  Ceepak is flipping through his notebook again. You tell this guy something? He writes it down or memorizes it.

  “Remember how the chief acted when she told us that?” I remember stuff, too. “He was so totally ticked off.”

  “Roger that. I suspect he would have preferred that his accomplice make some other choice of accommodations so we wouldn't ask questions that might warrant unwanted answers.”

  “So the chief's, like, cheating on his wife?”

  “So it would seem. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we were to discover that Chief Cosgrove has made an arrangement with the motel's management allowing them to operate in their unseemly fashion in exchange for their discretion as called for. The pornography. The inherent probability of prostitution….”

  “Doesn't really fit with the whole Sea Haven ‘family fun’ image, does it?”

  Ceepak just shakes his head.

  I think he's very disappointed in his fellow soldier. His brother in arms. Chief Cosgrove knows The Code, but chose not to follow it because, frankly, he didn't feel like it. I guess that's what a lot of guys do.

  We're at Ocean Avenue and Locust Lane.

  The Smuggler's Cove is about three blocks up and two over.

  I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

  A cop car requesting that I, another cop car, pull over.

  “Pull over, Danny.” Ceepak sees them too. His eyes are glued to the side mirror.

  I ease to a stop in front of Santa's Sea Shanty.

  Some of the women hauling Sailor Santa Nutcrackers out of the year-round holiday store stop to gawk as Ceepak and I climb out of the Ford.

  Two cops step out of the other cruiser.

  Malloy and Santucci. Two of the chief's favorites.

  “Hey, guys,” Ceepak says. “What's up?”

  “You need to come with us,” Santucci says, giving his chewing gum a sharp snap.

  “We're on a run—”

  “It can wait. The chief needs you in his office. Now.”

  “That'll work,” Ceepak says. “We'll follow you guys in.”

  Santucci takes another step forward. He even does the lean-on-his-gun-belt thing I've seen Ceepak do.

  “It'd be best if you rode with us,” he says. “Both of you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Jesus! What the hell did you guys freaking do?”

  Gus Davis greets us from the desk as we enter headquarters. Santucci and Malloy are flanking us as they escort us into the building like we're on a perp walk.

  If our theories are correct, if the chief is capable of helping his girlfriend bump off her ex-husband and then masterminding a kidnapping hoax with cold-hearted, military precision, I'm sure he's worked out some clever way of taking care of Ceepak and anybody else who might stand in his way on the road to riches. People like me.

  “Ceepak? Boyle? Get your asses in here.”

  The chief stands behind his desk. His face is flushed, redder than raw meat.

  “Move it! Now! Move!”

  I pick up my pace.

  Ceepak takes his time.

  “You need us, boss?” Santucci asks.

  “Wait outside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Santucci and Malloy leave.

  “Would you like me to close the door?” Ceepak asks pleasantly.

  “Yes! Close the goddamn door! Now!”

  When Ceepak pushes the door shut, I see Gladys, the bag lady from the hotel.

  Ceepak sees her too.

  “Good to see you again. I take it you safely evacuated the hotel?”

  “Fuck you, fuzz!”

  Gladys has not mellowed much in the hours since last we met. She hasn't bathed either. I can still see those white streaks on her cheeks where the tears trickled down.

  “What am I going to do with you, John?” the chief says.

  “Sir?”

  “I gave you this job to help you recover from what you've been through. To take you away from the horrors of war. The senseless loss of lives….”

  “You’re a war criminal,” Gladys shouts. “A baby killer! I heard what you did! How you gunned down that taxi driver's family! Baby killer!”
>
  Guess the chief shared some stuff with Gladys he might've kept confidential if he lived by a different kind of Code.

  “I thought I could bring you home,” the chief says, all hushed and earnest. “Thought I could give you a chance to put it all behind you. Instead, you go all gung-ho? Become some sort of vigilante? You hunted down and killed your suspect?”

  I'm going to keep my mouth shut.

  Not because I'm afraid, even though I totally am, but because I have a hunch Ceepak doesn't want me saving his butt by blurting out the truth about Squeegee. Otherwise, he wouldn't have hidden it from me last night at the hotel.

  “Goddammit, John.” The chief shakes his head in disbelief. “You took a sniper rifle upstairs to execute Squeegee?”

  “His name is Jerry!” Gladys screeches. “Jerry Fucking Shapiro!”

  The chief raises his hand, cueing the radical socialist bag lady to put a lid on it.

  “You shot him like a dog?”

  “He did!” She's spitting with rage. “I was there when it went down, man. I'll fucking tell the world what you fucking did, you fucking motherfucker!”

  “I'm sorry, sir,” Ceepak says. “What is it I'm supposed to have done?”

  “You fucker!”

  “Miss? I'll handle this.” The chief rivets his gaze on Ceepak.

  Ceepak doesn't flinch. In fact, he smiles and raises his eyebrows as if he's eager to hear what the chief has to say.

  “Last night, you tracked down your suspect, this woman's fiancé….”

  They're engaged? I'll have to find out where they're registered.

  The chief checks his legal pad.

  “Mr. Gerald Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee. You tracked him down and proceeded into the old Palace Hotel with an M-24 sniper rifle….”

  “Awesome weapon system, sir. But, of course, you already know that. You're the one who gave it to me.”

  The chief ignores that shot across his bow.

  “You then went upstairs and, instead of apprehending the suspect for further questioning, you shot him….”

  “Negative. I did not shoot Mr. Shapiro.”

  “John, John, John.” The chief kind of chuckles, one for each John. “I will not lie nor tolerate those who do. Remember our Code? You shot this man because you suspected him of being a child molester. You took the law into your own hands.”

  “No, sir. I did not. However, I'm certain that was your intention.”