Tilt-a-Whirl (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

  “Come again?”

  “Was this the final phase of your plan? To dispose of me via these false accusations?”

  The chief puts down his notepad.

  “What plan?”

  “You brought me here to Sea Haven, sir, not, as you claim, for rest and relaxation, but to kill whomever you and Miss Bell decided to blame for your own nefarious actions.”

  “What's he talking about?” Gladys asks. I think the word “nefarious” got her attention.

  Ceepak turns to her.

  “I did not complete my mission as envisioned by Chief Cosgrove here. Your fiancé? He's safe.”

  “What?” The chief is even redder.

  “In fact—if you walk to the top of the Ship John Lighthouse, I believe you will find Mr. Jerry Shapiro up there enjoying the view, perhaps taking a well-earned nap. I did ask him to not indulge in hallucinogenic drugs while sequestered there. It wouldn't be prudent. The steps inside are quite steep.”

  “Jerry's alive?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “You didn't kill him?” the chief looks like he was just sucker-punched.

  “No, sir. I know you wanted me to. In fact, I know gunning Squeegee down was the sole reason you invited me to join your police force. Why you said ‘you don't even have to drive….’”

  “You’re nuts, Ceepak. You know that?”

  “Can I go now?” Gladys has forgotten her righteous wrath. A reunion is what's on her mind, and she's in a hurry.

  “Get the hell out of here!” the chief screams at her.

  “Fuck you.” Gladys bolts.

  When she swings open the door, I notice we've attracted quite a crowd in the hallway.

  “Go back to work!” the chief yells. “All of you!”

  Nobody moves.

  I suspect folks have been eavesdropping.

  “Now! Move! Go! Boyle? The door?”

  “Yes, sir.” I swing the door shut. When he does that coach-yell at me? I do as I'm told. Reflexes.

  “You two? You're fired. Both of you.”

  “Earlier today, I did some research,” Ceepak says, moving closer to his old friend's desk. “Asked Gus. Adam Kiger. Even your pals Santucci and Malloy. Nobody has ever heard of one Jennifer D'Angelo, the young victim of a rape perpetrated by a homeless man underneath the boardwalk….”

  “We kept it quiet!”

  “No, sir. You made it up.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It was really quite clever.”

  Oh, boy. Ceepak's addressing me. Like I'm the jury box or something.

  “You see, Danny—because of our past friendship, our time spent together in Germany, the personal and sometimes painful stories we told each other over a few beers….”

  Of course. The chief knows about Ceepak's drunk father. His brother. The dead kids in Iraq.

  “… because the chief thought he knew me, he orchestrated what he thought would be the perfect scenario to turn me into his personal killing machine. Why do you think Ashley was instructed to lure her father to the Tilt-A-Whirl Saturday morning? Because the chief knew we would be in The Pancake Palace at precisely 0730. That, being a creature of habit, I would be sitting up front … in the window seat. They staged the whole scene to draw me in.”

  I hear the chief's chair squeak. He's leaning back.

  “You get any sleep the last couple days, Ceepak? I gotta tell you—you're sounding kind of goofy. Squeegee lend you some of his wacky tobacky?”

  “You had a good plan, chief. Thought of every angle. Hart was killed when you knew Dr. McDaniels would be out of town and Slominsky would catch the call.”

  “How much you been drinking? I heard you were down at The Frosty Mug the other night bending your elbow. Some buddies of mine said you were soused, all tears-in-your-beers about Iraq. Hell, maybe you can't hold it … maybe being a lousy drunk runs in your family….”

  “Remember those evidence gloves I brought in?”

  “How could anybody forget? We all laughed about them for weeks.”

  “The box is empty. You took them all.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, sir. I have a witness who saw Miss Bell wearing a pair. Oh, she had Gus's gun, too.”

  “Who told you this crap? That junkie?”

  “Yes, sir. Did you know Mr. Shapiro is a former member of Mensa? He has something of a photographic memory….”

  “No one would believe him. His word against Betty's? Besides— Betty was at the bank when Hart was murdered, so you have diddly.”

  “Don't do it, sir.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me shoot you. You know I will. I'm a lean, mean killing machine. Remember?”

  Ceepak suddenly has his pistol pointed at the chief's forehead.

  “Kindly place your hands on top of your desk.”

  I move a half step to my left.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I see what Ceepak must've heard. The chief's hand is on the handle of his top desk drawer. He's slid it an inch open.

  Must be where he keeps one of his other guns.

  “Get out. We're done here. You're fired. Santucci?”

  He yells at the door.

  “Santucci? Malloy? Get your asses in here! Now!”

  The door opens.

  It's not Santucci or Malloy. It's Christopher Morgan from the FBI. He's wearing evidence gloves and carrying a pair of Timberland boots.

  “They were in your Expedition, chief,” he says. He reaches into his suitcoat and pulls out a document. “Oh, by the way—here's the search warrant.”

  “You sons of bitches….”

  The chief must be sending some blue blood up to his red face because it's turning purple.

  “Oh,” Morgan says, “almost forgot. Ran that cell phone number by Verizon.” He pulls another sheaf of papers out of his pocket.

  “Find anything interesting?”

  Ceepak and Morgan are acting like the chief isn't even in the room—except, of course, for Ceepak aiming his gun at the chief's head. That's still going on.

  “After she was kidnapped? Ashley called her mom.”

  “That was thoughtful,” Ceepak says.

  “Oh, yeah,” Morgan cracks. “Very considerate. Then, this one.” He sort of shoves the paper in the chief's face. “That's your number, right? That incoming call there? Sunday night? Guess you had to let Ashley know Ceepak was on his way. Give her time to handcuff her ankles and slip the rope back over her wrists.”

  “Danny and I almost interrupted your conversation,” Ceepak says. “I had to wait for her to hide her phone.”

  “Which,” Morgan says, “we found underneath the floorboards, just like you said.”

  “You guys think you're so fucking clever,” the chief manages to snarl. “You don't know jack shit.”

  Ceepak lowers his weapon and strolls to the door.

  “Gus? Can you join us in here?”

  “Now what?” the chief is shaking his head in disbelief. I'm keeping my eyes on that top desk drawer and his hands. So is Morgan, thank God, because I still don't have a gun. Everybody else seems to have at least two.

  “What's Gus got to do with any of this?” The chief clasps his meaty paws behind his head.

  Gus toddles into the room.

  “Yes, sir?” he says it to the chief.

  “Gus?”

  “Oh, hey, Ceepak. Heard all about … you know. Sorry it went down that way, but I'm glad you did what needed to be done, you know what I'm saying?”

  “Gus, please escort the chief to a holding cell.”

  “What?”

  “Arrest him.”

  “You can't arrest me!”

  Morgan pulls out another sheet of paper. The guy must have pockets in that suit coat like Ceepak has pockets in his pants.

  “I, however, can,” he says. “Federal bench warrant. For the kidnapping of Harriet Ashley Hart. Which, as you know, is a federal offense—”

  “Bullshit!”

  “He
kidnapped the little girl?”

  “He also stole your gun,” Ceepak says.

  “He did what?” Gus starts to steam pink like boiled shrimp.

  “That day in March when you said you lost it? The chief took it. He saw you were without a weapon when he first bumped into you at the Surf City Shopping Center, but he didn't mention it,” Ceepak explains. “Instead, he told you to go get your muddy car washed, to make it plausible that Squeegee stole your weapon. You then ran into the chief a second time … outside the florist shop….”

  “Yeah.”

  “That's when he boosted your gun. While you were inside buying flowers. He'd been tailing you all day.”

  “Bullshit!” the chief says. “Ceepak's a liar.”

  Gus looks at Ceepak. Looks at the chief.

  “No, chief. Ceepak never lies. He's a freaking Boy Scout, remember?”

  The chief rolls his eyes.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Gus says.

  “Ceepak, you don't know shit!”

  “Shut up!” Gus yells. “Remain freaking silent and give me your goddamn gun.”

  I can see the folks in the hall staring. Gus neglected to close the door when he came in.

  “You just wait, Ceepak. You ever find out the real truth? You'll do like your faggot brother. You'll blow your fucking brains out.”

  Morgan's cell phone rings.

  “Morgan.” He covers the mouthpiece. “It's McDaniels.”

  The call Ceepak's been waiting for.

  “What you got? Excellent. I'll tell Ceepak. She's tightened up the time of death.”

  We wait some more, but not long.

  “Yeah. She says death took place sometime between 6:57 A.M. and 7:02.”

  “Not 7:20? 7:25?”

  “No.”

  “She's certain?”

  “As certain as she can be.”

  “See?” the chief gloats. “You boys don't know shit.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Gus locks the chief in one of the two windowless holding pens we have in the house.

  Mendez is in the other one.

  “Yo!” he yells at Ceepak. “You burn down my condo complex? I thought you wanted a time-share….”

  “I didn't burn it down,” Ceepak says. “I just couldn't reach the alarm clock you rigged for the trigger.”

  The chief interrupts.

  “I want to call a lawyer! Now! Move! Get me a phone!”

  “Maybe later, chief.” Ceepak says. “After we visit your girlfriend.”

  “Trust me, Ceepak—you don't want to do that.”

  I don't think Ceepak's trusted the chief ever since he “lied a little” to nail Mendez. He motions for me to follow him out of the cellblock.

  “The truth can really ruin your fucking day, Ceepak. You'll see! You fucking Mary Poppins!”

  Ceepak doesn't stop to listen, so neither do I.

  We walk out the door.

  Like Springsteen says:

  I'll walk like a man

  And I'll keep on walkin’.

  Ceepak is stalling on letting the chief make his one phone call because he knows Cosgrove wouldn't call his lawyer.

  He'd call his girlfriend.

  So we need to drive up to the city before she figures out we're coming.

  We climb into the Explorer.

  “The FBI has her apartment under surveillance,” Ceepak says, handing me a map of the city with the block circled with wax pencil. “You know the way?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  We pull out of the parking lot and the radio starts squawking.

  “All units, 10-34, Playland Arcade. Repeat. 10-34. Playland Video Arcade. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous….”

  Ceepak snatches the radio mike.

  “This is Ceepak. We're on it. Roll, Danny. Playland.”

  “Sirens?”

  “And lights. Come on. Roll!”

  I flip the switches. The light bar spins, the siren wails. We squeal tires.

  “You know what a 10-34 is, Danny?”

  Great. A drive-by pop quiz.

  Fortunately, while I race through a red light and cut the tires hard to the left, Ceepak answers his own question.

  “It's a 10-24 still in progress. An assault with a deadly weapon.”

  Got it.

  There's a guy with a deadly weapon inside the Arcade at Playland and the assault is still going on.

  I step on the gas, push the pedal all the way to the floor and make my engine roar.

  Springsteen would be proud.

  * * *

  We're the first unit on the scene.

  Poor Playland. They were closed all weekend on account of the Tilt-A-Whirl murder. Now they've got somebody with a weapon terrorizing people who'd rather be dropping quarters into coin slots. If this kind of action keeps up, the Family Fun Park may have to change its name to Slayland.

  The video arcade building is a vast, open space—like a giant warehouse with Astro-turf green carpet and enough evenly spaced red poles to hold up the roof. Usually, there are all sorts of bells and whistles and ray guns going off the second you step inside the front doors. Today, all I hear is about a hundred kids screaming.

  “What's the situation?” Ceepak asks a guy in a red tunic with huge pockets up front sagging with quarters.

  He points to the far side of the arcade.

  “Some guy's got a pistol!”

  “Where?” Ceepak asks, his eyes surveying the situation.

  “Dodge City!”

  “Where?”

  He is obviously a first-time visitor to The Playland Arcade. I, however, know where everything is because this is where much of my youth was misspent. Most of my quarters, too.

  “This way,” I say.

  Dodge City is this corny shooting gallery that's been in the far corner of the building ever since sometime in 1962. It's this life-size barroom where you shoot a six-gun at a piano player, Black Bart and his gang at the poker table, whiskey bottles—that sort of stuff. When you hit the targets, the mannequins move and say stuff like, “Dang! You shot me, sheriff.” You ring enough bells, shoot enough bad guys, you win a tin star you can pin on your girlfriend's chest.

  I wish it were still that easy.

  People are panicking, hiding under pool tables, clustered behind Skee Ball targets.

  Once again, Ceepak shows no fear.

  His gun is out in front, sweeping left, searching right.

  “Over there!” a girl screeches from beneath the Alpine Racer. “It's Ben!”

  Guess she knows the guy with the gun.

  “Follow me.” Ceepak uses pinball machines and giant gumball dispensers for cover. When we get to the Crab Claw, this crane you move around to snag stuffed animals, we see the kid with the gun.

  He looks like he's drunk.

  “She's a hoochie-mama!”

  Sounds like he's drunk too—not making much sense, jabbering gobbledegook.

  “Chicken head, hoochie-mama!”

  Guess he and his girlfriend had a spat this morning. Or, he caught her cheating and has decided to take it out on the world, including me. He points his gun in my general direction and I hit the deck, crawling to safety under a fake Formula One Racecar.

  The kid looks to be sixteen or seventeen. Preppy clothes with brown, blotchy stains down the front of his shirt. Preppy puke. Something about him looks familiar, like I should know who he is, like he's one of my buds’ kid brothers or something. He twirls, almost topples, then spins around to point his pistol at Ceepak who is standing right in front of him, holstering his own gun.

  The spinning makes the kid even dizzier. He waves his pistol in circles over his head like he wants to be a Dallas Cowgirl cheerleader when he grows up.

  “Put that down, son,” Ceepak says.

  The kid tries to stand still.

  “Snap. You smell bacon? Here come 5.0.”

  He is what we call a wigga: a rich white boy who wants you to think he's ghetto. H
e must've bought a Gangsta Slangsta dictionary last time he was at the mall. Bacon and 5.0? They both mean the same thing: cops.

  “Wassup, braw?”

  Ceepak doesn't understand a word.

  “Hand me your weapon, son.”

  “Ease up, braw!”

  “Put it down. On the floor. Now.”

  The gun hand rushes up to cover his mouth. Up chucks some more puke. Beer and whisky? Mighty risky.

  “Son?” Ceepak towers over the boy who's looking down and wiping vomit all over his shirt. The kid is also what we call a sloppy drunk. Maybe he should stick to doing Jell-O shots.

  That's why I recognize him.

  Saturday night. The Sand Bar. He's the underage asshole I wanted to bust.

  “Mr. Sinclair?” Ceepak knows the kid, too. “We met Saturday night, remember?”

  “Wassup, braw?”

  The kid's eyeballs swim around, trying to find something in the room that isn't gyrating.

  “I'm Officer John Ceepak. We talked when your girlfriend Ashley was kidnapped?”

  “Hoochie-mama!”

  “Hand me the pistol, Ben.”

  Ben waves the pistol like a wet flag.

  “Man, if you don't stop buggin’, I'm going to open a can on you!”

  “Which machine did you tear it off?”

  “I'll pop a cap, braw …”

  “Not with that gun. It's plastic. A toy.”

  The kid looks down at his weapon. People peek out. Some laugh—the ones close enough to see Ceepak is right: The kid's deadly weapon was ripped off a video game. I see a cable curling out of the pistol grip.

  “You'll find that most lethal weapons are made of metal,” Ceepak says. “Plastic has a tendency to melt in high temperature situations such as that created when bullets exit a gun barrel. Friction.”

  The kid looks dumbfounded. Or maybe just dumb.

  “Oh. Yeah,” he says, flashing back to his prep school physics class. “Friction.”

  He drops his gun on the floor and, now that I hear it clatter, I know for certain it's a toy.

  Ceepak figured it out earlier.

  Back when it was dangerous to be wrong.

  Ben Sinclair is our honorable mayor's son. This makes the Playland manager nervous. Not Ceepak.

  Thirty minutes later, we're in the Arcade office with the six other cops who responded to the 10-34.

  “We see no need to press charges,” the manager says. He's about thirty years old and wears a tie tucked under the floppy collar of a short-sleeve polo shirt, which, if you ask me, never really looks all that classy. A metal change dispenser is clipped to the front of his belt.