“No,” Ceepak says. “My fault. I forgot to turn mine off.”
I see a red light glowing on the walkie-talkie clipped to the back of Ceepak's belt.
So does Betty.
She understands now that Morgan and the FBI have heard everything.
“You son of a bitch. I'm going to call Cosgrove—”
“Chief Cosgrove can't help you any more,” says Ceepak. “He's in jail.”
“You goddamn son of a bitch!”
Ceepak ignores Betty. “Ashley, remember when I gave you my word? Said I would protect you?”
“Yes.”
“I meant that. I'm going to take you away from your mother now—”
“No!”
“We'll take you someplace safe, okay, sweetie?”
“Get away!”
“Jane?” Ceepak says calmly. “Please take Ashley out of here.”
Betty stretches her arms to her daughter, but Ceepak restrains her.
“Come on, honey,” Jane encourages.
“No! I need to stay with Mommy. Stop!” Ashley kicks at Ceepak.
“Leave her alone!”
Jane reaches for Ashley.
“Come on, honey!” she repeats.
“No!” Ashley screams like I hope I never hear anybody ever scream again. “No! I want my mommy! I want her now!” Ashley is kicking and blubbering, her whole body shaking.
Ceepak loosens his grip. Betty loses her balance and falls to the bed. Ashley immediately curls up against her, her thumb in her mouth.
Betty is wailing into the bedspread.
Ashley twists her head back to face us, just as Morgan and his men enter from the hallway.
“Leave my mother alone,” she hisses at Ceepak, “or I'll kill you, you son of a bitch! I'll kill you!”
He steps back.
Ashley grabs a stuffed animal. A pink lamb. She squeezes her hand tight around its neck and glares at Ceepak, then Jane, then Morgan, then me.
“I'll kill you all, you goddamn bastards!”
I think we just lost another child.
EPILOGUE
I'm not a lawyer, but I hope Ashley gets a good one. She needs to be locked up in a loony bin, not a juvenile detention center or whatever. But like I said, I'm not a lawyer.
The chief and Miss Betty Bell?
They're in custody and need very good lawyers.
Me? I'm thinking about becoming a cop full-time. Not that I'll ever be as good as Ceepak, but I think the world could use a few more guys trying to be half that decent.
Ceepak?
They rocked his world. Rocked it hard.
Defend the defenseless, do your sworn duty, look for the good in everything, and then boom—he turns over this rock and sees nothing underneath but worms.
But he's still on the job.
At least today.
We meet at The Pancake Palace at 8 A.M. Tuesday. Ceepak decided we've both earned an extra half hour of sleep.
Everybody in the place is pretty glum, barely pushing their pancakes around their plates, glued to their newspapers, reading how a little girl and her mother and the Sea Haven chief of police tried to dupe us all. Sent us for a ride on our own little Tilt-A-Whirl. You can hear a lot of stainless steel scraping against plates this morning. Not much else.
Ceepak's back to fruit and cereal.
I order the same thing. Figure I should at least try it. At least this once.
We eat in silence.
Every now and then, the waitress comes over to pour us more coffee and that sloshing is the loudest sound in the dining room.
Maybe tomorrow will be better.
Maybe Springsteen is right.
Maybe faith will be rewarded.
Maybe tomorrow.
“You ready to roll?” Ceepak says when half his cereal is gone. Guess he's not so hungry this morning. Me neither.
“Yeah. Where to?”
“Wherever.”
He's right. We are currently without a boss, since there's no chief of police on the job in Sea Haven. We can make up our own duty roster.
“How about we cruise up Beach Lane? It's busy this time of day….”
“That'll work.”
We pay and head to the parking lot.
I wonder if Ceepak will stay in Sea Haven.
After all, he was sort of lured down here under false pretenses. It's not like he grew up here or has family here. His one friend? His old Army buddy? You know what they say about friends like that— they're total assholes.
We cruise up the road fronting the beach. I see people lugging all sorts of gear across the street and down to the sand.
“Pull ‘em over.”
I don't know who Ceepak is talking about.
“Pull ‘em over.”
He points to these two kids riding bicycles behind their father in the bike lane with the other bikers and joggers and early morning fast-walkers. The kids don't appear to be doing anything terribly illegal.
But I do as I'm told.
I whoop the siren once and give the lights up top a twirl.
The father looks over his shoulder and motions to his kids to stop.
I pull the Ford over to the curb.
The family straddles their bikes. Other people stop what they're doing to rubberneck. Ceepak and I climb out of the Explorer.
“Good morning,” Ceepak says.
“Morning,” the father says. “Is there some problem?”
“No, sir. It's all good.”
He bends down to talk to a boy on a blue bike.
“What's your name?”
“Sam. Sam Morkal-Williams.”
“And who are you, young lady?”
“Meghan Morkal-Williams.”
“Do you like riding your bikes?”
“Yes …” the boy says, kind of quietly.
“How about you Meghan?”
“I love it!” She sort of shouts.
“Good,” says Ceepak. “That's awesome. I see you're both wearing your helmets.”
“Yes, sir,” the boy says.
“We always wear them when we ride our bikes,” the girl adds.
The father just sort of smiles, leans back on his bike seat, and raises up both hands as if to say, “Hey, they're my kids, of course they're perfect.” He has on his helmet, too.
“Does your daddy wear his helmet all the time?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Awesome. Well, then. Here you go.”
Ceepak reaches into one of his many pockets and pulls out two slips of paper.
“These are for free ice cream cones. Because you know the law and you chose to obey it and that makes my job a whole lot easier. So this morning? I just wanted to say ‘Thank you.’”
He hands them the ice-cream coupons. I wonder when he had time to buy them.
“Mister?”
“Yes, Sam?”
“Does dad get one? He‘s wearing his helmet, too.”
“You're absolutely right. Fair's fair. Here you go, sir.”
“That's okay,” the father says.
“Sir, it is my pleasure.”
The dad smiles and takes the ice-cream coupon. The people watching? They applaud.
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir.”
We head back to the car.
“Know any good sandwich shops?” Ceepak asks when we open our doors.
“We just ate breakfast.”
“Roger that. But I promised Mr. Jerry Shapiro I would bring him and Gladys a tomato, mozzarella, and basil on a baguette. One for each of them. And chips. He requested taro chips. Know any good vegetarian establishments?”
“There's The Good Earth, this veggie place on Ocean Avenue.”
“Sounds like it'll work.” He checks his watch. “Let's roll. I gave him my word.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“If you don't mind—let's switch sides. I feel like driving today.”
“Roger
that.”
We do a quick Chinese Fire Drill routine around the Ford and change seats.
Ceepak drives okay. A little slow, but okay.
Watching him behind the wheel, I'm reminded of that song Springsteen wrote for the New York City Fire Fighters after 9/11, the guys who went “Into the Fire” because they knew it was the right thing to do.
May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love
Like I said, some guys have a code they live by, some guys don't.
John Ceepak? He has a code.
Me?
I'm working on it.
* * *
BONUS CHAPTER
Don't miss Mad Mouse, the second book in the John Ceepak series.
* * *
CHAPTER ONE
August 30th is National Toasted Marshmallow Day, so, naturally, we're celebrating.
Sure there's some debate: Is National Toasted Marsh-mallow Day August 14th or August 30th? We go with the 30th because it's closer to Labor Day. Besides, if you dig a little deeper, you'll discover that August 14th is also National Creamsicle Day, and we firmly believe Creamsicles deserve their own separate day of national recognition.
Five of my longtime buds and I are driving out to Tangerine Beach. Here in Sea Haven, New Jersey, the beaches get named after the streets they're closest to. On the way, we pass Buccaneer Bob's Bagels, Sea Shanty Shoes, and Moby Moo's Ice Cream Cove. In case you can't tell by the waterlogged names, this is your basic down-the-shore resort town: We live for July and August because our visitors go home in September and take their wallets with them.
I'm a part-time summer cop with the Sea Haven Police. That means I wear a navy blue cop cap and help elderly pedestrians navigate the crosswalks. This year I might go full time when summer's over, which is, basically, next week. They usually offer one part-timer a job at the end of the season. The chief gets to pick. We have a new one. We'll see. Anyhow, I put in my application.
Riding up front with me, twiddling her sparkly toes on the dashboard, is Katie Landry. She's a friend who I hope will soon become a “friend.” Like the Molson billboard says: “Friends come over for dinner. Friends stay for breakfast.” So far, Katie and me? We're just doing takeout. Mostly Burger King or Quiznos.
In the second row are Jess Garrett and Olivia Chibbs—a sleepy-eyed surfer dude and an African-American beauty queen slash brainiac. Jess and Olivia are already buttering toast and squeezing orange juice together. She comes home from college every summer to make money to cover the stuff her med school scholarships don't. Jess lives here full time. He paints houses when he's not busy goofing off.
Then there's Becca Adkinson and Harley Mook. Becca's folks run the Mussel Beach Motel, she helps. Mook (we all call him Mook) is short and tubby and loud. He's in the wayback, popping open a bag of Cheetos like it's a balloon. He's just in town for a week or two, which is fine. You can only take so much Mook. He's in grad school, working on his MBA.
According to Jess, that means “Me Big Asshole.”
“Hey, Danny …” Mook hollers. “What's the biggest crime down here these days? Taffy snatching? Overinflated volleyballs?”
Mook's not funny but he's right: People typically come to our eighteen-mile strip of sand for old-fashioned fun in the sun. It's not the South Bronx. It's not even Newark. But Sea Haven is where I saw my first bullet-riddled body sprawled out on a Tilt-A-Whirl over at Sunnyside Playland. I remember that morning. It wasn't much fun.
“Traffic!” Becca says. “That's the worst!”
I'm driving because my current vehicle is a minivan with plenty of room for beer and gear. I bought the van “preowned,” my mother being the previous owner. She sold it to me when she and my dad moved out to Arizona. It's a dry heat.
I'd say half the vehicles in front of me are also minivans, all loaded down with beach stuff. Bike racks off the backs, cargo carriers up top. You can't see inside anybody's rear windows because the folding chairs and inflatable hippopotami are stacked too high. I have plenty of time to make these observations because our main drag, Ocean Avenue, is currently a four-lane parking lot.
“Take Kipper!” This from Mook. Now he's chugging out of a two-liter bottle of grape soda.
“Hello? He can't,” says Becca. She points to the big No Left Turn sign.
“Chill, okay?” Katie teaches kindergarten so she knows how to talk to guys like Mook.
“For the love of God, man, take Kipper!” Now Mook's kneeling on the floor, begging me to hang a Louie. For the first time all day, he's actually kind of funny, so I go ahead and make the illegal left.
Oh—the streets in this part of town? They're named after fish. In alphabetical order. Only they couldn't find a fish that starts with a Q so Red Snapper comes right after Prawn.
As soon as I make the turn, a cop steps into the street and raises his palm.
And, of course, it's my partner. John Ceepak. He signals for me to pull over.
There's another cop with him. Buzz Baines. Our brand-new chief of police. Some people thought Ceepak should've taken the top job after what happened here in July. Ceepak wasn't one of them.
I'm not sure if Buzz is Baines's real name or if it's just what everybody calls him because he's really an Arnold or a Clarence or something. Anyhow, Buzz is the guy I hope will give me a full-time job next Tuesday. Today he's going to give me a ticket.
“Danny?” Ceepak is startled to see me behaving in such a criminal fashion.
“Hey.”
Ceepak is a cop 24/7. He's 6'2” and a former MP. He still does jumping jacks and pushups—what he calls PT—every morning, like he's still in the army. He also has this code he lives by: “I will not lie, cheat or steal nor tolerate those who do.” An illegal left turn? That's cheating. No question, I'm busted.
“Hey, Ceepak!” Becca sticks her head over my shoulder. She loves his muscles. Maybe this is why Becca and I don't date anymore: Where Ceepak's beefcake, I'm kind of angel food.
“Who we got here, John?” Baines hasn't recognized me yet.
“Auxiliary Officer Boyle.”
I hear Becca sigh. Ceepak? He's handsome. Buzz Baines? He's handsomer, if that's a word. Sort of like a TV anchorman. You know what I mean, chiseled features with a lantern jaw and this little mustache over a toothpaste-commercial smile.
“Of course. Boyle. You and John cracked the Tilt-A-Whirl case.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “Officer Boyle played a vital role in that investigation.”
“Keep up the good work.” Chief Baines winks at me. “And don't break any more laws.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Call me Buzz.”
“Yes, sir. Buzz.”
I hear Ceepak rip a citation sheet off his pad. It's all filled in.
“You're writing him up?” Baines asks.
“Yes, sir. The law is the law. It should be applied fairly, without fear or favoritism.”
Baines nods.
“John, when you're right, you're right. Sorry, Danny. If you need help with the fifty bucks, come see me. We'll work out a payment schedule.”
“Drive safely,” says Ceepak.
“Right. See you tomorrow.”
“No. Thursday's my day off.”
“Oh, yeah. Mine, too.”
Ceepak eyes our beer coolers. Marshmallows aren't the only things that get toasted at our annual beach party.
“Then have a cold one for me, partner.”
“Roger that.”
“But pace yourself. It takes a full hour for the effect of each beer to dissipate.”
“Right. See you Friday.”
“That'll work.” Ceepak smiles. No hard feelings. He even snaps me a crisp “catch you later” salute.
I pull away from the curb, real, real slow. I can't see any signs but I assume 10 m.p.h. is below the posted speed limit.
I can't afford two fifty-dollar
tickets in one day.
The late-night guy on the radio is saluting “The Summer of ‘96,” reminding us what idiots we were back then.
“Tickle Me Elmo was under every Christmas tree and Boyz II Men were climbing the charts with Mariah Carey…”
Great.
He's going to make us listen to her warble like a bird that just sucked helium.
It's almost midnight. We're the only ones on the beach. Most of the houses beyond the dunes are dark because they're rented to families with kids who wake up at six A.M., watch a couple of cartoons, and are ready for their water wings and boogie boards around six fifteen. The parents need to go to bed early. They probably also need vodka.
I like the beach at night. The black sky blends in with the black ocean and the only way to tell the two apart is to remember that the one on top has the stars and the one below has the white lines of foam that look like soap suds leaking out from underneath a laundry room door.
Katie's sitting with the other girls around our tiny campfire, smooshing marshmallows and gooey Hershey bars between graham crackers. I bet she's the kind of kindergarten teacher who'd let you have s'mores in class on your birthday. She's that sweet, even though she grew up faster than any of us. Her parents died eight or nine years ago. Car wreck.
I need another beer.
I slog up the sand to the cooler. Mook and Jess are hanging there, probably talking baseball, about the only thing they still have in common. Mook wears this floppy old-man bucket hat he thinks makes him look cool. He has one hand jammed in the pocket of his shorts, the other wrapped around a long-neck bottle of Bud, his thumb acting like a bottle cap. The world is his frat house.
“Hey, Danny …” Mook shakes the Bud bottle. “Think fast.”
He lifts his thumb and sprays me with beer. Now it looks like I just pissed my pants.
Mook's belly jiggles like a Jell-O shot, he's laughing so hard.
“Jesus, Mook.” Jess says it for me.
I forgot about Mook's classic spray-you-in-the-crotch gag. One of his favorites. He also used to buy plastic dog poop at the Joke Joint on the boardwalk and stuff it in your hamburger bun when you weren't looking.
“Very mature, Mook.” I wipe off my shorts.