Tilt-a-Whirl jc-1, Page 4

  “What the fuck are you guys doing? Single file, Indian-style? Jesus, we'll be here all fucking day. Spread out. Get to work. I told Fox I'd have something for them by noon.”

  Great. Slominsky alerted the media. The circus is coming to town.

  Ceepak pulls on a fresh pair of gloves.

  “If you don't mind, Lieutenant, I'd like to examine a few more-”

  “Buzz off, Boy Scout. This is the State's crime scene now.”

  “I understand, but-”

  “You were in the Army, right?”

  “Right.”

  “You know about obeying orders? Chain of command? Shit like that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Return to fucking base, soldier.”

  Slominsky wipes the last bit of egg off his chin with his sleeve. He sees the wallet lying open on the platform and bends over to pick it up.

  “Somebody drop this?”

  His greasy paw prints smear all over the leather, covering up any fingerprints that might be on the dead man's wallet-like, oh, I don't know, the shooter's?

  Ceepak looks like somebody just kneed him in the nuts.

  “You might want to put that down, sir,” says one of the CSI guys from behind his white mask. “Could be evidence.”

  “Jesus, fellas-relax. We've got an eyewitness! The little girl saw everything. All we need to crack this case is a halfway decent sketch artist.”

  “Shelly's with the girl now,” says another techie, a guy on his hands and knees studying the same boot prints Ceepak studied earlier.

  “See?” Slominsky smiles at Ceepak and me. “The big boys are in town. This case is almost closed. We'll flash the sketch all over TV and have this thing wrapped up before lunch. Hey, goody-two-shoes?”

  I think he's talking to Ceepak.

  “Is there any decent clam chowder down here? I like the Manhattan stuff better than the white stuff….”

  “Yes,” Ceepak says calmly. I can see he's mastering his emotions like he's taught himself to do instead of telling the blowhard to go fuck himself, which is, basically, what I've taught myself to do. “I am given to understand there are numerous chowder options available on the island.”

  “Good. Because two fucking Croissan'wiches won't hold me for long.”

  Slominsky struts over to the dead body.

  “So this is Reginald Hart, hunh? Stayed at one of his casinos down in Ocean Town once. The Fantasia? Place had class. Real class. Marble tile in the toilets. Shit like that.”

  Slominsky raises Hart's left arm, and lets it drop.

  “Yep,” he says, “I'd say this guy is officially, one-hundred-percent dead. Where's the goddamn Medical Examiner?”

  “On his way,” somebody says.

  “Guess we better figure out a time of death. I'd say it was sometime this morning. How about you guys?”

  None of the CSI team says anything. They're busy, trying to do their jobs fast-before Slominsky screws things up even worse.

  “Okay. Good. This morning. That's what I'll say until we come up with something better.”

  He sees Ceepak staring at him.

  “You still here? Jesus-go home. You did your good deed for the day. You told me about the chowder.”

  Ceepak is quiet for a second. Then he starts unsnapping his cargo-pants pockets.

  “We found some items earlier,” he says, handing his paper evidence envelopes over to one of the white suits. “Wind started blowing….”

  “Recalibrating the crime scene,” the CSI guy says, letting Ceepak know he did the right thing.

  “You picked shit up?” Slominsky yells. “Jesus H. Christ! Fucking local yokels….”

  “We recorded original conditions and positions,” Ceepak says. He slips the data card out of our digital camera and hands that over, too.

  “You might want to check back there,” Ceepak points to the big Sunnyside Clyde sign. “Danny?”

  He snaps his head to the side to let me know it's time to go. We walk out, watching where we step, as if it still matters.

  Like I said, John Ceepak plays by the rules.

  Even when the rules suck.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I finally get to hit the head when we hike back to The Pancake Palace to pick up the Ford Explorer.

  This is a family place, but the bathroom? Whoo. It's all kinds of stinky. Not dirty, just kind of grungy, like it's uncleanable and always damp on account of all the humidity. There's these metal half-walls between urinals (so guys won't look at each other's willies, I guess) and they're splashed with rust.

  “Gross,” I say to myself, imagining the worst possible rust-creation scenario. I shudder because I realize: I'm starting to see the world like Ceepak sees it, analyzing splatter patterns while I pee.

  Ceepak is in the restaurant, settling up with the cashier.

  “Sorry we had to run out like that,” he says as he pays six bucks for the breakfast we skipped out on so we could rescue the bloody kid out in the street.

  Next, Ceepak flags down the waitress who brought him his cereal and me my coffee. He hands her a three-buck tip on our six-buck tab. And he apologizes for “any inconvenience we caused by making her wait.”

  I'm sure this is all part of The Code.

  “We're good to go,” he says when he's paid off all his debts. “Let's roll.”

  We head out into the parking lot. It's still only 9 A.M. but the sun's already starting to steam things up. Ceepak is lugging his aluminum crime-scene attaché case. I've got the camera and what's left of the “Police” tape rolls. We head to the rear of the Explorer to pop open the cargo door.

  All of a sudden, there's this loud “ka-boom!”

  “Get down!”

  Ceepak shoves me to the ground.

  “Grenade!” he yells. “Down!”

  I'm covering my head and thinking: No way! Maybe an M-80 left over from the Fourth of July….

  “Stay down!” Ceepak screams.

  I look up and Ceepak's running, crouched low, using parked cars for cover like he's expecting incoming rounds from a rocket-propelled grenade launcher. There's this stockade fence behind the restaurant's kitchen and I can see a puff of smoke come out from behind it.

  The dumpster.

  I see three boys, about ten years old. They look scared shitless and start high-tailing it out of the parking lot, into the trees. They'll probably run all the way across the bay to the mainland.

  I was right. Leftover firecrackers. An M-80, which is basically a quarter stick of dynamite, tossed by some kids into an open dumpster. Ka-boom. Ka-bang. Happy 10th of July!

  Ceepak stands, watching the boys flee.

  All I can see is his back. But I have a funny feeling he might have been momentarily blown back to Bagh-nasty-dad, where his buddies probably got blown up more times than he'd care to remember.

  I grab hold of the rear bumper on the Ford and haul my ass off the asphalt, brushing stones and pebbles out of my naked knees. Maybe tomorrow I'll go with the cargo pants instead of the shorts. I see Ceepak's shoulders heave up and down like he's taking in a long, deep breath.

  He turns to face me, smiling.

  “Kids.”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Fourth of July fireworks.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Let's hit the house.”

  “Right.”

  The house, the Sea Haven Police Station, is only five blocks up Ocean Avenue, but traffic is all kinds of backed up. We may never make it.

  “From the roadblock,” I guess.

  “Yeah,” Ceepak says. He's looking out his window like he's still thinking about grenades, still seeing stuff in the rearview mirror of his mind, so to speak. I have a feeling those objects might appear closer than they actually are.

  I see a TV satellite truck rumbling down the avenue, heading back to where we came from. Word spreads fast.

  We're still not moving. In fact, we're stuck behind an ice-cream truck. Not the cute, ringy-dingy kind that
cruises up and down the side streets selling Good Humor bars. This is a Ben and Jerry's delivery truck with black cows painted on the back panel and it's crawling its way up to the supermarket, hoping to get there before all the Chubby Hubby and Cherry Garcia melts. I can't see what's in front of it. Probably a beer truck. Or a Frito-Lay step van. Ice cream, beer, and potato chips. Come summer, these are the three basic food groups in my hometown.

  In the lane to the right of us is a convertible with the top down. They want to turn left, crawl in front of me and the trucks, hit the causeway, and leave the island behind. Their vacation is obviously over.

  Mom and Pops are up front, fuming, craning their necks, trying to see what the heck the holdup is, looking like their whole week of rest and relaxation evaporated the second they hit this gridlock. Two boys, about six and seven, are sitting in the back seat, all buckled in. They're bored stiff and start waving at us like kids will do when they see cops. One's wearing a diving mask. The other has on some kind of pirate hat. I'm not driving anywhere any time soon, so, when the kids catch my eye, I wave back. The scuba-faced boy gives me a big military salute and I salute back.

  Ceepak is still staring out his window. He sees the convertible, too.

  “Danny?” he says. “We need to expedite our exit.”

  “10-4.”

  I hit the lights and siren, pull around the ice-cream truck, and scream up the avenue in the wrong lane.

  “That'll work,” Ceepak mumbles.

  He never did salute the cute kids.

  Guess he's done playing Army for today.

  Police headquarters kind of looks like a house. We've got a nice wraparound porch, a white picket fence, and a tidy little lawn. This being the beach, our lawn is made out of marble chips and red pea-pebbles instead of grass, but we keep it raked and weeded.

  We're on Cherry Lane, a street that cuts across Ocean Avenue, and heads from the bay on one side of the island to the beach on the other. In this part of town, the east-west streets are named after trees and are arranged in alphabetical order, north to south. Beech Street is north of us. Dogwood is south.

  Ocean Avenue is to the west of us, Shore drive to the east. One block past Shore is Beach Lane, not to be confused with Beech Street, but, as you might guess, it often is, especially by out-of-towners looking for the beach, which is on Beach. Not Beech.

  State police cars and vans are parked in our lot and up and down the street out front. Two hours after it went down, the Hart homicide is already big. By noon, it'll be huge.

  “Let's see where the CO needs us,” Ceepak says, climbing out of the car. He's talking military talk again, saying “CO” for Commanding Officer, sounding more like the old Ceepak.

  We move inside and feel the 68-degree AC smack us in the face. It feels good.

  “What a freaking day, hunh?”

  It's Gus Davis, the desk sergeant. He's about sixty years old and completely out of shape. His regulation police pants don't fit any more and sort of droop off his bony hips. Gus is about two months away from retirement and has been a Sea Haven cop for close to thirty years. He used to ride up and down Ocean Avenue in a pink-and-turquoise cruiser, but now he works behind the front desk answering phones, taking messages, dealing with walk-in civilians.

  I think Ceepak took Gus's street job, but Gus isn't bitter. Not about that, anyway-just everything else. Life in general.

  “This freaking day!”

  “What's up?” Ceepak asks. He and Gus get along. Maybe because Gus did time in the Army, too. Korea. Vietnam. One of those. “Switchboard busy?”

  “Busy? It's a freaking funhouse in here. First, we get a call at 6:28.”

  “The tricycle?”

  “You heard?”

  “I was up anyhow….”

  “Normally, I'd blow the caller off. You know, tell her to come in at a decent hour and file a report. I mean, come on-it's a freaking tricycle! Who spends three hundred and fifty bucks on a tricycle? But guess who the caller is?”

  “Who?”

  “The mayor's sister. You ever meet her?”

  “No. Not that I'm aware of.”

  “Consider yourself lucky.” Gus shivers to help paint the picture. “She's like a piranha that's had plastic surgery. A real man-eater.”

  “Check.”

  “So I radio Kiger. Pull him off beach sweep, send him over to write up the missing bike.”

  “Who's Kiger?”

  “Adam Kiger. Young kid. Works the graveyard shift. Rides his scooter up and down the beach, looking for riff-raff.”

  “Scooter?”

  “ATV,” I say. “All Terrain Vehicle? Good on the beach….”

  “It's a freaking scooter! He looks like a mailman!”

  I can tell Ceepak's gonna want to talk to Kiger. Find out what kind of riff-raff's been spotted near the Tilt-A-Whirl playing with hypodermic needles.

  “Then you two …” Gus gestures at Ceepak and me like he's disgusted. “Seven something-you get a body! Now, I got the press calling. The mayor? He's bitching about the roadblock, how it's ticking off the tourists. I gotta track down the kid's mom, find Hart's lawyer, his corporate people, the works. I'm never freaking going home.”

  “What's the problem? You don't like it here, Gus?”

  It's the chief.

  He's a big ol’ bear, but he has this quiet way of slipping up behind you right when you're bellyaching about him.

  “No, chief. I was just saying-”

  “Sketch artist needs coffee,” the chief says.

  “Do I look like freaking Starbucks?”

  “Go rustle her up a cup. Move it. Shake a leg.”

  Even old-timers like Gus jump when Chief Cosgrove pulls his gym-teacher act.

  “So,” the chief says to Ceepak, “how badly did Slobbinsky screw things up?”

  “Royally.”

  “Damn. Sorry he caught the call. Good thing we have the eyewitness….”

  “Yeah,” Ceepak says. “How's she doing?”

  “Not bad. Considering.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Her name is Ashley. Ashley Hart. She's been asking for you.”

  “Me?” Ceepak seems surprised.

  “Apparently you're her new hero. Says you flew over a fence or something?”

  “Playland's main gate was locked. I gained access by alternate means.”

  “She said you looked like Batman.” The chief turns to me. “Guess that makes you Robin, hunh, kid?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  “Sorry McDaniels was out of town,” he says to Ceepak.

  “I think we'll survive. The CSI crew is boots-on-the-ground. They're all pros.”

  The chief nods. “I'd like you to go in and talk to the kid. We're getting nowhere on the perp sketch. It's like she can't remember what happened, what the guy looked like. Either that or she doesn't want to remember.”

  “Post-traumatic stress?”

  “Maybe. I dunno. Seeing you might help.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Interrogation Room.”

  “Seems kind of severe….”

  “The windows in the other rooms spooked her. She thought the bad guy might be outside.”

  “Check. I'll see what I can do.”

  “Jane and the artist are with her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ceepak heads up the hall to the windowless cinderblock room with the one-way mirror. The Interrogation Room.

  “How's he holding up?” the chief asks when Ceepak's out of earshot.

  “Fine, sir.” I see no need to mention the M-80 incident behind The Pancake Palace. “Just fine.”

  “He hates to see kids in trouble.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The chief leans up against the front counter and crosses his ham-hock arms across his chest. He looks like a contemplative moose resting against a stump. I've never had a heart-to-heart with Chief Cosgrove, but I think he's about to unload a monologue on me. I'm right.

  “We were
stationed in Germany together,” he starts, his eyes narrowing like he can actually see what he's remembering. “There was this chaplain. Baptist minister, I think. Short guy. Little moustache. Had this soft southern twang when he spoke. Anyhow, he was accused of molesting kids at his church down in Texas, so they got rid of him by shipping him overseas with us. A year later, he starts messing around with some of the kids on base. Soldiers’ boys. Nine-, ten-, eleven-year-olds. Their moms and dads are over there serving their country, and he's … you know….”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Ceepak led the investigation. I was tactical support.”

  “Did you guys stop him? The chaplain?”

  “Of course. John Ceepak? He always gets his man.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I slip into the dark room next to the Interrogation Room. It's dark because otherwise, everybody in the IR would be able to see me through the one-way mirror.

  This is one of the few times our IR has actually been used for questioning. Usually, it's where stuff like Christmas decorations gets stored or where we cut somebody's birthday cake. In fact, I can see a wrinkled red balloon lying on the floor near Ashley Hart's new shoes.

  She's also wearing a new dress with Hawaiian flowers and hula dancers on it. I figure somebody picked it up on Ocean Avenue so Ashley wouldn't have to sit around all day in a blood-soaked sundress. Her hair is damp. She probably took a shower in the women's locker room. She looks like a young girl who just finished swimming in a motel pool and went back to her room to get dressed for dinner. Her cheeks are clean and ruddy; her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. It's only her eyes that look terrified, like she found some horrible monster stuck to the floor drain in the deep end of that swimming pool.

  Ceepak is sitting at the head of the long table. Ashley is to his left. Next to her is Jane Bright, the closest thing to a child welfare officer we have on the Sea Haven Police Force-Jane has her masters degree in Social Work. Across from them both is the state police sketch artist.

  “I like your new dress,” Ceepak says, trying to break the ice.