Sure. Maybe they go to bed early. Like right after watching Jeopardy at seven P.M.
We head up the steps to the porch.
“The statues are gone,” I mumble.
Ceepak pulls the Maglite off his utility belt, flicks it on. Swings the beam across the shrubbery clumped around the small landing. Guess he’s looking for tiny footprints. Maybe the gnomes all magically came to life last night and scurried away.
There’s a burst of static on my radio.
“This is Diego for Ceepak and Boyle,” comes a crackle out of the speaker.
I tug the thing off my belt.
“This is Boyle. Go ahead.”
“Hey, Danny. Found what you guys were looking for. That house on Tangerine? Number one, right?”
“Right.”
“Okay, it’s owned by a corporation called Stromboli Enterprises.”
“You’re kidding me, right? Stromboli?”
“Hang on. Let’s put a smile on that face.”
She’s quoting The Dark Knight again.
“There’s more. This is why it took me, like, longer than five seconds to do a real estate title search. I had to dig through a sack of S-Corp crap to find some names. Here we go: Bruno Mazzilli is the CEO of Stromboli. Keith Barent Johnson is the chief operating officer. Hey, doesn’t Mazzilli, like, own all the boardwalks?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Denise.”
“And Johnson’s a big cheese, too, am I right?”
“Affirmative,” I say with a sigh.
“Thought so. You guys need anything else tonight?”
Ceepak motions for me to hand him my radio.
“Denise? We are going to need a subpoena,” says Ceepak. “For Mr. O’Malley’s phone records. The number corresponding to the one you ID’d on Gail Baker’s bill.”
“Yeah. Figured as much. It’s already in the works.”
“How long has this Stromboli Enterprises been the owner of number One Tangerine Street?”
“Um … four years. It’s listed as an asset of the corporation. They have a couple of cars, too. Mustang convertibles. Sounds like a good place to work. Lots of perks. Probably free food.”
“Thank you. Go home, Denise. Grab some shut-eye. I have a feeling we’ll be running you ragged tomorrow as well.”
“Saturday?”
“Yes. I’m afraid so.”
“Cool. There’s nothing on TV except baseball and infomercials about Snuggies. Hey, as soon as the O’Malley paperwork comes back from the judge, I’ll let you know.”
“Roger that.” Ceepak hands me back the radio. “We are quite fortunate to have Ms. Diego on our team.”
I nod, kind of absent-mindedly, because the hamster wheel in my head is spinning. Well, it’s creaking like a rusty bicycle chain. I don’t feed my hamsters enough sugar water.
“What’s on your mind, Danny?” says Ceepak, making me think my mental gym equipment is squeaking out my ears.
“Mr. Mazzilli, the CEO of this shell company—Stromboli Enterprises—he was with Marny Minsky last Saturday at Big Kahuna’s, which just happens to be owned by Stromboli’s COO, Keith Barent Johnson.”
Ceepak nods. He can sense I am attempting to make a logical deduction. I’m kind of new at it so it’s slow going. He’s patient. He’ll wait.
“Gail Baker was also at the club, with a group of girlfriends. Gail and Marny were all air-kissy. Mazzilli saw the two of them in their mini-dresses, hugging like that, and he looked like, well, he looked …”
I’m trying to think of a grownup word for “horny.”
“… lascivious! The two girls were in really short, really tight skirts. Showing lots of thigh.”
“What did you see Danny?”
I want to say “too much” but resist the urge.
“I saw Mr. Mazzilli whisper something naughty to Marny, who then whispered to Gail. She laughed. Shook her head. Mr. Mazzilli said, ‘Live a little.’ Gail said, ‘Not tonight.’ Mazzilli said he wanted a ‘rain check.’”
“What do you suppose Mr. Mazzilli whispered to Ms. Minsky?”
“I dunno. Something lewd. I think he wanted, you know, both girls. A three-way. And Gail didn’t seem upset by the suggestion. She just didn’t want to do it that night.”
“Have you seen Ms. Minsky since Saturday, Danny?”
“No. We should check with Bud. See if she’s been back to the club.”
“Agreed. Ms. Minsky and Ms. Baker were close?”
“Yeah. Looked like it.”
And Mazzilli wanted to see them closer. Probably here. Number one Tangerine. The pornographic garden statues were supposed to help the girls get in the mood for a little frisky fun.
“I think this is Mr. Mazzilli’s love shack,” I blurt out. “I think he and Mr. Johnson bring their girlfriends, their mistresses, their goomahs here instead of The Smuggler’s Cove.”
The Cove is our local Motel No-Tell. You can get hourly rates on the room even if, like most guys, you only need three minutes.
“So,” says Ceepak, picking up on my logic thread, flimsy as it is, “you hypothesize that, at a later date, perhaps Thursday night, Mr. Mazzilli once again made his proposal to the two young ladies.”
“And don’t forget, we have the Mazzilli–O’Malley connection.”
“Indeed. They are partners on the roller coaster.”
“Maybe, if Gail and Mr. O’Malley were texting each other, having an affair like Skippy suggested, Mazzilli knew about it. Wanted to be partners on that, too. Maybe he wanted a four-way.”
My stomach lurches up into my mouth at the thought of two flabby middle-aged men—undoubtedly with muffin tops around their bellies—rolling in the hay with taut and tawny Gail and Marny.
But I soldier on.
“Maybe the four of them came here. One thing leads to another, Gail ends up dead, and Marny, afraid she’s next, hightails it out of town.”
“Interesting,” says Ceepak.
“It’s just a hunch,” I say. “A wild idea.”
Ceepak nods. He knew that’s what it was.
“We need to search this house!”
“What would be searching for?” Ceepak asks.
“Evidence!”
“Danny, the Fourth Amendment requires that searches be specific and reasonable.”
I think Ceepak should run for president—he’s an expert on constitutional law, too.
“As you know,” he continues in his calm, professorial tone, the one he uses whenever I make a bone-headed suggestion, “a judge will only approve our request for a warrant if we are specific as to the items we are searching for and prove that probable cause exists that the specific item will be located in a specific place at the time the warrant would be executed.”
“Unless it’s in plain view,” I toss in. “Then we don’t need a warrant to seize it.”
“Only if we are legally in the location at the time the item is seen.”
Bummer.
Ceepak glances at his watch. He knows Gail’s personal trainer will be at the house in half an hour. “What do you suggest, Danny?”
“Let’s look around a little. We’ve got time. See if we can see anything out in the open.”
“Such as?”
“I dunno. Gail’s missing Sugar Babies T-shirt?”
“Very well. Let’s take a quick look around.”
“Can we look through the windows?”
“Negative.”
Yeah. I guess it’s not considered plain view if you climb up on each other’s shoulders to sneak a peek.
So we head down the porch steps and stroll through the manicured pebble lawn.
“Let’s circle around back,” I say.
Ceepak nods.
I’m hoping there’s a clothesline where Mr. Mazzilli might’ve hung his blood-soaked cabana outfit.
We head up the alleyway of concrete pavers that runs between Mr. Mazzilli’s place and the neighbor’s. The sun’s low in the west, sinking down on the bay side of the island, so its
fading beams are blocked by Mrs. D’Ambrosio’s two-story house next door and the PVC fence on the borderline between the properties. It’s kind of dark. Hard to see where we’re walking. I knee something wobbly. Glass bottles jingle.
“Sorry.”
Seems I accidentally bumped into that booze bottle recyclables barrel that somebody dragged back here—probably when they came over to hide the lewd lawn ornaments.
The rattling bottles and cans startle Puck. We hear yippy barks on the other side of the fence.
“Interesting,” says Ceepak.
Yeah. This walkway must pass a window where Puck likes to snooze. Was somebody else back here very early this morning? Is that what made him start barking up a storm at three A.M. when every dog I’ve ever met is usually sound asleep on the living room couch or curled up in their master’s favorite chair?
Ceepak flicks on his Maglite and spotlights the outdoor shower built up against the fence that I noticed earlier.
It’s really just the Jersey Shore equivalent of an outhouse, even behind the most expensive home on the block. Typically, you have your white-washed tongue-and-groove walls, an elevated cedar deck for a floor, and a drain that dumps water on the sandy soil that’ll drink anything it can get, even if it’s soapy.
Ceepak swings his light down to the bottom of the propped-open door. There’s a cinder block acting as a doorstop, maybe so the inside will dry out, keep down the mildew and toe fungus grunge.
We move closer.
Peer through the open door.
In plain view we both plainly see two things: a bottle of No More Tears No More Tangles Plus Conditioner for Straight Hair and a green bar of Irish Spring soap.
Time to call Bill Botzong and the state CSI crew.
I think we just found where the shampoo and soap residue came from.
21
TWO NJ STATE POLICE GUYS SHOW UP TO LOCK DOWN THE shower stall.
“Botzong’s up in Hamilton,” says the one named Reynolds (but we can call him “Spuddie”). He and his partner, a guy named Malone (no known nickname), have unrolled enough Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape to wrap a dozen yellow mummies.
“We’re gonna preemptively lock down the house,” adds Spuddie. “You guys working on warrants?”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, who is crouching in front of the open shower door, playing his light against the wall of the stall. I notice that, every now and then, it hits a splotch of white that doesn’t quite match the surrounding white wall.
Like somebody painted over a stain they didn’t want us to see.
A bloodstain.
“We should have no problem obtaining warrants for the shower,” says Ceepak. “But we might have to push the judge to gain access to the house.”
“Big shots own the place?” asks Malone, gesturing at the boxy McMansion.
Ceepak nods. “Two of the town’s leading citizens.”
“Your judge one of ’em?”
“No.” Ceepak gets up from his crouch. “How long do you estimate that it will it take Detective Botzong to arrive?”
“It’s a long haul from Hamilton,” says Spuddie. “Maybe fifty, sixty miles. I’m guessing Bill and his crew will show up around eight thirty, nine o’clock.”
“Danny, you and I should head back to the house, talk to Mike Charzuk. We’ll circle back in forty-five minutes, catch up with Detective Botzong.”
“Cool,” I say.
The two state cops glare at me. The Staties always shave the sides of their heads and wear their hats so the crimped brim practically touches the tip of their noses. They also wear riding pants and black boots like they’re working for a dictator in some tiny country where the women have to wear sacks over their heads. They’re very scary military-looking dudes. More so than Ceepak—who really was military.
So I add, “Ten–four.” They seem to like that better.
“No one in or out,” Ceepak says to Spuddie and Malone, giving them a two-finger salute off the tip of his cap.
“Roger that,” says Spuddie, saluting back.
“We’re on it,” adds Malone.
“Appreciate it,” I say.
They glare at me again. Probably wonder how I ever became a cop. Yeah. I wonder that sometimes, too. I used to round up shopping carts in the parking lot at Wal-Mart. Then I met Ceepak and life’s been one big roller coaster ride ever since.
Mike Charzuk is waiting for us in the lobby of the stationhouse, on the other side of the short railing that separates the police from those we’re sworn to protect. Makes us feel safer.
Charzuk is not alone. Peter O’Malley, the gay son, is sitting next to the personal trainer in one of our scoop-bottomed plastic seats.
Does this mean Charzuk is gay, too?
If so, why were he and Gail talking about hooking up?
Am I looking at another potential three-way here? The two-guys-one-girl kind I never actually wanted to include in my personal fantasy files?
“Mr. Charzuk?” says Ceepak.
“Yes, sir,” says Charzuk, standing up. Smoothing out his sweatpants.
“I’m just here as a friend,” says Peter O’Malley.
“I was kind of nervous about coming alone,” says Mike.
Ceepak nods. “Understandable. We just want to ask you a few questions. Is Mr. O’Malley your lawyer?”
“No. Just … a friend.”
O’Malley blinks—silently daring us to ask “what kind of friend?” But we don’t.
“I work for Peter’s landscaping company,” Charzuk explains, “when I’m not at the gym.”
Oh. That kind of friend.
“Would you like a lawyer present while we talk to you?” asks Ceepak.
“Do I need one?”
“That is entirely your call. If you cannot afford one—”
“No. That’s okay. I want to help you guys catch whoever did this to Gail.”
“May I come with Mike?” asks Peter O’Malley.
“Are you a lawyer?” asks Ceepak.
“No.”
“Then you will need to wait out here.”
We sit down in the interview room. Charzuk has a bottle of water. I grabbed a cup of bad coffee because this figures to be a long night. The coffee has been on the Bunn burner so long, it smells like gym sock soup.
Ceepak? He’s on whatever natural fuel Zen masters tap into. I think he could go seventy-two hours without sleep and stay totally alert. I think he had to over in Iraq.
“Were you and Ms. Baker romantically involved?” Wow. First question out of the box. Ceepak’s on a tight schedule.
“Is that important?”
“Yes.”
“Now and then.”
“How about this week?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Really?” I press on. “Then why were you two talking about hooking up last Sunday at the gym?”
“Huh?”
“I overheard your conversation.”
“You work out?” He sounds surprised. I guess he caught a glimpse of my physique. “At Beach Bods?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry. I didn’t recognize you.”
“She told you she was free for the week.”
“That’s right.”
“You offered to give her a ‘deep tissue’ massage afterwards.”
Charzuk sits back in his chair. Rubs his tattooed arms like he’s cold. “You heard all that?”
“Yeah.”
I think I’m freaking him out.
“Look, we weren’t romantically involved. We just liked to, you know, help each other out from time to time. Physically.”
I nod like I know how that goes.
Yeah. Right.
Ceepak’s eyebrows, however, are arched halfway up his forehead. This whole friends-with-benefits, sex buddy stuff is new to him. I think it became an American tradition while he was overseas serving his country instead of back here making booty calls.
“Gail really couldn’t afford to get,
you know, serious about me or any guy her own age.”
“Pardon?” says Ceepak.
“She … her money … to earn a living … the tips at The Rusty Scupper aren’t great … she wasn’t a prostitute or anything.…’
“But?” Ceepak says for him.
“She was more like a geisha girl. Made rich men happy. They, you know, said thanks. Gave her stuff.”
The bling the dentist told us about.
“They paid for her clothes, her gym dues and training sessions. All she had to do was, well, keep looking amazingly hot.”
“Who are these wealthy men?” asks Ceepak.
“She never named names. Called them her sugar daddies.”
Making her a sugar baby. The tiny T-shirt was either her little joke or her Hooters-style uniform.
“Where would she rendezvous with these gentlemen?”
“I’m not sure. I know it wasn’t a cheesy hotel like the Smuggler’s Cove or anything. They had really classy parties all the time. Champagne. All the lobster and prime rib she could eat, which wasn’t much, because she had to keep the weight off to keep her men happy.”
“Did she ever talk about a house on Tangerine Street?”
“No. I think it was some place on the beach, though. She’d call it the Sugar Shack or the Beach Boys Clubhouse.”
“Thursday night, right before she was murdered, Ms. Baker called you.”
“That was right before?” He takes a long drink out of his water bottle.
“Do you remember the content of your conversation?”
“Some. Sure. Yeah. She’d been to the party house. Said she had wanted to just hang and chill with her ‘sorority sisters’ but one of the ‘gentlemen’ at the house wanted to, you know, get busy with her. But this guy wasn’t her guy.”
“They had assignments?” I ask.
“You could call it that. Each girl had their main man. Marny might know more.”
“Ms. Minsky?”
“Right. She’s the one who got Gail into the whole scene. Recruited her. Told her she’d have some laughs, meet some amazingly rich men. Gail even got to hang with the mayor.”
“Mr. Sinclair?”
“Yeah. He was at the house a bunch of times. She met some state senators, too and could get you tickets to any concert or game or anything. Gail’s old guy had some urgent family business to deal with this week so that’s why she told me on Sunday that maybe we could hook up while he dealt with whatever. But, like I said, it didn’t pan out.”
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