Although sometimes he wears a chariot skirt.
I check out the parking lot on the other side of the fence penning in the golf course.
“He might be in the King Putt pickup truck,” I say because it isn’t parked where it was parked the last time we came by to stop Mr. Ceepak from harassing folks picking out their tiny pencils and score pads. “It’s got the logo painted on the doors.”
Ceepak nods. “Suspect could be driving a Dodge Ram pickup truck with King Putt Mini Golf signage painted on the doors.”
Ceepak is, of course, one step ahead of me. I say pickup truck, he says Dodge Ram, because he remembers those tire treads Carolyn Miller found over on Tangerine Street.
“Please be advised, suspect is thought to be heavily armed and mentally unstable.”
Wow. Dr. Ceepak. Much tougher than Dr. Phil.
We listen in as Mrs. Rence broadcasts the bulletin.
“Should we hit the road?” I ask when she’s done.
“Not just yet,” says Ceepak. “I want to investigate that tool shed.”
We head over to the smaller pyramid in the stand of artificial Egyptian trees.
I reach for the handles.
“Danny?”
I look over. Ceepak has assumed a firing stance, weapon aimed at the split between the twin doors.
“Do you think?”
“It’s a possibility. Jump clear as you open.”
I nod. Damn. Would Skippy really hide in the shed?
“On three,” says Ceepak. “One, two, three …”
I pull the door open, fly to the right.
But nobody discharges their weapon.
“Suitcase,” says Ceepak who, in the time it took me to wince, already has his flashlight up and is working it around the storage hut’s clumpy shadows. “Matches the color and style of those found at the crime scene.”
Now his beam hits a sand pit rake.
Then a hacksaw hanging on a hook. The blade is too clean. It’s brand-new.
“He did it here.” He turns around. Surveys the bright blue river. “He crept up behind her, whacked her in the head with a blunt metal object—”
“A putter,” I suggest.
“Yes. A putter. Similar impact pattern to that of a hammer. Good going, Danny.”
I’d say thanks but we are talking about a creep bashing out a bathing beauty’s brains here.
“Realizing she was dead, he most likely dismembered her body in the river, knowing that the water would wash away most of the evidence, that the blue dye would cover up the blood.”
“Especially if he dumped more in when he was done.”
“We should check the filtration system. We may find traces of Ms. Baker’s blood and bone matter trapped inside.”
“Wait a second,” I say. “If Skippy killed Gail here, how come we found blood splattered all over the shower walls?”
“Because he wanted us to. I suspect, Danny, that Skippy took some of Ms. Baker’s body parts out of the suitcases when he arrived at number One Tangerine. That he pressed the bar of soap up under her fingernails. It’s why there was so much green residue trapped under her nails yet no soap on the rest of her body.”
I hate to ask but I do: “And the shampoo?”
Ceepak grimaces and looks a little queasy. “Skippy took Ms. Baker’s decapitated head into the shower stall, lathered the hair with shampoo and then, when he noticed that the recently severed neck was still dripping blood, spun around, and, holding the head out, splashed blood droplets on all four walls.”
Like a little boy making a spiral-art painting at summer camp.
“It would explain the unusual spatter pattern,” Ceepak continues. “He then went to the twenty-four-hour CVS and purchased the white shoe polish, knowing that it would further implicate his father. He took the empty bottles and the potassium chloride vials, three of which he emptied, into the house.”
“How’d he get in?”
“Perhaps he had learned from his father or his younger brother where the spare key was kept.”
Yeah. Guys that rich probably bought one of those plastic key-hiding rocks they sell in “People With Too Much Money” catalogs.
“Hey, Dad!”
It’s T.J. and Dave Tranotti. They’re coming into the golf course sucking on milkshakes from the restaurant across the street.
“You looking for your father?” T.J. asks.
“Come again?”
“The skeevey old guy with the wild greasy hair,” says Tranotti, who must not have studied international diplomacy during his first year at the naval academy.
“He said he was my grandpa,” says T.J. “Well, stepgrandpa.”
“My father was here?”
“Yes, sir. Joe Ceepak. But the other cop already hauled him away. Told your father he was in direct violation of an active restraining order.”
“Who was this other cop?”
“Freckle-faced dude,” said Tranotti. “Had on a cop cap, black cargo pants, uniform shirt.”
“Holster and pistol,” adds T.J.
“He works the counter here on his days off,” says Tranotti.
“You know him, Danny,” says T.J. “Skippy O’Malley.”
36
“WHAT DID MY FATHER WANT WITH YOU, T.J.?”
T.J. shrugs. I’m still not used to his buzz cut. I keep expecting to see his bouncing bundle of dreadlocks bobbing up and down.
“Said he wanted to ‘get to know me.’ Talk to me about my grandmother. I know you and mom want to keep him way from Grams.”
“So T.J. told the old wino to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” says Tranotti.
“Yeah,” says T.J., looking down at his sneakers. “Sorry about that.”
Ceepak nods. “An understandable reaction, son.”
“Next time, I’ll be nicer.”
“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. Did Skippy O’Malley put my father into the King Putt truck?”
“Yeah. He slapped him in cuffs and everything. Sort of shoved him into the vehicle, held down the top his head—did it just like the cops do on TV shows. When I told him to take it easy on the old fart, dude flashed me his badge. Said I shouldn’t interfere with police business unless I wanted to take a ride, too. Oh, there was a rifle in the truck. I saw it on the floor. Wicked-looking shotgun.”
“Do all auxiliary cops get to carry that much firepower?” asks Tranotti.
“Auxiliary cops?” says Ceepak.
“That’s what O’Malley said he was when I asked him how come he worked at the golf course all the time if he was a police officer.”
“T.J., David—young Mr. O’Malley is in no way affiliated with the Sea Haven Police Department. It is very important that we locate and apprehend him ASAP. Could you tell what direction he headed with my father?”
“Not the jail,” says Tranotti. “He peeled wheels out of the parking lot and headed north on Ocean.”
Cherry Street is south.
“The causeway is north,” says Ceepak.
True. And it’s the only road off the island.
My partner reaches for his radio. “Dorian, this is Officer Ceepak.”
“Go ahead, Officer Ceepak.”
“We need a roadblock.…”
“Ten–four. The Causeway. Chief Baines already ordered one.”
“We have confirmation that Mr. O’Malley left the golf course in the King Putt pickup.”
“A Dodge Ram,” T.J. tosses in.
“A Dodge Ram,” Ceepak says to the radio, even though he already knew that.
“Ten–four. You told me that already.”
“Sorry. Dorian?”
“Yes, Officer Ceepak?”
“We’ve just been informed that O’Malley has taken a hostage.”
“Copy that. Any ID on who he grabbed?”
“Yes. Joseph Ceepak. My father.”
There is a beat of dead air.
“Ten–four.” I can hear our new dispatcher straining to remain pro
fessional. She cracks. “Hang in there, hon, ya hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. Will do.”
Down comes the radio mic.
“Danny? We need to be mobile. Fortunately, the vehicle is easy to spot. We should get a hit on it soon.” Then he turns to T.J. “I need for you to go home, in case Skippy, for whatever reason, decides to come after you, your mom, or Marny.”
“Yeah,” says T.J.
“I’ll hang with you, man,” says Tranotti, who, I can tell, has put in some serious physical training during his first year at Annapolis. “We can play Battleship.”
T.J. laughs.
“Sorry about this, son,” says Ceepak. “Guess I ruined your big day even more than we had anticipated.”
“Nah,” says T.J. “I ruined it myself. Shot six over par on the back nine. Did even worse on the front of the course. Go on. Go rescue your old man.”
“Will do. Tell your mother I love her.”
“Hey, tell her yourself. Tonight. After you come home safe.”
“Roger that.”
Then they hug. Seriously. I don’t think I ever hugged my dad. Not even when I graduated high school, which, by the way, many people considered a mathematical impossibility.
“Dylan? Jeremy?” Ceepak breaks out of the father-son embrace and marches into the office where the Murrays are guarding the golfers. I’m right behind him.
“Keep this location secure. Young Mr. O’Malley might roll back this way if we corner him and he has nowhere else to run.” He turns to the kids and parents we hustled off the golf course earlier. “King Putt is officially closed for the day due to ongoing police activity. Come back tomorrow and the management will gladly offer you a free game or a full refund.”
Having seen all our weapons and heavy-duty body armor, they scurry out the door in a clump. Guess playing putt-putt tomorrow sounds like an excellent idea.
We’re crawling north on Ocean Avenue in our patrol car.
I’m in the passenger seat, scoping out every pickup truck I can spot. They’re all legit. Landscapers. Brick masons. Guys helping their buddies move a couch.
“Why’d he grab your father?” I ask.
“Perhaps he hopes we will negotiate with him if he has a hostage.”
I laugh a little. “Leave it to Skippy to grab a hostage nobody wants.”
“Danny, right now, my father is simply a citizen being held against his will in need of our assistance. It is our sworn duty to protect him.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Tomorrow, Joe Ceepak can be the sorry asshole we all wish would curl up and die. Today, we have to save his wrinkled old butt.
“All units, all units …”
Ceepak’s behind the wheel so I twist up the radio dial.
“… Joseph Thalken of the Sea Haven Sanitation Department reports seeing the King Putt pickup truck heading north on Beach Lane near Kipper Street.”
Joey T. The man deserves a medal for all he’s seen this week.
“The boardwalk,” I mumble. “It starts at Kipper. He could be heading to Pier Four. If he takes that shotgun to the roller coaster he could seriously ruin his dad’s big day.”
“Is your friend still broadcasting from the Rolling Thunder, Danny?”
I snap on the dashboard radio while Ceepak hits the lights and sirens and jams the accelerator down to the floor.
“Hang on.”
We slalom our way north through heavy traffic, occasionally borrowing a lane from the terrified cars trying to head south.
“… and what’s your name, young lady?” Cliff Skeete chatters out of the car radio.
“Layla.”
“Like the song?”
“Hey, that’s the first time anybody ever said that.”
“Well, Layla, you ready to climb aboard a lightning bolt and roll like thunder?”
“Not really. I came here for the roller coaster.”
I like this Layla. She’s got sass. ’Tude.
Cliff moves on down the line. “And you are, mi’lady?”
“Samantha Starky. My friends call me, Sam.”
Jeez-o, man. Sam’s still there.
“How long you been waitin’ on line, Sam?”
“Three whole hours, Skeeter! I listen to you all the time. You used to hang out with my old boyfriend, Danny Boyle.”
So. The breakup is official. I heard it on the radio.
“You know Danny, right?”
“Indeed I do.”
“Well he makes me listen to you and WAVY all the time!”
Impossible as it seems, she sounds even perkier on the radio.
“Well, you’re almost to the front of the line,” says Cliff. “Hang in there.”
“Hey, we wouldn’t miss this for the world!” says some guy. “We’ll tell our grandkids about this someday!”
“And your name, sir?”
“Richard Heimsack.”
Dead air while Cliff soaks in the name and I realize Richard and Sam are already contemplating grandbabies.
“Well, Richie—”
“Richard.”
“It is one awesome ride, brutha.”
Now the police radio crackles.
“This is unit six. We have suspect’s vehicle in sight. Approaching parking lot to Pier Four on the boardwalk.”
“The Roller Coaster,” says Ceepak. “Hang on.”
I grab the handle you’re supposed to use to climb out of the vehicle, because when Ceepak stomps on the gas our Crown Vic Interceptor flies faster than the runaway mine train at Disney World.
I grab our radio mic.
“This is A-twelve. We are en route to Pier Four. Anticipate suspect will be headed toward the Rolling Thunder.”
“Roger that” and “Ten–four” come in from all over the place.
Every cop in Sea Haven is on their way to the roller coaster to try and stop Skippy O’Malley from being free enough to ride that ride.
“This is Unit Six. Suspect is exiting vehicle with hostage … we will follow.”
“Do not aggravate the situation.” It’s the chief. I guess everybody’s in on this thing. “Wait for backup, Unit Six. Wait for backup. Tail the suspect but do not engage him. He is armed and dangerous. State Police are on the way. They’re calling in a hostage negotiator.”
“Give me the ears on the ground,” says Ceepak.
He means I should turn up WAVY. Right now, Skeeter is our best source of potential intel on Skippy’s movements.
“Comin’ up, ‘Love Rollercoaster’ from the Ohio Players … but first … hey, have you tried Big Bruno Mazzilli’s brand-new Stromboller Cruster Italian Sandwich? Available exclusively at Big Bruno’s Stromboli Stand right here on Pier Four. Thick layers of …”
“Yo! Douchebag!” somebody yells close enough to Cliff’s microphone for us to hear it. “There’s a freaking line here.”
Dominic Santucci. I’d recognize that obnoxious voice anywhere.
Ceepak presses even harder on the gas while yanking the steering wheel hard to the right. Tires squeal, and we tilt through a careering turn into the parking lot for Pier Four.
“… provolone, salami, prosciutto and melted mozzarella …”
“I said get back. You, too, old man.”
“Back off, Dom.” Skippy. “This is Ceepak’s father. He’s my fucking prisoner.”
Jeez-o, man.
“… rolled in a flaky crust and baked to golden perfection …”
“Skippy?” Santucci again. “Jesus—why you wearing a fucking raincoat, dipshit?”
Oh, man. He’s doing it Columbine style. Weapons hidden under the flaps of his long coat. Santucci needs to back off. Big time.
But he doesn’t.
“You can’t come up here, you stupid wuss. These people have been waiting all morning to ride the ride.”
“My father owns this fucking piece of shit. I can do whatever the hell I feel like doing.”
We hear Cliff’s hand muffle the microphone with a thump. “Hey, you guys
?” He’s still audible. “We’re goin’ out live.”
The hand comes away from the mic.
“Elyssa? Listen, girl—we need more security down here on the loading platform … there’s this dude in a trenchcoat.…”
Then there’s this big explosion.
“Ohmigod!” Cliff yells. It sounds like he dropped his microphone.
“Get down, motherfuckers!” we hear Skippy yell. “All of you. Down!”
Our car speakers rattle with high-pitched wails. Shrieks. Squeals of terror.
“Get down, people,” says Cliff, staying incredibly calm. “Do like the man says. Be cool, man. We’re cool.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
“Yes, sir. Oh, man … that dude’s bleeding …”
“No, dipshit. He’s dying.”
“We need an ambulance.”
“I said shut the fuck up!”
We hear nothing more from Sergeant Santucci.
Ceepak slams on the brakes.
We yank open our doors and hit the asphalt on the run.
This time, we’re close enough to hear the shotgun blast in person.
37
ONE HOUR LATER, THE STATE POLICE SWAT GUYS DOT THE roller coaster scaffolding like black crows scoping out a cornfield with high-powered rifles.
Skippy O’Malley has about three dozen hostages inside the loading shed—the place where you climb into the coaster cars on one side, exit on the other. The shed has walls and an angled roof that completely covers the final waiting line switchbacks and the train tracks. It also shades the control room, about the size of a boxy camper, on the far side of the rails.
In other words, none of New Jersey’s best snipers, even the guy at the peak of the highest hill, has a clean shot at wacko O’Malley. They might’ve put on their black Kevlar, camouflage clothes, and battle helmets for nothing. A couple of the guys even rappelled down ropes out of helicopters so they could be at the peak of that first hill and have a clean shot at everything below.
But all they can shoot at right now is a metal roof.
Fortunately, Skippy’s last shotgun blast was fired as a warning shot and did its job: He dispersed the several thousand people waiting in a line snaking from the ramp up to the loading platform all the way back to the boardwalk and Pier Two, half a mile south. When Ceepak and I came charging up the access steps to the boardwalk, we were met with a thundering herd of panic.
Rolling Thunder Page 21