“John. Boyle.” He sort of nods and hikes up his neatly pressed pants. Per usual, Chief Buzz Baines is dressed in a starched white shirt and striped tie. His shield is clipped to his Brooks Brothers belt. I get beaned in the eyeball by a reflected sunbeam glinting off his gold badge.
The door on the Crown Vic opens. It’s Dylan Murray. He’s in uniform. Went with the shorts today because it’s a scorcher. Nobody gets out on the passenger side. Guess Murray’s flying solo this shift.
“Hey, Danny,” he says, pressing back on his sunglasses with an index finger. “Ceepak.”
“You two injured?” Chief Baines asks.
“Negative, sir,” says Ceepak. “It’s all good.”
“Except, of course, for your vehicle. I saw it. Back up the road. It didn’t look so good.”
“Roger that.”
“What’s going on, guys?”
“We’re investigating that burglary I told you about,” says Ceepak.
“The Feenyville Pirate thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“This where they broke into the dead man’s car?”
Ceepak points toward a lamppost about fifty cars away.
“Over there in that vicinity.”
The chief turns. Studies the towering pole. Turns to his left.
“Looks like there’s a surveillance camera mounted on that pole there. See it? Up in that black globe.”
Ceepak nods.
“Art Insana getting you the tapes?”
“He’s working on it.”
“I’ll give him a call. Tell him to work faster.” The chief now focuses fully on me. “So, Officer Boyle, the taxpaying citizens of Sea Haven want to know: how the hell did you total one of their very expensive police vehicles?”
Oh, boy.
“Well, sir, we were pursuing another vehicle. We put the radar on him and he was doing like ninety, ninety-five miles per hour. We were attempting a, you know, a ten-sixty-five.”
Baines crosses his arms across his chest. Now I get sun flares off his cuff links.
“Did you happen to notice that the motor vehicle in question belonged to a United States senator?”
“Yes, sir. I saw the tags.”
“Okay. Good. So did you think, for maybe just a second, that Senator Worthington was inside that SUV, on his way back to Washington?”
“If so,” says Ceepak, “he was traveling at an excessive and dangerous rate of speed.”
“It was a motorcade, John! That’s what they do. They drive fast. Hell, they speed! Makes it harder for any nut job with a rifle to assassinate him if he flies by in a blur!”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dylan Murray looking at his shoes, trying not to laugh.
Ceepak’s not mentioning the razor blade jammed into our tire treads so I don’t either. Although the way the chief is riding Ceepak’s ass, I’m tempted.
“When you two ran off the road,” the chief continues, “it was Senator Worthington’s driver who first called nine-one-one.”
“It’s a shame the senator couldn’t stop to assist us,” says Ceepak. “Perhaps he was late for one of the Sunday morning talk shows.” Wow—a surprising and rare display of sarcasm from Ceepak.
The chief ignores it. “So you two left the scene of the wreck to do what? Grab a slice of pizza? Use the facilities?”
I answer so Ceepak doesn’t have to lie: “We’re talking to witnesses, sir.”
“Witnesses? Somebody saw the pirates rip off Smith’s vehicle?”
“Not exactly witnesses, sir … .”
“People of interest,” says Ceepak.
“Solid leads?”
“We think so. We have also uncovered a connection to Hot Stuff heroin.”
The chief’s eyes widen. “Are the Feenyville Pirates hooked up with that?”
“It’s a possibility, sir.”
“Good work, John! Now can we, please god, finally, once and for all, locate and destroy their damn drug factory?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Good. Murray?”
“Sir?”
“You’re riding back with me.”
“Yes, sir.” Murray hands me the keys to the Crown Vic.
The chief cracks a smile. “Try not to wreck it, okay, Boyle? One car a summer is all I intend to tolerate.”
Looks like Starky and the Smith sisters went with Starbucks.
They’re all sucking frothy frappucinos when Ceepak and I join them at the dining tables near the Hot Dog City counter in the food court.
“Want to hear something interesting?” asks Starky.
“Sure,” says Ceepak.
“Somebody messed around in the trunk of their car! The one their brother drove up here Friday night!”
“We know that, Sam,” I say. “That’s where the CD changer was mounted.”
Tonya shakes her head. “They flipped over the carpet.”
Ceepak leans forward. Very interested. “How can you tell?”
“There’s an oil stain on that rug, on account of the fact that the car is so old and burns too much oil, so I always keep some extra in the trunk. I put the bottle in this cardboard tray I saved off a case of Sprite. But if you hit a pothole, the bottle tips over, and the oil spills out. Leaks right through that cardboard.”
Ceepak nods. “Staining the rug underneath.”
“Right. So I always keep that tray on the same side. It covers up the spot.”
“The greasy splotch,” I blurt out. “I saw it Friday night. Sniffed it.”
“You could tell it was motor oil?” asks Ceepak.
“Yeah. On account of the smell. The splotch was on the right-hand side.”
“That’s right,” says Tonya. “Only last night, when I parked it over on Mary Dell Road, I noticed the rug was all turned around and backwards.”
“The greasy spot was on the left!” I say. “Down near the tailgate.”
“Exactly.”
Ceepak cocks an eyebrow. “Danny?”
“It was that way at the house on Kipper Street. When you asked the ladies if we could look inside the trunk yesterday. The greasy splotch was on the left! I should’ve realized it’d been switched around.”
Ceepak leans back in his chair. “Meaning it was rotated sometime after you saw it here in the parking lot but before we reexamined it at the rental house.”
“Somebody was searching for something!” says Starky, her powers of deductive reasoning sharp as cheddar cheese spewing out of a spray can.
“Ms. Smith,” Ceepak says to Tonya, “you indicated that Shareef needed to show me something.”
“That’s what he said. When he first got to Baltimore and asked if he could borrow my car.”
“Any idea what it was?”
“No, sir. Only that you were the one man he could trust showing it to.”
“I’ll bet it was Worthington!” I blurt out. “I’ll bet he tore up the carpet after the state police towed the car over to Kipper Street! I’ll bet he was searching for whatever Shareef Smith brought here to show you!”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t Atlantic City. We don’t bet. We gather information. We investigate. We reach logical conclusions.”
“Well said, sir!” This from Starky. Great. They’re double-teaming me.
“Sorry.”
“Who’s this Worthington?” asks Jacquie.
“One of the soldiers from Shareef’s unit over in Iraq,” explains Ceepak.
“You think he had something to do with what happened here?”
“It’s an avenue we’re currently exploring.”
“Is his father the one everybody says is going to be president? The senator?”
Ceepak nods.
“He’s that fool who’s always clomping around in his boy’s combat boots?”
“Yes, ma’ am.”
She snorts like a disgusted horse. “Damn man don’t fool me. That’s just an act. Senator Worthington don’t give
a damn about our troops. He just wants to move into the White House.”
“Shareef didn’t like Senator Worthington, either,” says Tonya.
“How do you mean?”
“When he was home last week, over at my place for dinner, the news came on. I was in the kitchen. He was sitting in the living room, watching. That Brian Williams was talking to Senator Worthington. ‘Effing hypocrite,’ Shareef hollered. ‘Effing liar.’ Only Shareef was using the real F word,”
“I don’t blame him,” says Jacquie. “That man’s an effing fool.”
Tonya plays with her straw. Won’t meet anybody’s eyes. “Shareef started using all sorts of foul language once he started using the drugs.” Now she looks up. Straight at Ceepak. “Oh, yes. We knew all about it. Knew what he was doing.”
“Uhm-hmm,” seconds Jacquie. “Shareef couldn’t fool his big sisters. We raised that boy. Besides, all you had to do was see him in a short-sleeved shirt to know what sort of nonsense he’d been up to.”
“He started with the drugs over there in Iraq,” says Tonya. “After he was wounded. After you saved his life. I think he was trying to fight the pain.”
“Why didn’t Shareef come home?” Ceepak asks. “After he was wounded, did they offer him an honorable discharge?”
Tonya shakes her head. “He told us his wound wasn’t severe enough. Besides, they needed soldiers.” She smiles faintly. “Maybe if you had left him in that alley a little longer, he would’ve gotten wounded enough to get out.”
“Maybe he might be dead too, Tonya!” says Jacquie. “You did the right thing, Mr. Ceepak. We won’t ever forget it. So, I’m sorry if, y’know, yesterday, I came off all cranky. It was a long drive up from Baltimore. No air-conditioning. Too many tolls. Besides, I didn’t know who you were till we got home and Tonya showed me your business card.”
“Understood.”
“Shareef reenlisted two times,” says Tonya. “Said he didn’t want to leave his ‘family.’ That’s what he called the Army, the other soldiers he was over there with. They were more than friends. They were like blood relations. His brothers.”
“In your phone conversation Friday evening, Shareef told you a friend was meeting him here. In fact, he hung up when that friend arrived.”
“That’s right.”
“Who were his friends in New Jersey?”
“I don’t know,” says Tonya. “Who do you think he was talking about?”
“We’re also uncertain. However, we intend to find out. Officer Starky?”
“Sir?”
“I don’t want these ladies returning home to Baltimore.”
“Good,” says Jacquie. “Because we aren’t going there. Those two fools can sit there all day, waiting for us to come out that front door.”
“I know a safe location.” Ceepak takes out his notebook and pen. Then he reaches into a pants pocket and pulls out a motel card-key holder and jots down the address printed on it. “It’s a Holiday Inn in Avondale. Ask the front desk to put their room on my account.”
Ceepak has an account at the Holiday Inn?
He hands the slip of paper with the hotel information to Starky.
“Please call me as soon as the sisters are secure.”
“You don’t have a cell phone, sir.”
“Right. Good point.” He thinks for a second. “When the ladies are safely in a room, phone the house and ask the dispatcher to radio us.”
“You don’t have a police car, either, sir.”
“Yes, we do!” I say. “A brand new Crown Victoria.”
I just hope no one’s been messing with the tires while we were in here with the effing frappucinos.
25
The ladies leave.
“You ready to roll?” I ask Ceepak.
“Roger that.”
Ceepak rises from the table.
Freezes.
Doesn’t say a word.
“Hello, Johnny.”
There’s this old guy with wild white hair standing about six feet in front of us.
“You’re a hard man to find,” he says.
He looks like a movie star’s DWI mug shot: handsome, rugged face with tight skin except where it’s puffed out in saddlebags under his eyes. It’s the white stubble on his cheeks and the stringy hair glued into place by a week’s worth of grime (or a wind tunnel) that make him look like a drunk.
Ceepak notices the guy is holding a can of Budweiser nestled inside a foam beer koozie. “You cannot carry an open container of alcohol in here,” he says.
“I bought the beer holder in the gift shop,” the skeezy guy replies. “It’s a souvenir. My first trip to Jersey. Wanted to make sure this thing worked.” He tilts the can, gulps a slug of beer, and wipes the foam off his lips. “Yep. Nice and cold.” Now he looks at me. “This your boy?”
“No.”
“I heard you had a son.”
Ceepak doesn’t answer.
“Heard the kid came with your wife. You’re married now, right?”
Still no answer.
“You’re smart. Skip the whole dirty diaper deal. Pick up a kid who’s already wiping his own ass. Of course, that means your wife must be pretty old. Like buying a used car, Johnny—you’re just buying somebody else’s trouble.”
Now Ceepak takes a half-step forward like he wants to deck this boozehound.
“Hey, Johnny, those people you work with, they’re very helpful. Told me exactly where to find you. Said you just smashed up your cop car. You still that shitty of a driver, hunh? Ever since you got your first big-boy bike …”
I’m trying to figure out who the hell this guy is and why he’s pissing Ceepak off so much. Maybe it’s because he’s wearing shorts and sandals and you can see where he hasn’t washed below the shins since sometime last winter.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Ceepak points to the empty chairs at our table.
“We were just leaving.”
The old guy doesn’t sit.
“So what’s good to eat here, Johnny? Hey—how about that new Burger King deal I heard them talking about on the radio? I’ve been listening to the radio a lot lately, Johnny. Been on the road for almost a week. Tracking her down. Picking up clues, here and there. Started in Cleveland. Talked to all our old neighbors. Headed out to Indiana. Picked up her trail. I’m a regular detective, huh, Johnny, just like you. You want some advice?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll give it to you anyway because, hell, it’s my goddamn duty. You should lay off the heroic shit. You solve a major crime or rescue some black kid out of an alley over in Iraq, the newspapers are going to write stories. They love that sappy shit. But, when they write about you, it makes you easier to locate.” He smiles. “So, where is she, Johnny? Where’s your mother? She in Sea Haven where you work? She having a sunny, funderful day like it says on the Web site?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Ah-hah! That means you know where she is! Otherwise, you’d just say ‘neo!’” The drunk staggers a side step forward, addresses me: “He still doing that George Washington bit where he cannot tell a lie?”
I look at Ceepak. Look at the old man.
“I’m not at liberty to say.” I figure if it worked for Ceepak, it might work for me.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Danny Boyle.”
“You a cop?”
“It’s why I’m wearing the badge, sir.” I point to it.
“Oh. I see. You’re a smart-ass.” He balls up his koozie fist. Crushes the can. I’ve seen arm tendons ripple like that before. My partner flexes the same kind of muscles when he gets mad.
Oh, Jesus.
Now I know who this old drunk is.
“You gonna introduce me, Johnny? Father should meet his son’s coworkers. How you doin’, Danny Boyle?”
Mr. Ceepak extends his hand. I instinctively take it. It’s clammy.
“I’m Joe Ceepak. You can call me Joe Six-pack. All my friends d
o. You know why?”
I drop his hand and take a wild guess: “You like beer?”
He raises the can in a shaky toast. “Hell—it’s five o’clock somewhere!”
So this is Mr. Joseph Ceepak. For a couple years now, I’ve heard horror stories about Ceepak’s father; how the guy loved his booze more than his wife or his two sons. In fact, when Ceepak’s little brother Billy was raped by a priest, Mr. Ceepak ragged him about it so much the kid committed suicide. Jammed a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Oh, man.
I forgot about that.
I forgot about William Philip Ceepak. Just how hard was it for my partner to look at those crime-scene photographs of Shareef Smith and not see his little brother with his skull blown open? Billy’s suicide happened when Ceepak was already in the Army, serving overseas. He wasn’t home to protect his kid brother, wasn’t able to shield him from their father. I don’t think Ceepak has ever forgiven himself for what he once called his “dereliction of duty.”
“Kindly leave,” says Ceepak.
“Or what?”
“We’ll place you under arrest for violating the State of New Jersey’s open container ordinance.”
“This your jurisdiction?”
“I’ll call the state police. They patrol this area quite frequently.”
“What if I’m not holding an open container when they get here?” Mr. Ceepak tosses his foam-cuddled empty at a trash barrel. Misses. “Never was any good at basketball. Hell, son—neither were you. Looked like a spaz out there on the court.” He flaps his hand up and down and makes what he must think is a funny face. “Hey, remember when ‘Santa Claus’ brought you that goddamn bicycle?”
Okay. I’ve heard a few of the Ceepak Family Christmas stories. They’d never make it on the Hallmark Channel unless, you know, they start doing monster movies.
“That was your mother’s idea, that goddamn bike. Oh, you wanted one so bad. Whined to her about it all the time. So I had to ‘curtail my social life.’ That’s what your mother called it. Meant I had to give up my beer money so she could go buy you that goddamn red bike at Kmart. Then she made me take you out to that restaurant parking lot first thing Christmas morning to teach you how to ride the damn thing, remember?”
“Yes.”
So Mr. Ceepak turns to tell me the story.
Hell Hole Page 14