Hell Hole

by Chris Grabenstein

  “It was early and the restaurant was closed so the parking lot is empty except for this one car. Guess what? Little Johnny Ceepak hit it! Only one goddamn car in the whole fucking parking lot and he hits it! Bent the frame on his brand new bike so bad, every time he goes out to ride, he’s reminded how he fucked-up Christmas morning because his handlebars are forever pulling to the right.”

  Mr. Ceepak is wheezing with laughter.

  “Danny?” says Ceepak.

  “Sir?” I say it sharply to show Mr. Ceepak how much some people respect his son.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Yes, sir.” I practically salute.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a goddamn minute. We haven’t seen each other in, what, ten, twelve years?”

  They’re like six inches apart now. Face-to-face.

  “Listen, son—I’m not leaving New Jersey until I find her. You know where she is. You tell me, I go away.”

  “Why this sudden urge to locate your ex-wife?”

  “That’s just it, son—she’s not an ‘ex’ anything. We’re Catholics, Johnny, and there’s no such thing as ‘divorce’ in the Catholic Church. Hey, those are the rules. I didn’t write them. I did, however, make certain vows in front of God, the priest, and everybody else in that goddamn church and so did she. ‘Till death do us part.’ Well, Johnny—I’m not dead yet. Neither is she.”

  “So you heard about her inheritance?”

  His father smiles again. “She tell you about that?”

  “We talk on a weekly basis.”

  “Who knew, hunh? Her Aunt Jennifer. No kids. All her sisters and brothers dead. Living all alone in that split-level shack outside Sandusky. Who knew she was sitting on a shitload of stocks and bonds and your mom was her favorite living relative.”

  “They were close.”

  “Yeah, yeah. She played it smart, I’ll grant her that. Angled her way in, kissed the old lady’s ass on a regular basis.”

  “She read books to her when her eyesight failed. Brought her hot meals.”

  “Like I said, she played it smart. But what the hell is your mother going to do with two point three million dollars?”

  “Move further away from you.”

  “She’s still my wife, Johnny. You ask any priest, they’ll tell you. What’s hers is mine. In sickness and health, better or worse, richer or poorer. So where the hell is she?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “You fucking jarhead moron. Fine. Suit yourself. I’ll find her. Of course, if I have to use force to make her keep her vows …”

  “If you touch her, you’ll answer to me.”

  Mr. Ceepak puffs up his chest. If he ate something besides liquid nourishment, he might still be strong. You can see, despite his best efforts to destroy it, his body is pretty fit.

  Ceepak could care less. He eats his vegetables at every meal and could whip his old man with both hands tied behind his back.

  “Stay away from my mother,” he says.

  “Hey, you’re such a good son, how come you don’t call me every week?”

  Ceepak refuses to answer.

  “Still pissed off about Billy, hunh? I was just trying to toughen him up, John. Shit, he was a sissy. A pansy. No wonder the priest diddled him. Probably figured Billy was asking for it.”

  “Danny?”

  Ceepak jerks his head to the side. We turn and walk away.

  “You should get in on this too, Johnny!” Mr. Ceepak shouts after us. “You earned it. Putting up with your mother’s bitching and moaning all these years. Get it while you can, boy. Don’t wait for your reward in heaven. Once you die, you’re done. You hear me, Johnny? You die, you’re done!”

  Geeze-o, man.

  And I thought my dad gave lousy lectures.

  26

  We make our way through the mob of tourists emptying chip bags into their mouths.

  Our brand new cop car is where Murray parked it: haphazardly angled against the curb.

  “Guess we should give Dylan a ticket,” I crack, trying to break some of the father-son tension, which has to be higher than the humidity. It’s at 98 percent. I know because my shirt just attached itself to my back.

  “No need to write up the parking violation, Danny. Police officers are allowed certain leeway in the execution of their official duties.”

  My partner has officially switched into automaton mode. Ceepak does that sometimes. They say a lot of children of drunks become cops and soldiers so they can finally have some control over their screwy world. After hanging with John Ceepak for a couple years, I know that’s where his more robotic moves come from. It’s how he stuffs down the rage. He controls his emotions, clips his words, and recites the nearest rule book. Me? I usually pound the steering wheel and scream.

  I pull out the keys to the Crown Vic.

  “You want to drive?” I ask.

  “Haven’t you heard? I’m a lousy driver.”

  “C’mon, that’s not true.”

  “I was making a joke.”

  “Oh. Cool.”

  Sometimes with Ceepak, it’s hard to hear the punch lines.

  I think the Crown Vic Interceptor is brand new. It has that smell all vehicles come with when they roll off the assembly line. Either that or Murray just ran it over to Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash and had them spritz it with that bottle of “new car scent” instead of the strawberry, which is what I usually go with in my Jeep. Reminds me of this girl I picked up hitchhiking once. Long story.

  We’re cruising up the Parkway, almost to 62, the exit for Sea Haven. Ceepak checks the time. Twelve forty-five PM. The digital clock is in the techno-looking instrument panel. So are the side-window demisters. We didn’t have those in the Explorer. I don’t even know what they do. De-mist, I guess. I fidget with a button on the side of my seat. Ah. Lumbar support.

  “Vargas is our best lead,” says Ceepak.

  Guess he’s focusing on the case to help him forget he has a father.

  “You think the janitor is the one who sold the Hot Stuff heroin to Smith?”

  “It’s a possibility, Danny. Especially since he appears to be friendly with the Feenyville Pirates, a group that’s been on our narcotic-trafficking radar for some time now.”

  “Yeah. It could’ve been a drug deal gone bad.”

  “In any event,” says Ceepak, “Osvaldo Vargas is the closest connection we have between contraband known to be processed and packaged in Sea Haven and Shareef Smith, a traveler who had not yet arrived on our island. We have also seen video of a janitor resembling Vargas moving with a mop and bucket through the rest area concourse close to the time we can surmise Smith was shot. Granted, it was a grainy image and positive identification would prove impossible from that single source … .”

  “But, if he’s somehow connected to the Hot Stuff …”

  “Our chain of circumstantial evidence grows stronger.”

  “So you and the chief think the Feenyville Pirates are the ones running the drug show in Sea Haven?”

  “Yes, Danny.”

  “That why he gave us a new set of wheels?”

  “I believe so. If we can shut down the Hot Stuff drug mill, we will do all of Sea Haven Township a great service.” Ceepak reaches for the radio. Takes him a second to figure out how to use it because it’s brand new, different from the one we destroyed this morning in our other car. “I need to contact the state police.”

  “See how they’re doing with those parking lot cameras? Maybe they have that tape for us.”

  “Good point, Danny. I’ll ask them about that too.”

  He twists and turns the appropriate knobs and dials, and is connected to a scratchy voice at the state police.

  “This is John Ceepak, Sea Haven PD.”

  “Go ahead,” the radio operator answers back.

  “Please be advised that an intoxicated motorist will be leaving the Garden State Parkway rest area at exit fifty-two within the next several minutes.”

  �
�We’ll send over a trooper. Who are we looking for?”

  “Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”

  “Any relation?”

  “He is my father.” He says it without a hint of emotion.

  “Ten-four.”

  “He will be driving a 1992 Chevrolet Cavalier RS Sedan. Florida license B-four-two-HFU. Orange County.”

  Disney World is in Orange County, Florida. I wonder if Mr. Ceepak works there. If he wasn’t so tall, he could play one of the Seven Dwarfs: Boozy.

  “We’ll put this out there,” says the state police dispatcher. “Thanks for the tip. Sorry he’s family.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. Subtext? Me too.

  “Is Superintendent Insana available?” Ceepak now asks.

  “Negative. He has the day off. However, I’ve been trying to phone you with a message … .”

  Man—we so need new cell phones.

  “ … the videotapes you requested will be delivered to SHPD headquarters by one PM. A courier is rushing them over to you now.”

  “Ten-four. Please tell Art thanks when he comes in tomorrow. Appreciate the assist.”

  “Will do.”

  “Over and out.”

  Ceepak slides the mike back into its bracket.

  “Let’s hit the house, Danny. The outdoor tapes may contain a more solid visual link to Vargas.”

  I ease into the right-hand lane. “Maybe Vargas will be right there in the picture! In his janitor uniform, selling drugs to Smith.”

  “Maybe. I sense it was the drug dealer’s arrival that prompted Shareef to tell his sister his ‘friend’ had arrived. And, as you might recall, Smith’s vehicle was parked very close to one of those lampposts. The video image should be well-lit.”

  Meaning we get a crisp, clean shot of whomever brought Shareef Smith his goody bag. Better evidence than a grainy image of a fuzzy blob pushing a fuzzier bucket.

  “So,” I say, “even though you haven’t seen your father in like a dozen years, you know what kind of car he drives and his license plate number?”

  “He isn’t the only one who knows how to locate someone. I’ve been keeping tabs on him for a while now. More so this week.”

  “Is your mom at the Holiday Inn? The one where you had Starky take the Smith sisters?”

  “Yes, Danny. Please tell no one.”

  “Of course not. So, when did she get to town?”

  “Very late Friday.”

  “Ah-hah! That’s why you were on the road!”

  I earn a nod and small smile. “Apparently, I’m not the only ‘detective’ in this car.”

  “Hey, I had a good teacher.”

  When we hit the house we get word that Starky radioed in to report “her cargo is secure.”

  “What’s that mean?” asks Reggie Pender, our desk sergeant.

  “She delivered some items for me,” says Ceepak.”

  “Well, this was delivered for you.” He hands Ceepak a digital tape cassette. “Anything good?”

  “Porno,” I say, just to bust his chops.

  “Really?” he busts back. “I thought it might be your recent appearance on Fox TV’s Wildest Police Car Wrecks.”

  While Pender and I rev up for round two of our snap-fest, Ceepak’s ready to see what’s on the tape.

  “Danny?”

  “Catch you later, Reg.”

  “Later, Boyle.”

  Ceepak slips the tape into the player. A black-and-white image fills our twelve-inch monitor. The screen is divided into quadrants.

  “This must be the control room tape,” says Ceepak.

  I do the math: “Must be four cameras in the parking lot.”

  Ceepak taps the screen. “Two on the southbound side. Two on the north.”

  “Smith was parked in the northbound lot,” I say. “He was coming up to Sea Haven from Baltimore.”

  “Roger that. Focus on the top two boxes.”

  “It’ll be the upper right-hand corner. That’s the light pole next to where he parked.”

  “Good eye, Danny.”

  “Should we scroll through? Advance to like ten PM?”

  “Agreed.”

  Ceepak works the remote. Takes us up to 21:50 in the digital time stamp.

  We watch.

  For ten minutes.

  Cars move in and out. Their headlights flare when they hit a bump and bounce a beam directly into the lens. Security cameras can’t really handle direct contact with halogens.

  Twelve minutes.

  More cars. Couple tour buses. People coming out with cardboard trays jammed with French fries and milk shakes. An early midnight snack.

  “There!” says Ceepak. I check the time clock: 22:03. Three minutes after 10:00 PM.

  Okay. This is creepy. It’s the Ford Focus. We watch Shareef Smith’s little car pull into the empty parking spot near the base of the towering lamppost.

  “That’s him,” I say, because I have to blurt out something. It’s just too weird to know we are sitting here watching what will be the final moments in a young man’s life. In less than half an hour, Shareef Smith will be dead.

  For five minutes, he just sits there. At one point, the dome light inside his car comes on. Then it snaps back off. Maybe he was reading a map. Maybe that Yahoo! MapQuest deal telling him how to get to the party house. At seven minutes, there’s another flash of light inside the Ford Focus. It only lasts for an instant.

  “Cigarette,” I say.

  Ceepak nods but doesn’t say anything, his eyes glued to the screen.

  “There! Who’s that?” 22:09. Nine minutes past ten.

  “His friend,” says Ceepak.

  It’s not the janitor. Not Vargas. The guy seen in silhouette is too tall.

  He also has a limp.

  Ceepak says it first: “Lieutenant Worthington.”

  27

  The quadrant we’re staring at goes black at 22:20—five minutes after Worthington, and Smith walked away from the car, heading, we assume, for the men’s room.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Seems someone cut the cable.”

  “Who? The Feenyville Pirates?”

  “Perhaps,” says Ceepak. “In anticipation of their illegal activities in that sector of the parking lot.”

  “Breaking into Shareef’s car.”

  He nods. Makes sense. They’d probably been casing the rest stop for a while. Knew which poles had surveillance cameras mounted on them.

  “Unfortunately,” says Ceepak, “we won’t be able to witness the actual burglary.”

  “But now we know it was Worthington who met Smith at exit fifty-two!”

  Suddenly, it all makes sense.

  Corporal Shareef Smith was coming up to Sea Haven to see Ceepak. He was bringing along evidence to show the world how the brave son of Senator Winslow W. Worthington actually won his Purple Heart: he shot his own foot.

  Somehow, Lieutenant Worthington found out about it.

  “I think Smith was blackmailing Worthington!” I blurt out.

  Ceepak cocks an eyebrow. “How so? His sisters tell us Shareef had come up here to speak with me. To show me something.”

  “Exactly! You were the threat he was using to get to Worthington. Otherwise, if he was really only coming up here to see you, he would’ve called first. How would he know if you were even in town this weekend? He’d call and say, ‘Hi, this is Shareef Smith, the guy you saved in Sadr City. You busy Friday?’”

  “Perhaps, Danny. Perhaps.”

  “Smith knew who Worthington’s father was. He also knew that the truth about the Purple Heart might ruin Daddy’s chances for becoming president. I’ll bet Smith figured he was in line for a big payday—enough money to buy all kinds of dope for the rest of his life. So Worthington left the party on Kipper Street. He snuck out, made sure to pick up that pineapple juice at the Qwick Pick, just in case anybody asked him where he’d been, and drove like a bat out of hell down to the rest area to chat with his old friend Shareef. He probably brought al
ong a peace offering: a dime bag of Hot Stuff heroin, which he bought somewhere here in Sea Haven. I’m figuring he dealt with the Feenyville Pirates and then, while he was making his drug purchase, he inquired about what other services they might provide. You know—arson, murder for hire. I’ll bet Worthington paid Osvaldo Vargas, maybe even Nichols and Shrimp, to stage the suicide in the toilet stall and clean up afterwards. Then, they all went out into the parking lot and tore through Smith’s car looking for whatever it was he had intended to show you if Worthington didn’t pay.

  “When they couldn’t find it, the Feenyville boys took the air bags and CD changer as consolation prizes. Worthington tried to locate whatever it was he was looking for again—Saturday morning after the state police hauled Smith’s car over to the house on Kipper, before the sisters got there to pick it up. He crawled around inside, ripped up the carpet in the trunk, kept searching, still couldn’t find what he was looking for, got distracted, and put the carpet back in backwards, which is why the oil stain was on the wrong side! Then he or his father had those bodyguard goons sabotage our tires! If they couldn’t get rid of the evidence, they figured they’d get rid of you! Me too! Worthington did it! He killed Smith and he almost killed us!”

  Okay. I’m exhausted. That’ll happen when you crack a case wide open in one fell swoop.

  It’ll also happen if all you do is rapidly recite everything you’d been thinking about all day.

  Ceepak gives my strenuous mental gymnastics a moment of respectful silence.

  “Interesting theory, Danny.”

  “You think I’m right?”

  “I think there’s a certain logic to what you suggest. However, we need more concrete evidence.”

  “Like what? We could interrogate Vargas. Find out if Worthington hired him. We could also totally nail those bodyguard dudes. Even that one who’s an ex—Navy SEAL. You could handle him, easy!”

  “I’d rather concentrate on locating the Hot Stuff heroin drug dealer,” says Ceepak. “He, or she, would be able to identify Lieutenant Worthington and considerably tighten our evidence chain.”

  “Okay. Fine. We could do that. But how do we locate whatever it was Smith was bringing here to show you?”