Fun House (John Ceepak Mystery)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Yeah,” I say. “Sorry.”

  “Sure, sure. I understand. No problem.” Adkinson tucks the clipboard back under the counter. “You have to serve to the best of your ability, no matter who’s running the show.”

  “However,” says Ceepak, “should you or your campaign team find yourselves canvassing the area around the Bagel Lagoon, be sure to stop by our apartment and ask Rita to sign. I’m certain she would support your candidacy. Now then, the car?”

  “Come on. Becca’s around back, guarding it.”

  We head out of the office, scoot around the lip of the pool, and head through an arched breezeway with waves painted on the walls that takes us under the second-floor sundeck and out to the rear parking lot.

  “Hey, Danny. Hey, Ceepak.”

  Becca is dressed in a short shirtdress over her bathing suit, the better to show off her tan.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Ms. Adkinson,” says Ceepak.

  Usually, when the two of us drop by, Becca starts flirting like crazy with my partner because she has long been an admirer of the chiseled male physique. Today, despite her billowy shirtdress and funky ant-eyes sunglasses, she seems a little more subdued.

  “There’s like a bullet hole or something in the door over there,” she says.

  Mr. Adkinson drapes his arm over his daughter’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s head back inside. Let Danny and Ceepak do their jobs.”

  Becca tries to smile. “Thanks, you guys.”

  After the Adkinsons leave, Ceepak crouches down, peers through the open window.

  “We better call Botzong,” he says. “Ask him to send over his best ballistics tech.”

  “Right.”

  As I’m reaching for my radio, a state police car comes crawling around the corner, crunching the tiny shells scattered across the asphalt.

  “Guess they read our minds,” I say, re-clipping the walkie-talkie to my utility belt.

  “Or they were monitoring SHPD transmissions, as they typically do.”

  Okay. Or that.

  One of Botzong’s CSI techs climbs out of the back seat lugging an attache case, the kind copier-repair people carry.

  “Officers Ceepak and Boyle?” she says. “I’m Detective Jeanne Wilson, MCU. Bill sent me over.”

  Ceepak gestures at the Mustang. “It’s all yours. We’re going inside to interview the witness who called it in.”

  We’re in the small office off the front counter, the room where the night clerk does up everybody’s bills on the computer.

  Becca looks a little odd, sitting behind the big gunmetal-gray desk her dad picked up at the thrift shop over in Avondale. She’s taken off the sunglasses but, with her blonde hair done up in a topknot like Pebbles Flintstone and that shirtdress draping off one shoulder, she still looks like a beach bunny pretending to be a grownup. Mr. Adkinson is behind her, leaning up against the credenza, monitoring the sputtering coffeemaker that’s brewing us all a fresh pot of caffeinated mud.

  “When did you first notice the vehicle’s presence in your parking lot?” asks Ceepak.

  “This morning, when I was taking a load of towels out to the laundry room. I mean, it’s probably been parked out back for a while, but cars always are. I don’t really pay much attention to them. Sorry.”

  “I take it the Mustang did not belong to a registered guest?”

  “Nope,” says Mr. Adkinson. “I ran the plates through our records. Unlike a lot of motels, we have more spaces than rooms. Sometimes families take two units, but arrive in one car. A minivan or whatever.”

  “So there are typically empty spaces in your lot?”

  “Yeah. Except Saturdays, when the day-trippers show up. If they behave and we have space, I let ’em park.”

  “For free,” Becca adds, sounding astonished.

  Her dad smiles. “It’s good for business. Maybe not mine, but, well, Skipper Dipper across the street sells a couple extra ice cream cones and maybe, one day, they recommend my motel. It all comes out in the wash.”

  “Can I ask a question?” I say.

  “Certainly,” says Ceepak.

  “You guys ever see any motorcycles parked back there?”

  “Sure,” says Mr. Adkinson. “Sometimes.”

  I keep going. “You ever hear one pull in at like two or three in the morning?”

  Becca gasps. Her cheeks flush red. “Shut the front door!”

  Like father, like daughter.

  “How did you know that, Danny?”

  “I—”

  “Daddy, do you have a security camera aimed at the pool?”

  “Yeah. For—”

  Becca whips back at me. “Danny—did you see me naked?”

  26

  “WHAT?” I SORT OF SPUTTER.

  “Did you see me naked?”

  “Not in the pool—”

  “I can not believe this.…”

  “Sweetheart?” says her dad, reassuringly, “I turn the pool camera off when we lock it up at eleven P.M.”

  “Oh. Then how did you know, Danny?”

  I toss up my hands. “Know what?”

  “A week ago. Last Thursday night. I’d been out on a very bad date. Jim and I broke up. For good this time.”

  “Thank goodness,” her father editorializes.

  “Daddy?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Afterwards, I couldn’t get to sleep. So, at like three in the morning, I came down, opened up the pool and, you know, took a dip.”

  Me and Mr. Adkinson sort of nod slowly.

  Ceepak, however, has his note pad out and needs the facts. “Naked?” he says.

  “Yes.” Becca is blushing like she’s swallowed a stoplight. “When I need to unwind, sometimes I skinny-dip.”

  “Did you adjust the chemicals afterwards?” asks her father.

  Becca sighs. “Yes, Daddy. I showered off before jumping in and I adjusted the chemicals after I got out, okay?”

  Mr. Adkinson holds up both hands to make the classic “hey-I-was-just-asking” gesture.

  “Did you see or hear anything?” asks Ceepak.

  She nods. “I heard a motorcycle pull into the parking lot, just like Danny said.”

  “At 3 A.M.?” says her dad.

  “Or a little after.”

  Guess she wasn’t even wearing a watch.

  “Did you go out back to see who was pulling in at that hour?” asks Ceepak.

  “No. I was naked. I swam over to side of the pool and tried to hide.”

  Ceepak leans forward in his chair. “What did you hear, Becca? This is very important. Try to remember everything.”

  “Okay.” She closes her eyes. “The motorcycle cut out its engine. I remember thinking, ‘Oh, great. Whoever it is, they’re gonna come through the breezeway and see me.’ So I dunked my head under the water. When I came back up for air, I heard a car door open and slam shut. And then …” She squeezes her eyes tighter. “Another car door thunked open.”

  “You’re sure?” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah, because then I heard it thunk shut again.”

  I glance over at Ceepak. This doesn’t make sense. Why did Paul Braciole drive the Mustang over to the Mussel Beach Motel when he left Mandy’s place? Why did he get out of the car, and then go back and open and shut the door again? Did he have something in the car the killer on the motorcycle wanted?

  “Did you hear a gunshot?” I ask.

  “No,” says Becca.

  Okay. Maybe the killer used some kind of noise suppressor on the muzzle of his weapon.

  “Perhaps a soft popping sound?” asks Ceepak.

  “Nope,” says Becca. “There were no more sounds for a while, except, of course, the water gurgling down the drain.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “I waited. Like five or ten minutes. Then, since everything was still quiet, I figured whoever it was had gone down to the beach or whatever. So, I climbed out, found my towel, grabbed my clothes, and ran up the st
eps to the second floor.”

  She pauses.

  “What is it, Becca?” I say.

  “When I got to the top of the staircase, I had to cut across the sundeck to get to my room. I wrapped myself up in the towel and tiptoed as quietly as I could. That’s when the motorcycle started up again.” She puts her hand to her heart. “It startled me. So I looked down. Saw the two people on the motorcycle.”

  “Two?” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah. The driver and a passenger behind him, hanging on tight to his waist.”

  “You’re certain the motorcyclist was a man?” says Ceepak.

  “No. Not really. He had on one of those tinted racing helmets and like a leather jumpsuit, so I guess he could’ve been a girl.”

  “And the passenger?”

  “Oh. He had on a helmet, but I could tell: he was definitely a guy. He was wearing a muscle shirt to show off his biceps and junk—just like Paulie always did on Fun House.”

  Becca’s eyes go wide.

  “Omigod. That was him, wasn’t it? On the back of the motorbike. Right before he died.”

  “Perhaps,” says Ceepak.

  Because it could have been Paul Braciole right after he died.

  Right after somebody shot him in the rear parking lot of the Mussel Beach Motel.

  27

  WHEN WE LEAVE THE MUSSEL BEACH MOTEL OFFICE TO CHECK in with Detective Wilson, the CSI tech working over the Mustang in the rear parking lot, Ceepak has that look on his face.

  The one he always gets when something about a case is bugging him. It’s like indigestion mixed with intense concentration. Makes him look like a grumpy old man sizing up his sock drawer, wondering why he has so many argyles that don’t match.

  “What doesn’t fit?” I ask, since he usually gets these queasy squints when one piece of the puzzle won’t lock into place with all the others, no matter how hard he tries to force it in around the edges.

  “The sounds. The motorcycle cuts out its engine. A car door opens and closes. A second car door opens and closes.”

  “Maybe Paulie knew the guy on the motorbike. Maybe Mr. Motorcycle wanted something Paulie had in the car, so Paulie went back to get it.”

  Ceepak’s head is nodding, even though his brain has raced off to wrestle with the illogic of it all.

  “Maybe Paulie wanted to give the guy an autographed bobblehead doll.”

  This brings Ceepak back to earth. “A bobblehead?”

  “Yeah. They make them of the whole Fun House cast. I bet Braciole had a bunch of his that he signed and gave away to people.”

  “I see. But why would Ms. Keenan keep a supply of these Paulie dolls in her car?”

  Oh. Right. It wasn’t Paulie’s ride. It’s Mandy’s Mustang. So, unless he had bobblehead dolls stuffed in his trousers, my idea is basically idiotic.

  So I shut up and let Ceepak woolgather while we walk around the pool and head through that arched breezeway for the back parking lot.

  Detective Jeanne Wilson is standing near the Mustang’s driver-side door, peeling off her latex gloves. She hears us approaching, turns around.

  “This is where he was killed,” she says.

  “The parking lot?” says Ceepak.

  “No. Sorry. I should’ve been more specific. From my examination of the evidence, I can state with a high degree of confidence that Paul Braciole was murdered inside this vehicle. Where it was parked at the time of his death, however, I cannot say with any certainty.”

  “Can you even be certain it was parked when he was murdered?” asks Ceepak.

  “I believe so,” says Detective Wilson. “Otherwise, well—we would have found this car wrapped around a telephone pole or totaled in somebody’s front lawn.”

  Ceepak nods. He agrees. You shoot someone while they’re driving, there’s usually collateral damage.

  “I still want to match the blood,” says the CSI tech, gesturing through the open window toward the passenger-side door and the bullet hole in the upholstery. “I was able to scrape a tiny sample from the interior of the bullet hole.”

  “Did you also extract a bullet?”

  “Nope. I think the killer took it. Then he tried to swab out the hole with a cloth wrapped around his gloved index finger, but he missed a few drops. I found them. They were baked in pretty good.”

  “Suggesting,” says Ceepak, “that the vehicle has been parked here for some time.”

  “I’d say at least a week. With the windows open.”

  “Interesting,” says Ceepak, crouching down into a squat to peer across the front seat and gaze at the crater in the quilted padding above the passenger-side armrest.

  “Why would they roll down the windows?” asks Ceepak.

  “I don’t think the killer did that. I suspect Mr. Braciole had his window down before the bad guy shot him; otherwise the glass would be shattered.”

  Ceepak peeks down into the thin window channel. Pulls out his Maglite so he can check out whatever lurks down in the darkness of the door.

  “I see no signs of the glass being punctured. No radiating fissure lines.”

  “Exactly,” says Wilson.

  Ceepak stands up. Pockets his miniature flashlight.

  “Have you dusted the interior for fingerprints?”

  Wilson shakes her head. “Not yet. But I’m pretty sure we won’t find any.”

  “Bleaching?” says Ceepak.

  “I think so. There’s no smell of it. Another reason to leave the windows open—let the car air out till somebody found it ditched in a parking lot behind a motel. We’ll do a luminol test. See if we can find any residual traces of blood. But the killer wiped things down pretty good. I only found the blood droplets because they were hidden deep inside that hole.”

  “Wait a second,” I say.

  Both Ceepak and Detective Wilson turn to look at me.

  “If Paulie was shot in the car, how could he be opening and closing the door to give away bobblehead dolls?”

  “Exactly,” says Ceepak.

  “Huh?” says Wilson.

  “Sorry,” says Ceepak. “My partner and I have been hypothesizing possible scenarios based on information obtained from a witness who may have seen the killer drive away with the victim’s body.”

  “The motorcycle?”

  “Right. It is possible,” Ceepak continues, spitballing an idea to see if it makes enough sense to stick, “that the doors opening and closing our witness heard were connected to the killer removing Mr. Braciole’s body from the car.”

  “So you think he was murdered here?” says Wilson.

  “We can’t be certain at this juncture.” Ceepak glances around the parking lot. “And, after a week, it’s doubtful that we’ll find any evidence suggesting this parking lot was, indeed, the murder scene. No shell casing, for instance.”

  “The killer probably picked it up,” adds Wilson. “Just like they dug the bullet out of the door.”

  “Okay,” I say, “the first opening and shutting was to drag Paulie’s body out the driver-side door. The second set was so they could gouge out the slug from the passenger-side door.”

  “It’s a possibility,” says Ceepak, like he always does when my answer may not be the only one—or even close to the real one.

  “You guys remember Mr. Braciole’s bullet wound?” asks Detective Wilson.

  Ceepak taps his left temple. “In front and slightly above his left ear.”

  “Correct. Then it exits somewhat lower on the right side of his skull.” She taps her right cheek, just above the jawbone. “If you imagine Paul Braciole sitting in the driver seat, line up that hole in his temple with the hole in the door panel.”

  She stands about a foot away from the door. Holds up her right hand and turns it into a finger pistol aimed so it’s pointing down at a slight angle to the hole in the passenger-side panel.

  “This was a very clean kill,” she continues. “One bullet to the brain. The shooter was good; knew precisely where to place their single bull
et. An amateur would’ve probably blown through a whole magazine of shells.”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Here’s how I figure this thing plays out, wherever it took place,” says Detective Wilson. “Paulie parks somewhere or stops at a red light. Our killer is tailing him, probably on that motorcycle. When they see their chance, maybe at a stoplight, they stop, dismount, and stroll up beside the car. Very cool, very casual. Or, maybe they stumble a little—to pretend they’re drunk and weaving their way home, which would explain why they’re walking in the middle of the road, coming up on the driver side of the car.

  “Paulie’s behind the wheel. Maybe fiddling with the radio. Adjusting mirrors, trying to figure out where everything is on this girl’s car. When our doer gets to the window, he or she whips up their pistol in two seconds flat. They aim and fire—one shot that goes clean through Paulie Braciole’s skull and embeds in the far door.”

  “Your hypothetical killer is quite skilled,” says Ceepak.

  Detective Wilson nods. “The best.”

  “You’ve seen this sort of killing before?”

  “Once or twice. It’s a quick and clean execution technique perfected by a rebel group in the Philippines called the National People’s Army. They used to target U.S. troops and diplomats. The assassin walks up to your car window while you’re waiting at a stoplight, whips out their rod, and bam. You’re dead before red changes to green.”

  This makes no sense.

  “So,” I say, “we’re looking for somebody from the Philippines?”

  “Doubtful,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah,” adds the techie. “The NPA may have invented the move but, these days, the technique’s very popular with all sorts of professional hit men.”

  A pro.

  The kind of killer who would know precisely where to place a single shot to ensure a quick death. The kind of professional hit man a motorcycle gang like The Creed probably has on its roster.

  “So,” I say, “if that’s what happened, then this has to be where Paulie was murdered, or else the car wouldn’t be parked here, right?”

  Ceepak doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps staring through that open window. Detective Wilson does the same thing.