Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Yes, sir. All the time.”

  “Do you remember any of the charms she had on it?”

  “Sure. Some of 'em. Not all. They were pretty, I remember that. I bought her a couple whenever my tips were good enough. I worked at the Perkins Family Restaurant back then. In Erie.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Did she still have that one from New Orleans? I bought her that one. We went down to the World's Fair together in July 1984. I remember the trip. It was a good one. We drove all the way down to Louisiana in my beat-up Buick.” I hear a smile creeping into her voice. “It was real hot and muggy because it was right along the Mississippi river, near that French Quarter they have down there. I guess it was the last summer vacation we ever took together.”

  “How old was your daughter when she left home?”

  “Seventeen. We'd just had a huge fight.”

  “May I ask what about?”

  “What else? Boys. She was fooling around like teenagers do, spending too much time with this boy and that. I warned her what could happen. Told her she could get in big trouble if she weren't careful. Told her that's what happened to me.”

  “You became pregnant as a teenager?”

  “Yes, sir. I ain't proud about it, but I won't lie to you, neither. At the time, I thought I was giving Mary good advice, trying to stop her from doing what I done wrong. She, of course, turned it all around, took it the wrong way. Thought I was saying I wished I'd never had her, which weren't true at all. I loved my baby girl. But she was always Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. Ran away the day after we had that argument. June 14th, 1985. You think it's strange I still remember the date after all these years?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “I went crazy looking for her. Couldn't afford to hire no private detective or nothing like that but I did what I could. Put her picture up everywhere I could think. Even slipped it into the menu binders there at Perkins. The police in Erie put me in touch with the milk carton people and they put her face in front of the whole country for about a month….”

  Her voice drifts off.

  “Ms. Guarneri?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why did you think we had found your daughter's body?”

  “You said you was from Sea Haven. Sea Haven, New Jersey?”

  “That's right.”

  “Mary sent me a postcard from there one time. Only one I ever did get after she took off. Only time I ever even heard from her. I still have it hanging on my refrigerator. ‘Greetings From Sea Haven, New Jersey,’ it says. Looks like a nice beach.”

  “Did Mary tell you anything about the time she spent here? Did she write any kind of message on the back?”

  “Not much. Just … hold on … I'm here in the kitchen. Just a second….”

  We wait while she walks from the phone to the fridge and back again. I wonder how many times she has stared at that particular postcard, how many times she's read the words scribbled on the back.

  “Here we go,” she says when she returns to the phone. She's sniffing back tears. “I'll read it to you. ‘Dear Mom. How are you? I am fine. I am here with some new friends. They are my new brothers and sisters. Do not worry. I am fine. Please forgive me. He already has.’ That's all she wrote.”

  “Who is he?” asks Ceepak. “The one she says forgave her?”

  “I don't rightly know. I figure it must be the boy—the one who got her pregnant. I figure she had an abortion.”

  “Was your daughter pregnant?”

  “I don't know. If she was, she never did tell me. But I always figured that might be what made her run away like that—'specially after I scared her off with my little lecture. Soon as I got that card, I called the police down there in Sea Haven. Spoke to a man … I believe his name was Gus. Yes. Gus. I remember because I had me an uncle named Gus and he sounded a lot like this fellow did. Kind of put-out, you know what I'm saying? Like a customer who hollers at you to hurry up and bring him his coffee because he ain't had any yet.”

  Sounds like our retired desk sergeant: Gus Davis. Or, as we used to call him, “Gus The Grouch.”

  “Was this police officer able to help you in any way?”

  “No. Not really. I called him three or four times that summer and into the fall. Called him near Christmas time, too. He said he'd get back to me if there were any new developments. Guess there never were none. He never did call back.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Well, sir, I don't blame him. Guess it's hard for you folks to find someone if they don't want to be found—'specially when they go and change their name.”

  “Your daughter changed her name?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Ruth.’ That's how she signed the card. Of course, I recognized her handwriting and all. Mary never were no Ruth. That weren't even her middle name. I have no idea why she signed herself that way.”

  Ceepak and I look at each other.

  Ruth.

  It's the name somebody wrote on that specimen jar we found at the Whaling Museum.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  We drive toward the setting sun, over to the bay side of the island.

  Retired desk sergeant Gus Davis spends most of his time on his fishing boat, especially in the summer. He says it helps his marriage: he and his wife get along better if they only see each three times a day—coffee, dinner, and the ten o'clock news.

  Gus's boat, a thirty-eight-footer, is usually docked at the public pier near Cherry Street. Ceepak and I park in a crumbling patch of asphalt close to the pier pilings.

  “Here he comes,” says Ceepak, pointing to a puttering fishing boat followed up the inlet by a flock of hungry gulls.

  Then I hear Gus, yelling at the birds swooping down to check out his catch.

  “Get outta here, you freaking mooch birds! Find your own freaking fish….”

  It's a wonder the birds don't snag their wings on all the poles and antennae and outriggers jutting out above the boat. Gus pulls back on the throttle, churns up some water, and reverses engines to wharf in his berth.

  “Throw me the line, Danny,” he hollers. “Freaking mooch birds!”

  I pick up a coil of rope and toss it down to Gus. He wraps it around a cleat. The birds keep circling and squawking.

  “Here you go, you greedy bastards!”

  Gus scoops his hand into a five-gallon bucket and tosses a tangled chunk of chopped squid as far out as he can. The birds dive bomb and attack it.

  “They can have the freaking bait,” Gus says with a raspy laugh. “But the fluke is all mine.” He hoists a Styrofoam chest up and over the side. I grab it.

  “Good day?” Ceepak asks as Gus moves around the cockpit closing things down.

  “Not bad. You ever eat fluke?”

  “Roger that. However, I believe the restaurant called it ‘summer flounder.’”

  “Same difference. I'll be eating good tonight, boys. I cleaned and gutted on the way in. That's why the birdbrains were giving me the winged escort. I told Fran to drag out the corn meal and pickle relish.”

  Fran is Gus's wife. It's why his boat is called the Lady Fran.

  “You boys be sure to think of me when you're grabbing a cup of bad coffee and a shrink-wrapped sandwich over at the Qwick Pick.”

  Gus just described the typical cop's dinner, purchased at any friendly neighborhood convenience store. Of course, this cop usually adds in a bag of chips, some Ring Dings, and a can of Mountain Dew. Ceepak goes with the bag of baby carrots.

  Gus climbs over the gunwale and up onto the dock. “So, what's up? Fran called on the cell, said you boys were looking for me.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. “We need to ask you a couple questions. About an old case.”

  Gus grimaces. His face is brown with leathery seams. His wispy hair has been bleached white by the sun. I can tell he doesn't much want to talk shop, doesn't want to play cops and robbers anymore. He's retired. Put in his time, picked up his pension. Now all he wants to do is fish and breathe in the salty s
ea air until the day his lungs conk out.

  “Can we make this quick? I'd like to eat my fish while it's still fresh.”

  “Of course,” says Ceepak. “Do you remember a case involving a teenage runaway named Mary Guarneri?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Perhaps. The girl's mother spoke with you several times. She had reason to believe Mary was in Sea Haven.”

  “What kind of reason?”

  “She received a postcard from her daughter.”

  “Is that so? Hunh. Well, I got to be honest—I don't remember any Mary Guarneri. When was this? Couple years ago or something?”

  “1985.”

  “1985? Jesus, Ceepak. That's freaking ancient history.”

  “Agreed. However, the mother spoke with you several times over the course of that summer. Again right before Christmas. I thought perhaps….”

  “Listen, Ceepak—I realize you're relatively new down here, but let me give it to you straight: we have moms and dads calling about their kids all summer, every summer. Sea Haven is a very popular destination for your juvie types. They figure they can head down here, hang out on the beach, sleep under the boardwalk—live the dream, you know what I'm saying? Nothing but sun, sand, and sex.”

  “We have reason to suspect that this girl could have become the victim of foul play.”

  “What reason?”

  “Recently uncovered evidence.” Ceepak doesn't go into the grisly details.

  “Hey,” Gus says with a shrug, “if her mom called, I'm sure we put her name up on the board with the rest of 'em. But I guarantee you we didn't bust our hump searching for this Mary Guarneri kid. Summers, we're crazy busy. You know that. Forty-some officers. Twelve men a shift. We never had the time or manpower to provide station house adjustments for every kid that comes down the shore looking for a good time without telling her parents about it first.”

  “Did you write up an incident report when Ms. Guarneri called? Maybe if we re-examined your records….”

  Gus shakes his head.

  “You're not listening. There aren't any records, no paper at all. These runaway kids were never what you might call a ‘high priority.’ Most of them were druggies or worse. Now if this kid got into some kind of trouble, say she was ripping people off or, you know, dabbling in drug dealing or prostitution or what have you, then we might have something on her.”

  “Do you have reason to suspect she might have been engaged in criminal activity?”

  “Most of these runaways are troublemakers. I wouldn't be surprised if her parents kicked her out of the house, told her to take a hike.”

  “This particular girl's mother was actively searching for her.”

  “Then she's the freaking exception to the rule. Most of these kids, they're like the garbage you fling out your car window, you know what I'm saying? You're happy to be rid of it. Maybe somebody comes along and cleans up your mess, maybe they don't, but you don't really give two shits either way.”

  Ceepak nods but gives Gus the sad eyes that say he could have and should have done better.

  “I gotta go home.” Gus picks up his cooler. “Fran's waiting.”

  Ceepak puts away his notebook, clicks his pen shut.

  “Say ‘hello’ for me.”

  “Yeah.” Gus shambles toward his car. Stops. Turns to face Ceepak. “You might ought to check with that Jesus freak on the boardwalk.”

  “Are you referring to Reverend Trumble?”

  “Yeah. Most of these runaways, sooner or later they get hungry or stink so bad they end up at his place for a hot meal and shower.” Gus shrugs. “Sorry I can't, you know, give you guys anything more.”

  Ceepak smiles. “Don't worry, Gus. It's all good.”

  Gus opens his car door. His lips twitch down into a frown. I get a feeling his fried fluke won't taste so good tonight, no matter how well Fran breads and spices it.

  As his car crunches out of the lot, Ceepak turns to stare at the sun setting behind the skyline of boat antennae. The view kind of reminds me of this fake oil painting that's bolted to the wall in my apartment. My apartment used to be a motel room. Motels use bolts on all their works of art.

  I hear Ceepak sigh.

  “What's up?” I ask, because when he heaves a sigh like that, I always know something is.

  Ceepak turns. Squints. It's not the sun that's causing his eyes to tighten. He's seeing something he'd rather not, something that happened in the past. Something bad.

  “Antwoine James,” he says.

  “Who's he?”

  Ceepak stays quiet. Nods. Finally he says one word: “Exactly.” Then he repeats my question. Slowly. “Who is he?”

  Okay. I think we're entering one of those Ceepak Zen Zones where the complexities of a cruel universe get boiled down to a single simple question that somehow answers everything. At least for him. Me? I've got nothing.

  “Antwoine James was a good man,” he says. “A good soldier. Sixty-seventh Armor Regiment out of Fort Hood, Texas. He was riding in the deuce-and-a-half behind our Hummer … we were on point….”

  He's back in the sandbox. Iraq. The day his topside gunner on the SAW, the Squad Automatic Weapon, took out a taxicab full of innocent civilians. The day the truck behind him was blown to bits by an IED, a roadside bomb.

  “This was early in the conflict. Before we started doing hillbilly armor improvements. Sheet metal sides and firing ports. Of course, the brunt of this particular blast came up through the undercarriage. Side panels wouldn't have helped all that much.”

  Ceepak stops. Water laps against the pilings. Happy gulls chirp in the sky. Soothing seashore sounds surround us, like the mood music you hear on New Age CDs in gift shops. I don't think Ceepak hears any of it. I think he hears exploding bombs and screeching metal and the screams of men who just lost both their arms or legs or worse.

  “Private James did not make it. He died before the choppers arrived. Died with his head in my lap. They shipped his body home in a steel casket with a flag draped over the top. They shipped him home to Dover Air Force base. Delaware.”

  Dover.

  The circled word I saw in Ceepak's notebook.

  “Unfortunately,” he continues, “Antwoine James had no family except the Army. No home except Fort Hood. He was a tough kid from the streets of Houston who joined the Army because he wanted to become something better. When his body arrived in Dover, no one claimed it. No one was allowed to see his coffin in the newspaper or on TV. There was no one to take his folded flag, the flag given on behalf of a grateful nation.”

  Ceepak says the last two words with as much sarcasm as he ever musters. Then he turns to look me in the eye.

  “I'm afraid the nation was too busy to show its gratitude for a young black soldier who grew up in the wrong part of town. He was considered ‘less dead.’”

  Less dead.

  And so, once again, Ceepak helps me understand the significance of solving the Mary Guarneri puzzle.

  Dover. Private Antwoine James.

  Sea Haven. Runaway Mary Guarneri.

  In Ceepak's world, every life is worthy of honor and respect, no matter how shady the circumstances surrounding it. No man is less dead than any other. No child less missed.

  “You hungry?” I say.

  Ceepak blinks. I think I just shocked him out of his dark musings, which was exactly what I was hoping to do.

  “I'm starving,” I chirp like one of those gulls tracking Gus's boat. “Maybe we should head over to Morgan's. We don't have to do the whole surf and turf deal but maybe we could grab some crab cakes or a bowl of chowder….”

  I'm rambling.

  I'm also not really hungry.

  I just think my partner needs to be reminded of what's still good and decent in this world.

  I think he needs a little Rita time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Morgan's Surf and Turf is one of the few restaurants on the island that actually covers its tables with a tablecloth made out of cloth i
nstead of paper.

  And they don't give you a glass full of crayons to scribble on it, either.

  When we got there, around eight P.M., Rita was working five tables. She looked pleased to see us, even if she was busy. Now we're sitting in a big booth at the back, right near the swinging kitchen doors where we can hear dishes clatter and bells ding and the cook yell in Spanish while we wait for our steaming bowls of Morgan's World Famous Clam Chowder to cool down. Only they spell it “Chowda.” All the restaurants down here do. Guess it makes New Jersey sound more like New England. Maybe Cape Cod.

  I'm also eating crackers. They have good ones at Morgan's, not just your basic Saltines. Morgan's gives you variety: Waverly Wafers, Ritz, Melba Toast—even those Sociables with the baked-in black specks that I think are pepper, maybe poppy seeds. Each cracker couple comes sealed inside its own individually labeled cellophane wrapper and they all sit in a tidy row inside a black-and-gold wire basket.

  Classy.

  I have a pile of tooth-torn cellophane wrappers heaped up next to my fork. I also have a light dusting of crumbs in my lap.

  Not so classy.

  I slurp some soup. It's good. Thick and creamy.

  Ceepak has nibbled maybe the corner off one Saltine. For him, chowda is something you stir with a spoon while you ruminate.

  “Hey, Danny!” It's my friend, Olivia Chibbs, the med student. She works summers at Morgan's, which is why she is currently balancing a mammoth tray loaded down with crab-stuffed lobster tails and something that smells like overcooked broccoli. “Hey, Ceepak.”

  “Good evening, Ms. Chibbs.”

  “Where've you been, Danny?” Olivia asks.

  I point to my cop uniform. “Working.”

  “I thought you were on days.”

  “I am.”

  “It's night.”

  “We needed to put in a little overtime,” says Ceepak. I notice he doesn't offer any additional information as to why we're working later than usual. I think it's his hint for me to do likewise, to keep our current mission under wraps as the chief requested.

  “Do you guys get time-and-a-half when you pull OT?” Olivia asks Ceepak nods. “Yes, ma'am. We surely do.” He nibbles another corner off the same Saltine. For a tower of power, the guy eats like a sparrow on a low-carb diet.