“Ralph's even luckier,” I say. “He lives on a boat. A houseboat.”
“I am envious,” says Teddy. “Fortunately, I was able to get out on the ocean this afternoon. Usually, I rent my own vessel. Captain it myself. Today, however, I took a quick charter with my wife.”
I cock an eyebrow.
He gets it.
“Now before you condemn me as an adulterous scoundrel, hear me out: my wife takes certain antidepressant medications that serve to suppress her libido, forcing me to seek ‘relief,’ if you will, elsewhere.”
Some people take Rolaids, he takes redheads.
“We're staying at a bed-and-breakfast,” he says, making it sound like a sewage treatment plant. “Place called Chesterfield's. God, how I hate B&Bs.”
“How come?”
“Nothing but middle-aged couples hoping to rekindle some semblance of their fading romances. Housewives desperate to get laid at least once a year so they drag their husbands into tarted-up Victorian houses filled with dishes of potpourri. There, one is encouraged to eat breakfast in a communal dining room with these … people. Fat people, mostly. Obese. You should see them scarfing down the homemade cranberry-pineapple muffins. As they ooh and aah over the scones, you are compelled to imagine them naked—aahing and oohing while they do what you know they did the night before.”
Now he's grossing me out worse than Miriam's nose. I change the subject.
“So you went fishing?”
“Indeed. I thought a quick fishing expedition might cheer my wife. Revive her sagging spirits. She, however, quickly became seasick. Vomited over the starboard railing. We had to turn about and come back to dock early. The charter captain, by the way, was a very decent fellow. Only charged me for the hour we were out, not the three we booked. Quite gregarious, too. On the way back, he told the most amusing stories.”
“Was it Cap'n Pete?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Sure. Everybody knows Cap'n Pete. He's a local institution.”
“As he should be. Anyway, if you see this redhead, let me know.” He hands me a business card. “Call my cell.”
I tuck the card into my shirt pocket—not because I want to pimp for Theodore “Teddy” Winston but because I'd like Ceepak to meet this guy. Call me crazy but I have a hunch he'll want to ask this scalpel-wielding perfectionist a few more questions about “chicks” named Ruth and Miriam.
Maybe even Lisa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday morning starts like Monday: at seven-thirty A.M. in the roll call room.
Only today Sergeant Pender is manning the podium instead of Chief Baines. I think the chief's in his office. Blow-drying his hair.
“Ceepak,” says Pender, “you and Boyle can continue your ‘special investigation’ until oh-nine hundred. After that, we need you guys working crowd control at the Sand Castle site. The heavy machinery starts rolling at ten A.M.”
Ceepak isn't happy. “Will do. However, that gives us insufficient time to follow up some very significant leads.”
Pender shrugs.
“Sorry. The chief gives me the marching orders;
I pass 'em on to you.”
Ceepak nods. “Roger that. Understood.”
Pender looks down to the podium, checks his notes.
“We almost done here?” says Dom Santucci, yawning and leaning back in his chair. “Me and Malloy are working a special investigation, too.”
Sergeant Pender looks confused.
“I don't see anything in the book….”
“That's because it's super-secret. The chief doesn't even know about it.” Santucci pauses. Looks around the room. Acts like he's about to say something he shouldn't, which is what he does all day.
“You see….”
We wait.
He whispers: “We're trying to locate and apprehend a decent cup of coffee.”
Santucci's partner, Malloy, smirks and crosses his thick arms across his washing-machine-size chest. The two of them like to act bored every morning because they think they're better than all the other cops in the room. They also like to roll their short-sleeve shirts up into a cuff so everybody can see just how big and impressive their bulging arm muscles look this early in the day.
Reggie Pender frowns.
“Funny, Dom. Real funny. Maybe you guys will be able to track down that coffee up on the North End. You're working it today.”
Malloy moans. “The North End? Jesus, crap….”
“We have seniority,” says Santucci. “We've been on the job longer than anybody in this room. Longer than you or the chief. We want the beach and boardwalk.”
“Sorry. Ceepak and Boyle have that assignment.
“How come?”
“That's what the chief wants.”
“We used to have some rules around here, you know? Rules regarding seniority and who works where….”
“Look, Dom—you have a complaint, take it up with the chief. Right now, do your job. Hit the streets. Hit the North End. Go find that damn coffee. Dismissed.”
Pender gathers up his notes.
Santucci's seething. His face is so purple he looks like the Fruit of the Loom grape. “We're not done here, Sergeant Pender.”
“Yes we are. Like I said—you have a complaint, take it to the chief.”
Pender marches out the door.
The second he's gone, Santucci gets in Ceepak's face.
“You bucking for detective?”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. I've been hocking the chief for months to bump me up to detective grade. This department needs one. Full-time. We need a good one.”
“I have never once discussed job titles with the chief.”
“Bullshit.”
No. If Ceepak says it, it's true, because Ceepak cannot tell a lie. If he ever chops down a cherry tree, he'll hand you the axe and arrest himself.
Santucci won't let it drop. “So how come the chief gave you that Mickey Mouse microscope upstairs?”
“I have an interest in forensics that Chief Baines finds useful to our ongoing mission to keep Sea Haven safe.”
“Bullshit. You want to fight me for the detective job? Fine. Bring it on. I know my shit. Backwards and forwards. So when you and junior here screw up whatever it is you're investigating, don't worry—me and Malloy will bail your ass out.” He turns to his partner. “Come on, Mark. Let's go investigate us that cup of coffee.”
“Roger that,” says Malloy, mocking Ceepak. “Roger-dodger that!”
The two cops march out of the room, hiking up their gun belts so they can swagger even better.
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You ready to roll?”
“Roger that,” I say with a smile Ceepak smiles back. “Then it's all good.”
Since we don't have much time before we're back on Sand Castle duty, Ceepak picks Reverend Trumble as our most pressing lead. We hop in the Ford Explorer and set out for his headquarters. Ceepak takes the wheel.
“What's eating Santucci?” I ask. “Whataya think crawled up his butt?”
“Can't say for certain,” says Ceepak. “Furthermore, I've never been inclined to investigate.”
I think he just cracked a joke. He does that sometimes. More since he met Rita.
“I suspect, however, he finds himself in an uncomfortable position. I am, indeed, still somewhat new on the Sea Haven Police Force. Perhaps I have violated some unwritten code and inadvertently disrupted Sergeant Santucci's perceived career path.”
I change the subject.
“Hey, how about that doctor I was telling you about? The vacationing surgeon who was coming here all the time in the ’80s?”
Ceepak nods.
“He definitely makes our list, Danny.”
We pull into a parking slot out front of The Sonny Days Inn. It's eight A.M. Very early morning or—judging from the bleary-eyed looks on the kids standing in the straggly chow line—very, very late at ni
ght.
Ceepak tells me the plan. “We spend fifteen minutes questioning Reverend Trumble about Mary Guarneri and the church charm. See if he remembers her. Immediately afterward, we survey the scene.” He nods toward the line of hungry young beach bums. “Try to spot the pickpocket. See if she showed up for breakfast again this morning.”
“Right.”
“Then, time permitting, we can follow up on this Dr. Theodore Winston you encountered last evening.”
“Who maybe started practicing his surgical skills before he had his medical license?”
“Let's not jump to any conclusions, Danny.”
“Yeah, I know … innocent until proven otherwise. But, trust me—he's definitely guilty of being an asshole.”
“Let's roll,” is all Ceepak says.
We take our place at the end of the breakfast line.
One of the blondes we saw yesterday is automatically inking her rubber stamp as each person approaches. When we reach the head of the line, she's all set to brand a shining sun on our hands to prove we're good to go for grub.
“We're not here to eat,” says Ceepak. “We're here to see Reverend Trumble.”
“He's busy. In the kitchen.”
Exactly how Ceepak wanted him.
“This is important,” he says.
“So is breakfast—for the weary and the lost.”
“Yes, ma'am. However, this is a pressing police matter.”
She looks at us. The morning sun glints off Ceepak's badge. I should probably polish mine more often.
“I see. Catherine?” She calls to a nearby girl whose smile is way too sunny for 8:05 A.M. It looks pasted on. “Please take over here.”
“Of course, sister.”
Sister? I'm starting to wonder if the Reverend Billy's acolytes are all nuns. Maybe Moonies.
“This is not the best time,” says their leader.
“The Sea Haven Police Department appreciates your cooperation.”
I love how Ceepak can kick butt and sound polite doing it.
We're with Reverend Trumble in his office. He didn't want to talk to us in the kitchen; too many devoted followers eavesdropping while they juggled their cast iron skillets. Scraping up scrambled eggs instead of loaves and fishes. French toast for the faithful. Saving souls with Entenmann's Danish rings.
“Tell us about the church charms,” says Ceepak.
Trumble, though impatient, answers carefully. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't this. “For several years, I gave one to every girl who sought solace here. Charm bracelets, however, are no longer fashionable. So I stopped doing it.
“But when you were handing them out … ?”
“I gave away dozens. I ordered them from a catalog … a jewelry company in Pennsylvania….”
“New Bethlehem Creations?”
“Yes, I believe that's correct.”
I take it Ceepak put the sterling silver charm under his microscope last night, identified the company mark stamped into its bottom.
“The tiny church had an open roof,” says Trumble. “A beautifully symbolic representation of our Lord's open and loving spirit. Jesus longs to take His wayward children back into His loving embrace.”
“Tell me, Reverend,” says Ceepak, “do you remember a young girl named Mary Guarneri?”
Trumble shakes his head. “I'm sorry. I do not ever reveal the names of those in my flock.”
“You might have known her as Ruth.”
“Again, Officer, I must insist on protecting the privacy of those who seek shelter here.”
“What about a Miriam?”
Trumble is silent. Then, we get another, “I am sorry.”
But Ceepak doesn't give up. “How about Lisa? Lisa DeFranco?”
“I cannot help you.”
“Did you know Lisa DeFranco?”
Reverend Billy sighs. “If this Lisa DeFranco was here,” he says, “she was obviously a short-term resident.”
“Do you remember her?”
“No. But I can tell you: this girl did not elect to repent her sins.”
“How so?”
“Any young woman who chose to follow our path for any significant length of time would have taken a new name to celebrate her rebirth in Jesus Christ. A biblical name. Anyone named ‘Lisa’ would not be counted among the saved.”
“Why do their names have to be changed?”
“In the sacrament of Baptism, they are asked to choose a new name. One from Holy Scripture to help them remember the day they became a new person, the day they were born again.”
“And so a Mary could become Ruth?”
“I have talked with you enough.” He looks at us steadily.
Ceepak makes some notes in his spiral notebook.
“What happens to these girls once they leave your ministry?”
Trumble shakes his head sadly. “Hard to say. I suppose most return home to their parents or find gainful employment here in town. Others simply drift away. I only hope I am able to make some lasting impression on their young souls.”
I, of course, am thinking about the impressions someone made with a sharp blade on their young faces.
Ceepak closes his notebook, giving up. For now. I can tell he has a grudging admiration for Trumble's desire to put young people on the right path. But I know he'd admire the guy more if the Reverend answered his questions.
“Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I still have hungry souls in need of their daily bread.”
Ceepak nods. Trumble heads for the door.
I think about these young girls who, years ago, came through the doors of the Sonny Days Inn. How they picked up church charms and biblical names. How maybe some of them suffered fates that hardly resembled “salvation.”
You have to wonder. Was the French toast worth it?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
We follow after Trumble into a room set up with six cafeteria tables and three dozen folding chairs—all currently occupied by hungry young folk scarfing down breakfast off thin paper plates.
The Reverend moves behind a chafing dish to scoop up portions of what looks like scrambled eggs but could be yellow cottage cheese. He has given us all the information he plans on serving up today. Ceepak doesn't push it. Not this morning. But I have a hunch we'll be back.
“What about redheads,” Ceepak asks, his eyes scanning the chow line. “I don't see any girls….”
“Me neither.”
Suddenly, I spot Stacey. She's standing by the door.
I know I should point her out to Ceepak. But I don't. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe I don't want him knowing that, on my days off, I spend my time picking up jailbait I find hitchhiking by the side of the road. I know she's a thief, stole my twenty and Dr. Teddy's hundred, but there's really no evidence to suggest that she's the beach bandit, too. Except, of course, the eyewitness description. And the fact that she's here with a rubber-stamped hand.
Okay, I'm embarrassed.
If I finger her, she'll just ID me right back. Tell Ceepak and Reverend Billy's assembled multitudes what kind of skeeve I truly am.
I decide not to say anything.
I'll just have to take full responsibility for any twenties she swipes down the line from upstanding Sea Haven residents and unsuspecting tourists.
It's not what Ceepak would do.
But I am not Ceepak.
I take a second look. She still hasn't seen me. Luckily for me, Stacey has a new hair color. She's spray-dyed it green.
“No redheads,” I mutter in Ceepak's general direction.
Technically, I'm off the hook.
“Roger that.” He checks his watch. “We better hit the beach. We'll check up on your Dr. Winston lead later.”
On his belt, one of the cell phones beeps. He answers it.
“This is Ceepak. Slow down. Take it easy, Pete. Okay. Breathe in. Try to calm down. Tell me what you found.”
Now we have another reason to hurry back to Oak Beach, besides our official
bulldozer-watching duties.
Apparently, Cap'n Pete returned there first thing this morning, hoping to find more buried treasure. He brought along a friend's metal detector.
“She started humming right away,” Pete says. “Lights blinking. Noise in the headphones. Knew I found something. Yes, indeedy. Didn't know it'd be this. No, sir. Not this….”
We're west of the roped-off area where the sand castle sculptors will soon start erecting their colossal creations. I can see their backhoes covered with tarps.
The beach, itself, is practically deserted. Some surfers are happily catching the waves before the lifeguards show up to tell them to knock it off. A few joggers are doing the Chariots of Fire thing down where the sand is wet. Two middle-aged romantics in matching sweat-suits stroll up the beach holding hands.
All is as it should be.
Except, of course, for what Cap'n Pete and his borrowed metal detector found buried three feet deep in the sand.
Ceepak crouches next to the hole.
“Did you touch it?”
“No, sir, Johnny. I called you right away. I wouldn't touch it. Still not sure what made this thing start beeping.” He motions toward the metal detector lying on its side in the sand. “It's Bill's. Bill Baiocchi's. You know him, Johnny. From the Treasure Hunter club. He let me borrow it. It's a CZ-20.”
Ceepak nods.
“The CZ-20 is an all-weather detector,” he says. “It's leak-proof to a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, with electronics able to ignore the destabilizing effects of saltwater, making it ideal for working a wet, sandy beach.”
“That's just what Bill said. But what made it start beeping?”
Ceepak grimaces.
“Uncertain.”
The thing in the hole looks like a salad bowl. An old-fashioned Tupperware container like my mother used to have.
Ceepak carefully pries off the lid.
Now we see what might be a soccer ball wrapped in newspaper. Ceepak reaches into one of his many pockets and draws out his forceps. He uses it to work open the sheet of newsprint, which is still dry, thanks to Mr. Tupper's famous watertight seal. He peels back the paper like you'd work open a head of lettuce.
“The Sandpaper,” he says, identifying the newspaper as our local weekly. He studies the top edge. “The Friday, August 4, 1979, edition.”
Whack A Mole: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 11