Whack you in the head with their clipboard?
We pull into the circular driveway. Ceepak rings the doorbell.
“Yes?”
It's that butler dude again. I wonder if he did it. He does everything else butlers do in the movies, so maybe he's the one who murdered Reggie Hart. Maybe he and Mendez were working together, too.
“We need to see Mrs. Hart,” Ceepak says.
“She is temporarily indisposed.”
“Tell her it's Officer Ceepak.” With this, Ceepak simply sidesteps the loyal manservant and glides into the glass-walled front room. I glide in after him.
“But sirs …”
Ceepak folds his hands behind his back, up near the belt loops, standing at what they call parade rest, ready and willing to wait.
“We're kind of in a hurry,” I say.
“Please wait here.” Nose held high, the butler strides slowly to his right.
“Is she in the sunroom?” Ceepak asks.
“Sir, if you'll kindly wait….”
Ceepak remembers the way. I bring up the rear. Behind us, I hear the chief make his entrance.
“Ceepak?”
“This way.”
“But … sir … really….”
Sounds like the chief is pushing past the butler, too. Maybe the poor guy ought to go back to working for Joe Millionaire.
“Yes. I was in Sea Haven on Friday night.”
Betty is sitting on the couch sipping tea. She has on white pants that cuff above her ankles, white strappy sandals, and this white-and-gold top that sparkles in the sun.
So much for widows wearing black.
“I took a motel room-”
“Where?” the chief asks.
“The Smuggler's Cove.”
“Jesus,” the chief groans.
“What?” Ceepak is curious.
“The Cove? They rent out the same goddamn room ten times a night. It's a hot sheets hotel! Hourly rates. Adult movies….”
“I see.”
“They are also very discreet,” Betty says defensively. “Gentlemen, I am not proud of my deception, but I fail to see how my being here on Friday has anything to do with Ashley's kidnapping. Why aren't you out searching for her? Why are you wasting your time here, questioning me?”
“So what were you doing here, ma'am?” The chief cuts to the chase.
“Looking out for my daughter.”
“How's that?”
“He had her in the house here with him. In front of my daughter.”
“Had who?” The chief puts his fist to his stomach like he just burped up a bubble of something nasty.
“The lawyer? He had her … here.”
“Were Mr. Hart and Ms. Stone romantically involved?” Ceepak asks.
“Yes,” Betty says and sets down her teacup. “She was Reginald's most recent conquest.”
The chief rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds a lot like “Jesus Fucking Christ.”
If I was Betty Bell Hart? I'd talk to Ceepak and forget the chief who really looks like he's going to explode some time soon. He's hardly even sitting in his chair any more, his fists are digging into his thighs, and he's grinding his teeth louder than he knows.
Yeah, I'd talk to Ceepak.
“So,” Ceepak says, “you were the one who had Ms. Stone's suitcases tossed out into the driveway?”
“Yes.” Betty smiles slightly. “I'm afraid I was miffed.”
We look at one another, Ceepak, the chief, and I. Miffed.
“Ashley said she heard them,” Betty says. “Up in the master bedroom.”
Ceepak closes his eyes. Some people severely disappoint him. I think Reggie Hart is now one of them.
“Prior to that,” Betty says, “Ms. Stone was flouncing around the house in nothing but a frilly push-up bra, panties, and a garter belt.”
“Ashley told you all this?”
“Yes. She called me and said it was like a Victoria's Secret fashion show out here.”
“That would explain that perfume you told me about,” the chief says to Ceepak. “That stuff you smelled on Hart?”
“Yes, sir,” Ceepak says. “It sure might. They came up Thursday? Mr. Hart, Ms. Stone, and Ashley?”
“Yes. Thursday afternoon. Ashley amused herself. Swam in the pool. Her father did some paperwork with Ms. Stone. Went to a ‘meeting’ with her, somewhere downtown. Then they all went out to dinner. O'Riley's, I think. The fashion shows, the sexcapades? That all started Thursday night. After dinner.”
“So you drove up on Friday?”
“I did.”
“Do you use E-Z Pass?”
“Excuse me?”
“To pay the tolls. Do you have an E-Z Pass transponder unit installed on your windshield?”
“Yes. Why?”
“We'll want to run a check,” Ceepak says. “Verify your whereabouts. The timeframe.”
“What?” She tucks her legs up under her on the couch. “Don't you trust me, Officer Ceepak?”
Ceepak lets that one go unanswered.
“So, Ashley called you?”
“Of course she did. Snuck outside and used her cell phone so her father wouldn't hear. I told her I would come, but it had to be our secret. I knew what Ms. Stone was up to.”
“Banging her boss?” The chief kind of blurts it out. “Sorry.”
“Ms. Stone wanted Reginald to restructure his will.”
“Why?” Ceepak asks.
“She probably told him it was in the best interest of the corporation.
That it wasn't prudent to leave everything to Ashley. However, I suspect Ms. Stone fancied herself the next Mrs. Hart.”
“Were they that serious?”
“She might have been. Reginald, I'm certain, was not. She's not really his type. Oh, sure-he'd have his fun with her … for a while. But eventually he'd move on to something younger. He always does….”
She'd mentioned this before. I guess all billionaires prefer that their trophies be youngish.
“He wouldn't change his will. Never. He simply loved Ashley too, too much to even consider it. And he certainly didn't need a new wife, no matter how fetching Ms. Stone may have appeared in her lingerie. I gave Reginald the only child he ever wanted. He could date any woman in the world. Why would he ever want to get married again?”
“Where were you Saturday morning?”
Ceepak has to ask it.
“You mean when Reginald was murdered? Is that what you mean, Mr. Ceepak?”
“Yes, ma'am. Saturday. Around 7:15.”
“Let's see. I woke up. Brushed my teeth. Took a shower. Got dressed. Combed my hair. Put on my makeup. Made a cup of coffee right there in my motel room.” The standard run-down, delivered deadpan. “They have a miniature Mr. Coffee machine in every room at The Smuggler's Cove. Did you know that, Officer Ceepak?”
“No, ma'am. After coffee? Go anywhere?”
“Yes. I went to the bank. The cash machine. I didn't dare use my credit cards for anything.”
“Or we might find out you were in town when you weren't supposed to be?”
“Something like that.” She tries to bat her eyes at Ceepak. It doesn't work.
“You know an ATM takes a photograph during every transaction?”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“So if I'm lying, you'll soon know-won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am. I will.”
“Isn't technology marvelous? First the E-Z pass, now the ATM? It's a wonder we don't all wear collars around our necks and send out radio signals, like some sort of endangered geese.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I was at the bank.” Betty enunciates every word, like she's doing closed captioning for the hearing-impaired. “I withdrew two hundred dollars. But I suppose you'll verify that as well, won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Ceepak makes a note.
She sighs.
“Look, I'm sorry I lied.”
“Well, you should be!” the chief snaps.
“Won't you forgive me?” Betty looks at Ceepak the way she used to look at the baby bunnies when she did her Easter Sunday forecast. “Please?”
Ceepak is sorry she lied, too. I can tell by the way he bites his lip while he nods his head. He might forgive her, but he sure as hell won't forget what she did.
Guess that's how The Code works. If folks follow it, you can trust whatever they say, you can even follow them into battle. If they don't? If they lie? You have to watch your back any time they ask you to believe a word they say.
The chief stands up.
“Okay. The damage is done. We move forward. I'll get Santucci or somebody to do the bank and EZ Pass calls.”
Ceepak stands, too.
I guess we're done with Betty.
“You'll bring my little girl home safe?” she asks, eyes moist.
“We'll do our best,” Ceepak tells her stiffly.
“Let's head back to headquarters,” the chief now says, checking his watch. “Time to talk to Mendez-”
The chief's radio squawks.
“Jesus. What now?”
I don't think the chief likes the way this Tilt-A-Whirl case keeps spinning him around and making his stomach lurch.
He stabs the radio talkback button with his thumb.
“Yeah?”
“It's Adam Kiger, sir.”
“What you got, son?
“Gus's gun. We found it.”
“Where?”
“In the trunk of Mendez's car.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ceepak is staring out the car window, watching the beach roll by, thinking.
He asked me to take the scenic route home-up 247, the coast road, which turns into Beach Lane when it hits the town limits of Sea Haven proper.
I'm doing a little thinking too.
I'm starting to wonder if crime one and crime two are even connected.
Maybe somebody killed Hart because, as they say down South, he needed him some killing. Then maybe somebody else pulled the kidnap, figuring the kid had to come into some pretty fat money when her old man's ticket got punched.
“‘With her killer graces, and her secret places….’” Ceepak's mumble-singing again. Another Springsteen song. I know this one. It's called “She's the One.”
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Two things. One. We need a warrant. I want to search that woman's car.”
“What sort of secrets are we looking for?”
“Car-wash coupons. Air fresheners. Cash-register receipts….”
“From Cap'n Scrubby's?”
“Roger that.”
“You think she hired Squeegee?”
“It's certainly a new possibility. Two-let's swing by the bank.”
“Now? We're with Mendez at three-”
“Mr. Mendez can wait. I need to use the cash machine.”
The First Atlantic Bank is located on Ocean Avenue between Snapper's Grill and Mango's Swimwear, about three blocks down the street from The Pancake Palace.
I park out front and follow Ceepak into the lobby. He dips his card into the ATM.
“You need cash?” I ask.
Ceepak doesn't answer. He tilts his wrist and punches a button on his G-Shock.
“Okay,” he says, “I'm taking out $200.”
I'm a little jealous. Ceepak's actually got $200 to withdraw.
While he waits for the machine to spit out ten twenties, he smiles up at the black plexiglass over the ATM.
“Cheese,” he says.
Ceepak tucks the bills into his pocket.
“Okay. Follow me.”
He heads out the door and up the block to the corner of Ocean and Maple. The light is red. We wait for it to change.
When it does, Ceepak checks his wrist and says, “Thirty seconds.”
We head across the street. On the other side of Ocean Avenue, Maple Street creates one corner of the Sunnyside Playland property. So the fence leading down to the beach is on our left; on our right, rental houses. Two blocks’ worth. The closer we get to the ocean, the higher the rents.
The sidewalk ends, and now we have to walk up planks laid across the sand dune to reach the beach.
“Three minutes,” Ceepak says. I can tell he's trying not to walk too fast or too slow-he's just walking with what they call a sense of purpose.
We're up and over the dune and on the beach.
The first thing I notice is how empty it is for a hot Sunday afternoon. Guess folks weren't listening when the mayor told them Sea Haven was open for fun in the sun again. As far as I can see, there are only maybe five umbrellas, and the little kids are building their sand castles pretty darn close to where mom and dad sit in their beach chairs, terrified to take their eyes off their children.
We head left a gain. The ocean's on our right. Playland's chain-link fence is on our left.
Behind the fence, I can see parts of Playland. First, the Kiddie Rides: “Hot Doggers Hot Rods,” tiny race cars shaped like hot-dog buns that putter around in a circle; “The Beachball Express,” a little train that chugs around in a circle; “The Sandpiper Cub High Flyer,” little airplanes that sort of fly around in a circle.
When you're a little kid, having fun at an amusement park involves a lot of riding around in circles.
Now I see the Italian sausage stand, the funnel cake and zeppole wagon, the French-fry and Coke stands.
Next come the bumper cars, and the Flying Fish Boat, which rocks you back and forth and swings you higher and higher until you wish you had skipped the sandwich with peppers and onions back at the Italian sausage stand.
Finally, I see the Turtle-Twirl Tilt-A-Whirl.
We're standing outside the fence, near the little plywood trapdoor, still covered with sand. I see the yellow police tape I hung fluttering in the breeze. I also see that Sunnyside Clyde has sent out his cleaning crews. Gone is any trace of Mr. Hart's last bloody thrill ride. The turtle's all green again, no red anywhere.
“Seven minutes, forty-five seconds.” Ceepak says, stopping his digital watch with a beep. “Two or three more minutes to crawl under the fence, get in position.”
“So we're what? A ten-, fifteen-minute walk from the bank?”
Ceepak nods.
“We need to talk to the medical examiner. Calibrate a more precise TOD.”
Time of death.
Looks like Betty is this close to becoming another possibility.
“Yo! Someone planted that, man!”
Mr. Virgilio Mendez is none too happy about what young Officer Kiger found in the trunk of his El Dorado.
Gus's gun is sitting on the table in front of him and his lawyer, Cynthia Stone. It's a Smith amp; Wesson 9-mm semi-automatic with an evidence tag tied to it so it looks like it's on sale at some cop's yard sale.
“We're running the ballistics,” the chief says. “I'm sure it'll match the slugs we found at the Tilt-A-Whirl-”
“Like I'm really gonna be leaving my piece in the trunk like it's a beer cooler or some shit-”
“I agree with Mr. Mendez,” Ms. Stone says. “In fact, I find this crude attempt to frame him laughable.”
“Then why the hell aren't I laughing?” The chief and Kiger are the only cops in the interrogation room with Mendez and Ms. Stone. Ceepak and I are watching from the little room on the other side of the one-way mirror. Morgan from the FBI is with us.
“Why don't you advise your client to come clean?” the chief says to the attorney. “Tell us how he hired Squeegee to kill Reginald Hart. Then, him and his friends? Ramirez? Echaverra? They rented a boat-”
“What the fuck you been smokin’?”
Ms. Stone stands up.
“Chief Cosgrove.”
“Sit down.”
“Sir, I am an officer of the court.”
“Not right now. Right now you're just a suspect.”
“Excuse me?”
“Co-conspirator.”
> “What?”
“Do you have a lawyer, Ms. Stone?”
“Why?”
“Why? Well, let's see. We know you were sleeping with the deceased.”
“Okay,” Ms. Stone says. “That's it. We're done here-”
“No we're not. I'm just getting started. Sit down.”
“You can't question me without my attorney being present.”
“Fine,” the chief says. “No more questions. You won't tell me, so I'll tell you. We'll work it that way.”
The chief hikes up his pants. I can see sweat stains under his arms. The guy hasn't had much sleep since Saturday, and all the strain is starting to show. He might rip somebody's head off today.
“I think you were the brains, Ms. Stone,” he says, raising his thumb, like he's going to start counting stuff down. “You set the whole thing up because you realized Mr. Hart would never marry you. So you worked out this other way to get at his money. His real estate. Ten million dollars in ransom money-”
“Mr. Hart was my employer. That is as far as our relationship went. As such-”
“I'm not asking you questions, so you don't have to say anything. Deal?” Now the chief's first finger pops up; the countdown continues. “You partnered with Mendez here, who was tired of doing nickel-and-dime work for Hart. Wanted a bigger slice of the pie.”
Mendez drops his jaw. The chief stares him down.
“Mr. Mendez proceeded to hire Squeegee. What'd you pay him? A free condo in your time-share hotel? A dime bag of dope? The same shit you sell to kids up and down the beach?”
“You're out of your fucking mind … out to fucking lunch….”
“Me? No, Mr. Mendez-I checked your record. Your rap sheet. You sell drugs to little children.”
He slides a folder across the table. Mendez refuses to open it or even look at it.
“I done my time for that.”
“You sell drugs to children!”
“Only them that wants it.”
Wrong thing to say in front of John Ceepak.
I look over and Ceepak's squinting again, like he's lining up Mendez in his sniper sights.
“Did you know Squeegee was a sexual predator?” The chief sends another manila folder across the table. “Pulled his record, too. Did you two talk about how he likes to expose himself to twelve-year-old girls under the boardwalk?”
“I don't know shit about this Squeegee.”
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