Tilt-a-Whirl jc-1

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Who are you?”

  Figures. When you're with Ceepak, women don't even notice you.

  “What is this? Take A Stupid Kid To Work Day?”

  The mayor's sister? She has this nasty side. And when it comes out is when she squinches up her nose and glares at you. Then you notice where the plastic surgeon didn't do such a hot job.

  “Where exactly did you go to cop school?” she asks me. “Some doughnut shop?”

  I'm no Boy Scout, so I don't have to do the courteous bit.

  “Where'd you get that tan?” I say. “Sears, or Costco?”

  “Oh, I see. You're the comedian cop?”

  “He's part-time,” Ceepak says.

  “He's going to be no-time after I call my brother.”

  “No need to bother your brother,” Ceepak says, whipping out his little notebook. “I'll take care of it.” He jots something down.

  “What're you doing? You writing him up?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Hah! Good.”

  “Now if you could … could you please tell us what happened?”

  “Of course.” She acts like she's composing herself, smoothing out any crinkles in her shorts, front and back. She spends more time smoothing out the back than the front. “My son left his tricycle on the porch steps like he always does, even though I tell him not to. Maybe if his father were still living with us, maybe if I was still married-which, incidentally, I'm not-maybe things would be different….”

  “When did you first notice it was stolen?” Ceepak asks.

  “When he was stealing it! The thief made so much noise! He banged the thing against my screen door!”

  “Did you see him?”

  “No. I called the police right away. I was all alone … I didn't dare confront him….”

  Now she's doing a damsel-in-distress thing that makes it look like she's a ship flashing Morse Code because her eyelids are painted baby blue and every time she blinks we get a dot or dash of bright light.

  “You must have been terrified,” Ceepak says.

  “Oh, I was. He was right here. And my bedroom? It's right there….”

  She points dramatically to a window. I can make out chintzy pink curtains on the other side and one of those hurricane table lamps catalogs say add a touch of romance to almost any room.

  What all this means is that the trike bandit banged it against the door just to make certain anybody inside knew he was out here stealing something.

  The thief wanted her to call the cops.

  “He even kicked over one of my potted plants.”

  “We'll write it up … additional damage … for your insurance claim….”

  Ceepak jots down another note in his pocket pad.

  “And, look down there….” She points to the other side of the porch. “He crushed my Fairy. My beautiful pink Fairy.”

  “Your Fairy rosebush?”

  Oh. Ceepak knows horticulture, too.

  “Yes! See?”

  “Yes, ma'am. What a shame.”

  “I'll say.”

  “Fairies are prolific climbers,” Ceepak says.

  “I'm impressed. You know your roses….” She's leaning on the porch railing again.

  “A little,” Ceepak says, looking down at the shrubbery instead of up at the mountains. “I'm no expert. Not like you. You did an excellent job mulching these flower beds.”

  “Moi?” She gives Ceepak a coy, “silly boy” look. “Hardly. I hire a man to do it for me. He says mulch is the only way to retain moisture in our sandy soil. It's so hot down here.”

  She says “hot” like she said “man” earlier.

  Ceepak studies the trampled rosebush.

  “What a shame. He crushed it under his boot,” he says.

  I look down and see where the moist, mulched soil has retained a print.

  “His Timberland boot?” I ask.

  Ceepak nods.

  “Only kind he ever wears.”

  We're back in the car. Working Ceepak's punch list. Off to dig up more evidence.

  “So,” I say, “the chief sent the first ransom fax? Because of the boot prints, right? Outside the hotel room? On that patio there?”

  “Solid analysis, Danny. I may need to write you up in my little blue book again.”

  “Are you really going to give me a reprimand for mouthing off?”

  “Negative. I said I was writing you up. I was contemplating penning a letter of commendation to place in your personnel file.”

  “Excellent. It'd be like my first, I think.”

  “Perhaps. But I doubt it will be your last.”

  I glance over. Ceepak has the proud-big-brother smile on his face again.

  It's all good.

  “The way I see it,” Ceepak says, “Chief Cosgrove wore his Timberland boots whenever he wanted us to think Squeegee had been somewhere. I speculate that Cosgrove had met Mr. Shapiro and knew of the man's fondness for thermal boots, even in the summer months. In fact, it's highly probable that, once the chief and Miss Bell selected Mr. Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, as their scapegoat, they paid keen attention to such telling details. It's why they chose the Tilt-A-Whirl. They knew we'd find evidence linking the location to Squeegee, even if he wasn't sleeping in the bushes Saturday morning. They knew we'd find his blood sample in the hypodermics, his muddy footprints on the platform….”

  “Why'd the chief wear his boots to the mayor's sister's house?”

  “Simple.”

  “What?”

  “He made a mistake. Most criminals usually do. It's how we catch them. He never anticipated we'd investigate a tricycle theft.”

  “Hell, you wanted to do it first thing Saturday morning!” I'm feeling kind of jazzed, like you do after chugging two cans of Red Bull and snarfing down some Hostess Ding-Dongs. “Remember? Before any of this other shit even went down. You wanted to ‘swing by and check it out.’ Remember?”

  “Did I?”

  “Hell, yeah. Fuckin’ A!”

  “Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall expressing an interest. And Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Next stop is The Smuggler's Cove Motel, where Ceepak suspects our suspects “had their trysts.” I think that means they went there to have sex on a regular basis.

  “She stayed there Friday night because she knew, as she stated later, ‘they're very discreet.’”

  Ceepak is flipping through his notebook again. You tell this guy something? He writes it down or memorizes it.

  “Remember how the chief acted when she told us that?” I remember stuff, too. “He was so totally ticked off.”

  “Roger that. I suspect he would have preferred that his accomplice make some other choice of accommodations so we wouldn't ask questions that might warrant unwanted answers.”

  “So the chief's, like, cheating on his wife?”

  “So it would seem. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we were to discover that Chief Cosgrove has made an arrangement with the motel's management allowing them to operate in their unseemly fashion in exchange for their discretion as called for. The pornography. The inherent probability of prostitution….”

  “Doesn't really fit with the whole Sea Haven ‘family fun’ image, does it?”

  Ceepak just shakes his head.

  I think he's very disappointed in his fellow soldier. His brother in arms. Chief Cosgrove knows The Code, but chose not to follow it because, frankly, he didn't feel like it. I guess that's what a lot of guys do.

  We're at Ocean Avenue and Locust Lane.

  The Smuggler's Cove is about three blocks up and two over.

  I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror.

  A cop car requesting that I, another cop car, pull over.

  “Pull over, Danny.” Ceepak sees them too. His eyes are glued to the side mirror.

  I ease to a stop in front of Santa's Sea Shanty.

>   Some of the women hauling Sailor Santa Nutcrackers out of the year-round holiday store stop to gawk as Ceepak and I climb out of the Ford.

  Two cops step out of the other cruiser.

  Malloy and Santucci. Two of the chief's favorites.

  “Hey, guys,” Ceepak says. “What's up?”

  “You need to come with us,” Santucci says, giving his chewing gum a sharp snap.

  “We're on a run-”

  “It can wait. The chief needs you in his office. Now.”

  “That'll work,” Ceepak says. “We'll follow you guys in.”

  Santucci takes another step forward. He even does the lean-on-his-gun-belt thing I've seen Ceepak do.

  “It'd be best if you rode with us,” he says. “Both of you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Jesus! What the hell did you guys freaking do?”

  Gus Davis greets us from the desk as we enter headquarters. Santucci and Malloy are flanking us as they escort us into the building like we're on a perp walk.

  If our theories are correct, if the chief is capable of helping his girlfriend bump off her ex-husband and then masterminding a kidnapping hoax with cold-hearted, military precision, I'm sure he's worked out some clever way of taking care of Ceepak and anybody else who might stand in his way on the road to riches. People like me.

  “Ceepak? Boyle? Get your asses in here.”

  The chief stands behind his desk. His face is flushed, redder than raw meat.

  “Move it! Now! Move!”

  I pick up my pace.

  Ceepak takes his time.

  “You need us, boss?” Santucci asks.

  “Wait outside.”

  “Yes, sir.” Santucci and Malloy leave.

  “Would you like me to close the door?” Ceepak asks pleasantly.

  “Yes! Close the goddamn door! Now!”

  When Ceepak pushes the door shut, I see Gladys, the bag lady from the hotel.

  Ceepak sees her too.

  “Good to see you again. I take it you safely evacuated the hotel?”

  “Fuck you, fuzz!”

  Gladys has not mellowed much in the hours since last we met. She hasn't bathed either. I can still see those white streaks on her cheeks where the tears trickled down.

  “What am I going to do with you, John?” the chief says.

  “Sir?”

  “I gave you this job to help you recover from what you've been through. To take you away from the horrors of war. The senseless loss of lives….”

  “You’re a war criminal,” Gladys shouts. “A baby killer! I heard what you did! How you gunned down that taxi driver's family! Baby killer!”

  Guess the chief shared some stuff with Gladys he might've kept confidential if he lived by a different kind of Code.

  “I thought I could bring you home,” the chief says, all hushed and earnest. “Thought I could give you a chance to put it all behind you. Instead, you go all gung-ho? Become some sort of vigilante? You hunted down and killed your suspect?”

  I'm going to keep my mouth shut.

  Not because I'm afraid, even though I totally am, but because I have a hunch Ceepak doesn't want me saving his butt by blurting out the truth about Squeegee. Otherwise, he wouldn't have hidden it from me last night at the hotel.

  “Goddammit, John.” The chief shakes his head in disbelief. “You took a sniper rifle upstairs to execute Squeegee?”

  “His name is Jerry!” Gladys screeches. “Jerry Fucking Shapiro!”

  The chief raises his hand, cueing the radical socialist bag lady to put a lid on it.

  “You shot him like a dog?”

  “He did!” She's spitting with rage. “I was there when it went down, man. I'll fucking tell the world what you fucking did, you fucking motherfucker!”

  “I'm sorry, sir,” Ceepak says. “What is it I'm supposed to have done?”

  “You fucker!”

  “Miss? I'll handle this.” The chief rivets his gaze on Ceepak.

  Ceepak doesn't flinch. In fact, he smiles and raises his eyebrows as if he's eager to hear what the chief has to say.

  “Last night, you tracked down your suspect, this woman's fiancé….”

  They're engaged? I'll have to find out where they're registered.

  The chief checks his legal pad.

  “Mr. Gerald Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee. You tracked him down and proceeded into the old Palace Hotel with an M-24 sniper rifle….”

  “Awesome weapon system, sir. But, of course, you already know that. You're the one who gave it to me.”

  The chief ignores that shot across his bow.

  “You then went upstairs and, instead of apprehending the suspect for further questioning, you shot him….”

  “Negative. I did not shoot Mr. Shapiro.”

  “John, John, John.” The chief kind of chuckles, one for each John. “I will not lie nor tolerate those who do. Remember our Code? You shot this man because you suspected him of being a child molester. You took the law into your own hands.”

  “No, sir. I did not. However, I'm certain that was your intention.”

  “Come again?”

  “Was this the final phase of your plan? To dispose of me via these false accusations?”

  The chief puts down his notepad.

  “What plan?”

  “You brought me here to Sea Haven, sir, not, as you claim, for rest and relaxation, but to kill whomever you and Miss Bell decided to blame for your own nefarious actions.”

  “What's he talking about?” Gladys asks. I think the word “nefarious” got her attention.

  Ceepak turns to her.

  “I did not complete my mission as envisioned by Chief Cosgrove here. Your fiancé? He's safe.”

  “What?” The chief is even redder.

  “In fact-if you walk to the top of the Ship John Lighthouse, I believe you will find Mr. Jerry Shapiro up there enjoying the view, perhaps taking a well-earned nap. I did ask him to not indulge in hallucinogenic drugs while sequestered there. It wouldn't be prudent. The steps inside are quite steep.”

  “Jerry's alive?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “You didn't kill him?” the chief looks like he was just sucker-punched.

  “No, sir. I know you wanted me to. In fact, I know gunning Squeegee down was the sole reason you invited me to join your police force. Why you said ‘you don't even have to drive….’”

  “You’re nuts, Ceepak. You know that?”

  “Can I go now?” Gladys has forgotten her righteous wrath. A reunion is what's on her mind, and she's in a hurry.

  “Get the hell out of here!” the chief screams at her.

  “Fuck you.” Gladys bolts.

  When she swings open the door, I notice we've attracted quite a crowd in the hallway.

  “Go back to work!” the chief yells. “All of you!”

  Nobody moves.

  I suspect folks have been eavesdropping.

  “Now! Move! Go! Boyle? The door?”

  “Yes, sir.” I swing the door shut. When he does that coach-yell at me? I do as I'm told. Reflexes.

  “You two? You're fired. Both of you.”

  “Earlier today, I did some research,” Ceepak says, moving closer to his old friend's desk. “Asked Gus. Adam Kiger. Even your pals Santucci and Malloy. Nobody has ever heard of one Jennifer D'Angelo, the young victim of a rape perpetrated by a homeless man underneath the boardwalk….”

  “We kept it quiet!”

  “No, sir. You made it up.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It was really quite clever.”

  Oh, boy. Ceepak's addressing me. Like I'm the jury box or something.

  “You see, Danny-because of our past friendship, our time spent together in Germany, the personal and sometimes painful stories we told each other over a few beers….”

  Of course. The chief knows about Ceepak's drunk father. His brother. The dead kids in Iraq.

  “… because the chief thought he knew me, he orche
strated what he thought would be the perfect scenario to turn me into his personal killing machine. Why do you think Ashley was instructed to lure her father to the Tilt-A-Whirl Saturday morning? Because the chief knew we would be in The Pancake Palace at precisely 0730. That, being a creature of habit, I would be sitting up front … in the window seat. They staged the whole scene to draw me in.”

  I hear the chief's chair squeak. He's leaning back.

  “You get any sleep the last couple days, Ceepak? I gotta tell you-you're sounding kind of goofy. Squeegee lend you some of his wacky tobacky?”

  “You had a good plan, chief. Thought of every angle. Hart was killed when you knew Dr. McDaniels would be out of town and Slominsky would catch the call.”

  “How much you been drinking? I heard you were down at The Frosty Mug the other night bending your elbow. Some buddies of mine said you were soused, all tears-in-your-beers about Iraq. Hell, maybe you can't hold it … maybe being a lousy drunk runs in your family….”

  “Remember those evidence gloves I brought in?”

  “How could anybody forget? We all laughed about them for weeks.”

  “The box is empty. You took them all.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “No, sir. I have a witness who saw Miss Bell wearing a pair. Oh, she had Gus's gun, too.”

  “Who told you this crap? That junkie?”

  “Yes, sir. Did you know Mr. Shapiro is a former member of Mensa? He has something of a photographic memory….”

  “No one would believe him. His word against Betty's? Besides- Betty was at the bank when Hart was murdered, so you have diddly.”

  “Don't do it, sir.”

  “Do what?”

  “Make me shoot you. You know I will. I'm a lean, mean killing machine. Remember?”

  Ceepak suddenly has his pistol pointed at the chief's forehead.

  “Kindly place your hands on top of your desk.”

  I move a half step to my left.

  Oh, Jesus.

  I see what Ceepak must've heard. The chief's hand is on the handle of his top desk drawer. He's slid it an inch open.

  Must be where he keeps one of his other guns.

  “Get out. We're done here. You're fired. Santucci?”

  He yells at the door.

  “Santucci? Malloy? Get your asses in here! Now!”

  The door opens.

  It's not Santucci or Malloy. It's Christopher Morgan from the FBI. He's wearing evidence gloves and carrying a pair of Timberland boots.