Boardwalk Bust (8 page)

She smiled out of one side of her mouth as she put the ring back. “Maybe something … smaller.”

“So, about the break-in,” Frank said—but he was pushing too hard now.

The woman looked right at him, then at me, and then back at Frank. “You didn't come in here to buy diamonds,” she said, her voice suddenly low and hoarse.

“Uh, no, ma'am,” Frank said.

“What do you want from me?” She grabbed the tray of diamonds and started backing away toward the display cases. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”

“We're trying to track down the jewel thieves,” Frank blurted out. “We're detectives, ma'am.”

I couldn't believe it! We were supposed to be undercover here, and he was blabbing about it to a total stranger!

“Private detectives?” the woman asked.

Wisely, Frank let her believe it. She knew too much about us already, if you asked me.

“Yes. We look young for our age. Believe me, we're on your side,” Frank told the lady.

She seemed willing to listen—maybe because Frank had made such a nice first impression on her.

“I've already told the police everything,” she said. “Why can't you ask them?”

“Ma'am,” Frank said, “whatever you told them,
it obviously wasn't enough for them to catch the crooks. There've been two more robberies since, and still no arrests.”

“If you know all that, what do you want from me?”

“Why don't you just tell us what happened—from scratch. There might be a little detail in there that the police missed. It could be the key piece of the puzzle—you never know.”

She curled over the counter and put her head in her hands. “It had to be an inside job,” she said in a low voice. “The security alarm never went off. There were no signs of break-in.”

“Who do you think could have done it?” I asked her. “You must have some ideas.”

She sighed. “I've thought about it ever since that night. I thought it might be this guy who owns Long John's Silver over on Atlantic Avenue, but then I found out he'd been robbed too—the day before I was.”

“Is there anybody else who might know how to beat your security system?” I asked.

“Not that I can think of …” Her eyes suddenly clouded over. “Wait a minute.” She paused. “No, that's a terrible thought….”

“What?” Frank prodded her.

“I did fire one of my younger employees a few weeks ago, a man in charge of maintenance and cleaning … because he kept coming in late. But—”

“It's something,” Frank said. “Maybe he was angry and decided to get back at you by robbing the place.”

“But why would he rob the other two stores, then?” she asked.

“She's got you there, Frank,” I said.

“Well, what's his name, anyway?” Frank said. “We can at least go talk to him.”

“I'll give it to you,” she said, “but please—don't harass him in any way. He's probably innocent, and I wouldn't want him to be angry at me….”

Something about the way she said this made me think the woman was deathly afraid of her former employee.

“His name is Ricardo Myers.”

“Where can we find him?” I asked.

“Well, somebody told me he got a job tattooing up the beach … on the pier, I think. You could ask around there.”

“Thanks,” said Frank, getting up. “We will.” He shook her hand. “You've been very helpful …”

“Mary,” the woman told him. “Mary Fleming.
Here's my card. Please call me if you find anything out.”

“You got it,” Frank said, and then we were out of there, the little bell tinkling behind us.

I could feel Mary's eyes following us as we headed back toward the boardwalk and the pier.

“What do you think?” I asked Frank.

“About what?”

“About her. Mary Fleming.”

“Smart lady.”

“Good-looking, too.”

“Huh? What's with you today, Joe?”

“Nothing. I just wonder if you let her good looks blind you, that's all.”

“Blind me to
what
?”

“Maybe she gave us a good lead,” I said. “And
maybe
this guy Ricardo is our man. But it's also possible she's sending us on a wild goose chase. That's all I'm saying.”

“Joe, she got robbed,” Frank said. “She's a victim, not a suspect.”

“She knows we're here investigating,” I reminded him.

“So?”

“So, she's now officially dangerous.”

“You are so weird,” Frank said, laughing and shaking his head.

“Hey, Frank. You know what? It's even possible she robbed her own jewelry store.”

SUSPECT PROFILE

Name: Mary Fleming

Hometown: New York, NY

Physical description: Age 37,5′7″, 125 lbs., frosted blonde hair, elegant looks, expensive clothes and shoes.

Occupation: Businesswoman

Background: Grew up on Park Avenue, moved to the shore after her divorce. No children. Owns her own business and a house on the beach in nearby Avalon, as well as an apartment in the city where she stays in the winter. Devoted to her business and to making it grow. Drives a hard bargain.

Suspicious behavior: Knows her own security system. A calculating mind and very expensive taste.

Possible motives: Need or greed—insurance payments can come in very handy.

“What? Why would she do that?”

“I don't know—but there could be a reason. All I know is, there's something about Mary Fleming that I don't like.”

9.
X Marks the Spot

Joe is totally nuts, okay?

I don't know, I must have been looking good that week, but for some reason I'd been getting a lot of attention from girls—and women.

And Joe, who now had two—not one, but two—black eyes, was getting more and more jealous by the minute.

I mean, take that poor woman, Mary Fleming. He kept insisting she was some kind of dangerous criminal.

In the past he'd often been right about these hunches of his. But I think this time his black eyes had him seeing things that weren't there.

We got over to the pier in about five minutes.
Most of it was enclosed, and from outside I didn't see any tattoo parlor signs.

“Let's have a look inside,” I said.

We did, and we were immediately hit by a wave of noise—dings and rings and blowing horns, and hundreds of human voices, shouting, screaming, laughing. There was the smells of popcorn, saltwater taffy, cotton candy, sunscreen, and people—the good, the bad, and the ugly.

“Hey, Frank, check it out!” Joe said, nudging me and pointing to a sign that read:
SOLLY'S SIDESHOW FREAKS
. “I've gotta see the sword-swallower—and the bearded lady, too!”

“Later, Joe,” I said. “First we talk to Ricardo, okay?”

But Joe was already buying our tickets. He's just too fast for me.

So we went inside, and there were all the freaks and geeks: a guy maybe five feet tall who must have weighed about 800 pounds; a lady with a long beard that looked real and hung down to her belly button; a guy eating fire and swallowing swords; a lady with (if you believed her—and I did) over 500 piercings.

Then I noticed the tattooed man. “I bet he can tell us where to find Ricardo Myers.”

I wandered over to the guy. He was busy making muscleman poses so people could snap his picture. His face was covered with tattooed spider webs, and he was in shorts, so everyone could see that his whole body was totally covered with tattoos.

“Wanna take a picture?” he asked me when I reached the front of the little crowd that surrounded him.

“No, thanks,” I said. “But can I ask you something?”

“Sure, pal. Go ahead, shoot.”

“Doesn't it … hurt to get those?”

He laughed. “No pain, no gain.”

“Well, what if you wanted to get them removed?”

“Why would I wanna do that?”

I didn't want to upset him, so I just shrugged. “No reason, I guess.”

Especially if you
like
being a sideshow attraction.

“Actually, I was thinking of getting a tattoo,” I lied. “But I want it done by somebody really good.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. “Nothing worse than bad art you have to wear.”

“I heard about this guy, Ricardo Myers? He's supposed to be good. You know him?”

Tattoo Man smiled and pointed to his face. “He did my spidey-web.”

“Cool!” I said. “Know where I can find him?”

“Sure—all the way out on the pier. Place called Rat-a-Tattoo.”

Oh yeah—we'd seen that place.

“Thanks!” I said. “Um, keep up the good work!”

I flashed him a thumbs-up and got out of there before I said anything else that would get me into trouble.

“Come on, Joe,” I said, dragging him away from the bearded lady. “Let's go find Ricardo.”

Rat-a-Tattoo had a psychedelic-style sign above its entrance and a crowd of tattooed and pierced kids hanging out in front.

“Excuse us,” I said as we made our way past them. “Coming through.”

They stared at us like we were from the moon. A few of them smiled and laughed, thinking we were here to get our first tattoo or piercing.

Inside, we looked around. There were sample drawings hanging from all the walls. You could pick any of these for your tattoo, or bring your own drawing. In the center of the store were cases of rings and pins to stick through whatever hole you had the guys behind the counter poke in you.

There was a curtained doorway, behind which the actual “procedures” were being done, judging by
the howls of pain that were coming from back there.

Now, to find Ricardo Myers.

Joe here. Frank can be a pretty cool guy, but sometimes he turns into something else.

How should I put it? A geek? A nerd? A totally hopeless loser?

Here we were, in this tattoo palace, surrounded by girls in halter tops that showed off their belly button rings.

And Frank? He was standing there like a frozen yogurt on a stick. This girl was standing right in front of him. She had a tattoo of a shark on her stomach, and she was rolling her belly at him so the shark seemed to swim.

Man, I wished I could take off those shades of mine and introduce myself. Why, that week of all weeks, did I have to get stuck with two black eyes?

I couldn't take any more of this.

I went over to a guy who was, according to the plastic tag on his shirt, the store manager. “That guy over there?” I whispered in his ear. “That's my
brother. He wants a nose ring, but he's too shy to ask about it.”

“Cool,” said the guy, and went over to talk to Frank. I couldn't hear what he said, but Frank looked at him like he was from Mars. Meanwhile, the girl with the shark tattoo moved on, giving up on Frank.

Victory!

“Hey, Frank, come on!” I said, playing like I was him and he was me. “We've got work to do!”

Frank came over. “This place is giving me the creeps,” he said. “Let's find Ricardo.”

“He's gotta be back there,” I said, indicating the curtain.

Over it was a sign reading: EMPLOYEES ONLY. We waited for the manager to turn his back, then sneaked behind it.

Back here, there were little cubicles on either side of a long, brightly lit room. In each cubicle someone was getting pierced or tattooed.

Five of the workers were female. That left three possibilities, and two of them looked like they were at least fifty years old. Mary had said Ricardo was young.

We tried the other guy, who was dressed in shorts and sandals but no shirt. He had a ponytail that hid the tattoo in the middle of his back, but I
could see that it was some kind of snake wound around its prey.

This guy was obviously not someone to be messed with.