Mind Scrambler (14 page)

“And then somebody flips the mirror back—right after the show's over.”

Ceepak nods. “Clarifying why you are seen as the first person entering this area. You were the first one to enter its field of vision after the mirror was flipped away from the lens at the conclusion of this evening's performance.”

“I'll bet Tuiasopo flipped the switch! Right after I walked by the stage door.”

“Perhaps. I suspect that, on closer examination, we might notice the slightest flash or jolt in the video playback prior to your entrance.”

“If that little black-and-white camera is sophisticated enough to pick up something so subtle.”

“Which they, most likely, are not,” says Ceepak. “Remember, Danny: Mr. Rock is a master illusionist. He and his engineers understand physics. Trigonometry. Optics. All of this was taken into consideration when designing what appears to our untrained eyes to be nothing more than a miniature mirror attached to a thin metal spring.”

The double doors at the far end of the hall squeak open.

“Thank you, Officer,” says a familiar female voice. “Have your son give me a call the next time he's in Sea Haven.”

Becca Adkinson.

One of my best buds from back home.

One of Katie's, too.

 

 

 

 

 

“Ceepak called
me”

I nod.

Becca Adkinson and I are sitting backstage at the Shalimar Theater on a couple stools we found in the wings—back near the ropes and pulleys and counterweights they use to fly in the scenery. It's pretty dark. The only light comes from center stage, where a naked 300-watt bulb stands guard in a cage at the top of a pole.

The shadows here at the side of the stage are long and jagged, which is fine by Becca and me because we're used to sitting in the dark to talk about serious stuff. It's what we'd do back home: find a beach bench, sit under the stars, listen to the waves crash against the shore, and talk about all the things you can never really talk about under bright fluorescent tubes. It's easier for guys to talk in the dark because you can't see your listener's face; can't tell if
she's yawning, staring blankly, or laughing. Darkness is why we have pillow talk, why we say stuff in bed we might regret saying anywhere else.

“I've been crying for hours,” Becca says between sniffles.

I just nod.

I haven't had time to cry. Don't know when or if I will. I don't cry much. Except at movies about dogs that die before they should. Or when Mr. Gower, the drunken druggist in that Christmas movie, slaps George Bailey on his bum ear.

Becca sniffles and trembles out a small laugh. “I probably look like hell.”

I nod again. Reflex.

“Gee, thanks, Danny-boy.”

“Sorry.”

Becca is blond, built, and, since she basically grew up on a beach, very concerned about outward physical appearances. Goes to the gym six days a week. Hits the tanning salon for a spray-on job in February. If you spend the majority of your working life in a bathing suit, this sort of body-obsession stuff happens.

Becca's folks own the Mussel Beach Motel back home in Sea Haven. She's been helping them run it since she was old enough to fold towels or put a plastic-wrapped toothpaste cup next to a sink. Instead of LEGOs or blocks, she built dollhouses out of little bars of hotel soap. Her Barbie's hair always smelled like Camay.

“Jess and Olivia wanted to come down,” she says. “The Delianides sisters, too. I told them not to.”

“Probably smart.”

“Yeah.” Becca shakes her head. “I can't believe the marshmallow crew lost another member.” She digs in her tiny purse, searching for a fresh Kleenex. Finds a Starbucks napkin instead.

The marshmallow crew is what the six of us used to call ourselves when we were kids. Becca, Jess, Olivia, Katie, Mook, Me.
We would hang out on the beach all summer long, toast marshmallows on illegal bonfires we kept kindled way past midnight because we were toasted on beer and Boone's Farm wine.

Katie and Mook are now both dead.

“I saw her this afternoon,” I say. “Katie.”

Now it's Becca's turn to nod.

“I always thought that, you know, someday she and I would get back together.”

Becca blows her nose into that napkin. “What?”

“Katie and me. I figured, one day, you know, we'd get married.”

Man, does Becca shoot me a look. “No, you did not.”

“Yunh-hunh.”

“Ha! You did not!”

“Did too!”

Sometimes, when you hang out with friends you've known since the third grade, you revert to your third-grade level conversational skills.

“Get out of town! That is so bogus!”

“For real, Becca.” I think we just leapfrogged forward to middle school.

“Danny, when was the last time you even talked to Katie?”

“I told you: this afternoon.”

“Cha. Sure. But before that?”

“I dunno. After she left town. We talked on the phone.”

“When?”

“This one time. I forget the exact date, okay?”

“You call her any time in the last twelve months?”

“I sent her a Christmas card.”

“That e-card with the singing dogs you sent me?”

Busted. “Yeah.”

“Danny, come on—what do you even know about Katie?”

“I might know more than you think I do. I met her new boyfriend this afternoon.”

“No, you did not.”

“Yunh-hunh. Did too.” Yeah, I'm back to third grade. Maybe kindergarten. “His name is Jake. Jake Pratt. He's a dancer. Looks like he used to work at Chippendales.” I don't mention that I think he killed Katie.

“He was a hunk?”

“Yeah. I guess.” Becca has always been interested in the chiseled male physique. Buys a dozen hot-firefighters calendars every year, rotates them.

She shakes her head. “You don't know crap about Katie.”

“What?”

“For your information, Danny Boyle, Katie never, ever dated hunks. Preferred a big brain and a sense of humor to bulging biceps or six-pack abs.”

Okay. She did date me, and I'm not currently featured on any hot-cops calendars.

“And,” Becca continues, “just for the record, her last boyfriend was not some guy named Jake. It was Ed Kaufman.”

“Who?”

“Ed Kaufman. A sixth-grade teacher out there in San Mateo. They worked at the same school. They were hot and heavy for almost a year.”

“A year?”

Wow. Katie probably showed this Kaufman guy my electronic Christmas card.

“They broke up a month ago. He wasn't ready to ‘settle down.' His words, not Katie's.”

“She wanted to marry this Kaufman guy?”

“I think so. We talked about it. Whether she should have a beach wedding out there or back here.”

Becca wins. I know absolutely nothing about who Katie Landry is—or, I guess, was. All I know is who she used to be to me and who I made her out to be in my mind—all of it, of course, based on ancient memories and a big dose of present-day guilt.

“Why do you think Katie quit a job she loved and went to work for the Rocks? Do you think she was really working on her master's degree in elementary education so she could become a nanny to two spoiled brats? Well, one spoiled brat. She told me she liked the boy. What's his name?”

“Richie.”

“Yeah. Little Richie Rich, she called him. Like in the comic books.”

“You talked to Katie?”

“All the time, Danny. It's something girls do better than guys. We keep in touch with our friends—even after they move. It's how we stay friends.”

My turn to nod again.

“Wow,” is all I can say.

My mind is further scrambled.

Misperception meets reality. More mirrors, only this time, they're angled upstairs in my brain, reflecting back what I wanted to see.

Becca reaches over. Squeezes my hand. She and I dated once. A long, long time ago. Back when, for some reason I thankfully forget, we were all urging each other to “Get Jiggy Wit It.”

Neither one of us speaks. Which is a good thing. Gives me a second to think about what she's been trying to say.

Don't tell Ceepak, but I've been seriously violating his code.

I've spent half a day lying to myself.

Imagining that Katie Landry was my soul mate. How could she be, when I haven't even talked to her for more than a year?
How could I pretend that one day she and I would get married when I don't even know what kind of cereal she likes for breakfast? She might prefer eggs. Maybe Eggos. Who knows? Not me.

So, I've been more or less moping around, hiding from the truth.

I don't love Katie Landry.

Hell, I don't even know who she really was.

Maybe that's why I feel so guilty about her dying.

I used to know every freckle on Katie's face, back, and chest. Used to trace constellations between them. But, with time, we lost touch with each other. It happens. Just ask Springsteen. He's sung all sorts of songs about people who swore they would never part and then, little by little, drifted from each other's heart.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“You want to go home? Sit and sulk in your apartment?”

“No, thanks. My room here is nicer.”

“Then grow up a little, okay? This isn't about you. This is about Katie. Somebody killed her.”

“I know that. I'm the one who found the body.”

“Good. Because you're a cop and that's exactly what Katie needs right now. She needs you and Ceepak to stand up for her and find out who the hell did this! She needs that a lot more than she needs you feeling ashamed about not calling her on her birthday last year.”

Becca gets up from her stool.

“Where you going?” I ask.

“Wherever they take Katie.”

“The morgue?”

“It's what I can do, Danny. You and Ceepak, on the other hand, can do a whole lot more.”

True.

First off, we can go find Jake Pratt.

The guy who, according to Becca, wasn't Katie Landry's boyfriend.

But—he might've been her killer.

 

 

 

 

 

Becca Adkinson
climbs into the back of an ambulance parked at a loading dock behind the Shalimar Theater—out where the casino crowds can't see it and think somebody had a heart attack when they hit the jackpot.

She's going to ride with Katie Landry's body to Shore Memorial Hospital, which leases morgue space to the Atlantic County medical examiner.

“Danny?” Ceepak flicks his chin toward the door.

We have work to do inside and Katie needs us in there doing it. The ambulance drifts away quietly. No need for sirens or speed, not on this run.

 

 

“Come on in, youse guys.”

Detective Flynn motions for us to join him in something called
the Golden Dragon Room. It looks like a corporate boardroom. Must be for business meetings to justify the tax deduction when a bunch of bond traders decide to take a quick junket down to Atlantic City.

A dozen red-leather rolling chairs are lined up on either side of a black-lacquer table as long and wide as an aircraft carrier. There are no windows—just thick, red drapes to make you think there might be one. The curtains match the carpet. So much so, it's hard to tell where one red sea ends and the other begins.

Two chairs on the far side of the table are already occupied. In one sits the skinny man with the greasy hair we met earlier in the theater lobby. The skeevoid Ceepak politely asked to stop swearing in front of all the little children. Krabitz. I think that's his name.

David Zuckerman sits in the other chair. He flips open his aluminum clipboard cover.

“Youse guys met?” asks Flynn, jabbing a backward left hook toward Krabitz and Zuckerman.

“I believe so,” says Ceepak.

“You're that fucking meathead who gave me the fucking lecture in the lobby. What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Detective Flynn asked for our assistance.”

“What?”

“They're cops, Kenneth,” explains Zuckerman. “Police.”

“Well, stay the fuck out of my way!”

Ceepak grins. “Excuse me?”

“Stay the fuck out of my way!”

“Why?”

“Because I'll find this guy before you two twits ever do!”

“That's not going to happen.”

Now Flynn acts like a ref in the middle of the ring, holds up both hands.

“Breakitup. Everybodysitdown.”

He tugs up on his suit coat. Does a couple shoulder dips. When the twitches subside, he rummages around in a pocket. Finds a scrap of paper. Roll of breath mints. Business card.

He squinches his eyes to read it.

“Deputies Ceepak and Boyle, meet Mr. Kenneth Krabitz.” He flips the card over a few times, looking for more information. “Apparently, he's a PI. Private investigator.”

“That's right,” says Krabitz, leaning back in his chair. “I'm on a full-time floating retainer with Rick Rock Enterprises.”

“Not for nothin',” says Flynn, “but you really ought to consider printing the PI information on your business card.”

“Duly noted,” says Krabitz. “I'll take it under advisement.”

“I wanted this sit-down,” says Flynn, “because Mr. Rock has asked his PI, Mr. Krabitz here, to aid in the search for his stolen property. The notebooks.”

“We now suspect Jake Pratt was involved in their theft,” says Zuckerman.

“You mind explaining how you made that logic leap?” says Flynn, leading with his chin a couple times.

“Easy,” says Zuckerman. “Young Mr. Pratt has stolen things from the show in the past. Costume pieces. Stage props. Items from the souvenir shop in the lobby. In Vegas, he was suspended without pay for two weeks when we discovered that he had set up something of a Richard Rock emporium on eBay.”