Rolling Thunder (15 page)

“Meet Richard Heimsack and the rest of my study group,” explains Sam. “We've all been working so hard, we wanted to blow off a little steam.”

“Thanks for letting us borrow Sam tonight,” says Heimsack, his mouth full of creamy mush. “She sure knows how to show a guy a good time. On the boardwalk, I mean.”

He winks. I think that was another funny. Richard Heimsack must be the class clown in Tort Reform 101. With a last name like that, he better be.

Ceepak flips up his wrist, checks his G-Shock watch. “Danny?”

Yeah. I agree. Time for us to say buh-bye.

“We need to hit it,” I say to Sam.

“Right.”

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Stay safe, you guys.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak.

We march across the boardwalk toward the thunderbolt neon lights spelling out Rolling Thunder.

“Sorry about that,” I say to Ceepak.

“About what?”

“Sam and her friends. Slowing us down.”

“Not to worry.” We keep walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ceepak pursing his lips, trying hard to think of what to say. “Danny … this job … it can put enormous strain on one's personal life and relationships.”

“Yeah. I know.”

It's a wrecking ball.

The Rolling Thunder isn't open for business; they're just testing out the lights, running empty trains around the track, greasing the rails. We go under the blinking entryway sign and head for the ticket booth.

We bump into our second surprise guest of the night: Sergeant Dominic Santucci, all decked out in black boots, black cargo pants and a black commando-style shirt. There's a radio clipped to his belt. It's black, too.

“Dom?” says Ceepak.

“Ceepak.”

“What are you doing here?”

Santucci gestures with his head toward the ticket booth. “Running security for Mr. O'Malley.”

“But the ride isn't even open.”

“Doesn't matter. Mr. O'Malley asked me to escort him around town tonight.”

“May I ask why?”

“He pays, I show up. Badda bing, badda boom.”

“We need to talk to Mr. O'Malley.”

“About what?”

“A matter related to our ongoing investigation.”

“What? The dead chick in the suitcases?”

“Is Mr. O'Malley here?”

“Well, duh, Ceepak. What kind of security operation you think I run? Get hired to guard a guy and not guard him? Jesus.”

“Let me be more specific. Where is Mr. O'Malley?”

“He and his son, Kevin, are walking the track. Making sure everything's copacetic for the big opening tomorrow.”

“When will he be back down?”

“Five, ten minutes I figure.”

“We need to ask him a few questions.”

“Hang on.” Santucci unclips his radio. “Mr. O'Malley? This is Security One, over.”

We wait. Santucci chews his gum. Loudly.

“What the hell is it, Dom?” comes a snarl out of his radio.

“Couple of my buddies from the Sea Haven PD just dropped by. Say they want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Santucci turns to Ceepak. “What about?”

“The murder of Gail Baker.”

Santucci chews his cud a little more slowly. Fewer pops. He brings the radio back to his mouth.

“That girl I was telling you about. Over.”

“Mr. Santucci?” says a new voice on the radio. “This is Kevin O'Malley.”

Santucci's back stiffens. I get the feeling Kevin is in charge of hiring security guards for O'Malley Enterprises. “Yes, sir?”

“Kindly inform the officers that we'll be down in five minutes.”

“Will do. Over and out.” Santucci clips the radio back to his belt. It's black, too. “They'll be down in five.”

Right. We were paying attention.

“We'd also like to ask
you
a few questions, Dom,” says Ceepak.

“Me? What about?”

“Did you remove an article of clothing from the suitcases?”

“What?”

“When you went searching for ID in Ms. Baker's clothing, did you take anything out of the two bags?”

“Are you freaking kidding me? You think I grabbed a souvenir or something?”

“Did you?”

“Fuck you, Ceepak. Okay? I'm off the job, so I can say it. Fuck. You.”

“How long have you been employed by Mr. O'Malley?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“What sort of things has he asked you to do in the past?”

“Keep annoying assholes like you out of his face, you jarheaded jag-off.”

“Did you know about Mr. O'Malley's relationship with the deceased?”

“What, his wife?”

“Gail Baker.”

Santucci's eyes slide back and forth a couple of times. He swipes at his mouth with his hand. “If he had a relationship with her, he didn't tell me.”

“Does he pay you extra to lie for him?”

“What?”

“You do it pretty well,” says Ceepak. “However your eye movements and hand gestures betray you, Dom. Avoiding eye contact. Touching your face.”

Santucci gives us his donkey laugh, but it comes out sounding stilted. “You watch too much fucking TV, Ceepak.”

“Dom?” Kevin O'Malley and his father emerge out of the darkness behind the ticket booth. “What's going on?”

“Mr. O'Malley, I'm Officer John Ceepak. This is my partner Danny Boyle.”

“We know who you are,” says Kevin.

“We need to ask your father a few questions.”

“About what?” says the older Mr. O'Malley, stepping forward. It's a warm June night, but he's wearing a seersucker suit and white buck shoes. He was wearing the same outfit last Saturday. Must be his official uniform.

“Your relationship with Gail Baker.”

“Don't say a word, Dad,” advises Kevin. “Lou Rambowski is on the way.”

Ceepak's eye twitches. Every cop in Sea Haven (and most of New Jersey) knows and despises the lawyer Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski, ever since he helped a punk up in Newark get a free pass by making the jury believe it was a dead cop's own fault he got shot in the back of his head.

“Very well,” says Ceepak, “we'll escort Mr. O'Malley to police headquarters and—”

“I know how to find headquarters,” says Santucci. “I'll drive Mr. O'Malley.”

“When will your lawyer arrive?” asks Ceepak.

“Late,” says Kevin. “He's driving down from Montclair.”

“How about we do this first thing tomorrow morning?” suggests Mr. O'Malley.

“We'd prefer discussing this matter this evening.”

“Sure you would,” says Kevin. “When my dad's lawyer's burned out after a three-hour drive.”

“Look, fellas,” says Big Paddy. “I'm not going anywhere. I've got a goddamn roller coaster to open tomorrow. I just buried my wife …” His voice catches. “I am not a flight risk.”

“Fine,” says Ceepak. “How early might you and your lawyer be available?”

“What time is the opening, Kev?”

“Ten.”

“Will eight work for you, Officer Ceepak?” asks Mr. O'Malley, turning on his Irish charm.

“Seven is better.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he grumbles. “We'll bring the goddamn donuts. Come on, Dominic. Drive me home. This has been one helluva lousy day.”

20

“I
WONDER IF THE PERSONAL TRAINER LAWYERED UP
,
TOO
,” I say as we cruise back toward the house.

“It would be his right, Danny, and, even when innocent, an advisable move.”

Ceepak. The guy not only plays by the rules, he thinks they're there for a reason besides making me wake up way too early on a Saturday morning.

“Before we talk to Mr. Charzuk,” says Ceepak, “let's swing by Tangerine Street. See if the residents of number one are home tonight.”

I'm at the wheel, so I keep us headed south on Beach Lane when we hit Cherry, the street where the municipal buildings and stationhouse are all clustered together. We roll through a forest of alphabetical tree-named streets and come to the corner of Tangerine.

The lights are not on in number one.

“Let's go knock on the door,” says Ceepak.

Sure. Maybe they go to bed early. Like right after watching Jeopardy at seven
P.M
.

We head up the steps to the porch.

“The statues are gone,” I mumble.

Ceepak pulls the Maglite off his utility belt, flicks it on. Swings the beam across the shrubbery clumped around the small landing. Guess he's looking for tiny footprints. Maybe the gnomes all magically came to life last night and scurried away.

There's a burst of static on my radio.

“This is Diego for Ceepak and Boyle,” comes a crackle out of the speaker.

I tug the thing off my belt.

“This is Boyle. Go ahead.”

“Hey, Danny. Found what you guys were looking for. That house on Tangerine? Number one, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, it's owned by a corporation called Stromboli Enterprises.”

“You're kidding me, right? Stromboli?”

“Hang on. Let's put a smile on that face.”

She's quoting
The Dark Knight
again.

“There's more. This is why it took me, like, longer than five seconds to do a real estate title search. I had to dig through a sack of S-Corp crap to find some names. Here we go: Bruno Mazzilli is the CEO of Stromboli. Keith Barent Johnson is the chief operating officer. Hey, doesn't Mazzilli, like, own all the boardwalks?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Denise.”

“And Johnson's a big cheese, too, am I right?”

“Affirmative,” I say with a sigh.

“Thought so. You guys need anything else tonight?”

Ceepak motions for me to hand him my radio.

“Denise? We are going to need a subpoena,” says Ceepak. “For Mr. O'Malley's phone records. The number corresponding to the one you ID'd on Gail Baker's bill.”

“Yeah. Figured as much. It's already in the works.”

“How long has this Stromboli Enterprises been the owner of number One Tangerine Street?”

“Um … four years. It's listed as an asset of the corporation. They have a couple of cars, too. Mustang convertibles. Sounds like a good place to work. Lots of perks. Probably free food.”

“Thank you. Go home, Denise. Grab some shut-eye. I have a feeling we'll be running you ragged tomorrow as well.”

“Saturday?”

“Yes. I'm afraid so.”

“Cool. There's nothing on TV except baseball and infomercials about Snuggies. Hey, as soon as the O'Malley paperwork comes back from the judge, I'll let you know.”

“Roger that.” Ceepak hands me back the radio. “We are quite fortunate to have Ms. Diego on our team.”

I nod, kind of absent-mindedly, because the hamster wheel in my head is spinning. Well, it's creaking like a rusty bicycle chain. I don't feed my hamsters enough sugar water.

“What's on your mind, Danny?” says Ceepak, making me think my mental gym equipment is squeaking out my ears.

“Mr. Mazzilli, the CEO of this shell company—Stromboli Enterprises—he was with Marny Minsky last Saturday at Big Kahuna's, which just happens to be owned by Stromboli's COO, Keith Barent Johnson.”

Ceepak nods. He can sense I am attempting to make a logical deduction. I'm kind of new at it so it's slow going. He's patient. He'll wait.

“Gail Baker was also at the club, with a group of girlfriends. Gail and Marny were all air-kissy. Mazzilli saw the two of them in their mini-dresses, hugging like that, and he looked like, well, he looked …”

I'm trying to think of a grownup word for “horny.”

“… lascivious! The two girls were in really short, really tight skirts. Showing lots of thigh.”

“What did you see Danny?”

I want to say “too much” but resist the urge.

“I saw Mr. Mazzilli whisper something naughty to Marny, who then whispered to Gail. She laughed. Shook her head. Mr. Mazzilli said, ‘Live a little.' Gail said, ‘Not tonight.' Mazzilli said he wanted a ‘rain check.'”

“What do you suppose Mr. Mazzilli whispered to Ms. Minsky?”

“I dunno. Something lewd. I think he wanted, you know, both girls. A three-way. And Gail didn't seem upset by the suggestion. She just didn't want to do it that night.”

“Have you seen Ms. Minsky since Saturday, Danny?”

“No. We should check with Bud. See if she's been back to the club.”

“Agreed. Ms. Minsky and Ms. Baker were close?”

“Yeah. Looked like it.”

And Mazzilli wanted to see them closer. Probably here. Number one Tangerine. The pornographic garden statues were supposed to help the girls get in the mood for a little frisky fun.

“I think this is Mr. Mazzilli's love shack,” I blurt out. “I think he and Mr. Johnson bring their girlfriends, their mistresses, their goomahs here instead of The Smuggler's Cove.”

The Cove is our local Motel No-Tell. You can get hourly rates on the room even if, like most guys, you only need three minutes.

“So,” says Ceepak, picking up on my logic thread, flimsy as it is, “you hypothesize that, at a later date, perhaps Thursday night, Mr. Mazzilli once again made his proposal to the two young ladies.”

“And don't forget, we have the Mazzilli–O'Malley connection.”

“Indeed. They are partners on the roller coaster.”

“Maybe, if Gail and Mr. O'Malley were texting each other, having an affair like Skippy suggested, Mazzilli knew about it. Wanted to be partners on that, too. Maybe he wanted a four-way.”

My stomach lurches up into my mouth at the thought of two flabby middle-aged men—undoubtedly with muffin tops around their bellies—rolling in the hay with taut and tawny Gail and Marny.

But I soldier on.