Rolling Thunder (21 page)

I'm ready for Ceepak to read the roller coaster mogul his Miranda rights.

Instead, he looks at his watch.

“What time is your grand opening?” he asks.

“Hmm?” says Mr. O'Malley, who looks like he's in a state of shock.

“We're going ten to ten,” says Kevin. “We're keeping it simple this time. Just a tie-in with WAVY. They'll do an all-day live remote broadcast, but down on the ground, not in the cars. That's our only planned publicity, but Dad should be there for the kickoff.”

Sounds like Kevin is expecting Ceepak to slap on the cuffs, too.

“When do you anticipate being free again, Mr. O'Malley?” asks Ceepak.

It's an interesting choice of words. I'm tempted to blurt, “Never” because life plus twenty-four-years was the sentence handed down to the last sick dude who killed and dismembered a Jersey girl a couple of years back.

“I'm sorry, what was the question?” says Mr. O'Malley, his eyes looking as vacant as the Mussel Beach Motel in March.

“When will you be able to continue answering our questions?”

“If you have more questions, ask them now,” says the tough-guy shyster, trying to force Ceepak's hand.

“Unfortunately, we have not yet been able to search the house at number One Tangerine. Judge Rasmussen, however, will be issuing a search warrant within the next two hours. Further questioning of Mr. O'Malley will be contingent on what we find inside the residence.”

The lawyer tosses up both arms. The shoulder pads in his spiffy suit bunch up around his neck. “This is preposterous! You can't keep my client on tenterhooks!”

Ceepak ignores Rambowski, focuses on the pages of his spiral-bound note pad. I need to buy some of those. Might stop me from making faces at dipstick attorneys in Italian silk suits that cost more than I'll make all month when they use words like “tenterhooks,” which sounds like something REI might sell to campers so they can hang up their pup tents.

“I do have one more question,” says Ceepak.

“What?” demands the lawyer, his hands shooting to his hips.

“Why, Mr. O'Malley, do you wear white buck shoes?”

“What?” says his lawyer. “How can my client's choice of shoes have any bearing on—”

Up comes Mr. O'Malley's silencing hand again.

“Why,” he says slowly, “did Colonel Sanders wear a string bow tie or Orville Reddenbacher those glasses? It's all about branding. Folks see my white bucks and seersucker suit, they know it's me from a mile away. I want to dress like it's summer three hundred sixty-five days a year because summer is what my business is all about.”

Ceepak nods. Makes sense to him. Maybe he belonged to Junior Achievement back in Ohio. Doubtful, but possible. John Ceepak has lived his life trying to do the right thing, which is seldom the thing that will also make you rich.

“What brand shoe polish do you use?” Ceepak asks when he's done nodding.

“What?”

“Is there a particular brand of white shoe polish you prefer?”

Mr. O'Malley looks to his son. “Kevin?”

“Kiwi. The liquid polish. It's best for scuffs.”

“Kevin gets it for me.”

“They carry it at the Acme, CVS. It's a rather common brand.”

“Thank you,” says Ceepak as he dutifully jots down Kiwi on a fresh sheet in his tidy notebook. “Do you polish your own shoes?”

“Huh?” says Mr. O'Malley.

The lawyer laughs a little. “This isn't the army, officer. My client can't be reprimanded for not spit-polishing his shoes.”

“I think Jackie had the maid take care of it,” says Mr. O'Malley, his voice distant. “She always told me to leave a pair outside my bedroom door first thing in the morning. Guess I'm going to have to take over running the household, too.”

“I'll help,” says Kevin.

“Thanks, son. I really miss your mother … all that she did for me … for the family.”

Everybody's in sympathetic-nod mode.

Except me.

I think Mr. O'Malley killed my friend Gail. Sliced her up like a butcher working through a side of beef. I really don't care who's going to polish his shoes or run his home. Heck, he may not have to worry about it, either; I have a feeling he'll soon be rooming at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. They don't wear white bucks. Goes against their brand image as “inmates.”

Ceepak stands up, somewhat abruptly. “We'll talk with you gentlemen again at noon. Please present yourselves at police headquarters on Cherry Street at that time.”

Rambowski takes a step forward and it looks like he wants to go chest to chest with Ceepak. Good luck with that, pal.

“Do you have plans to incarcerate my client at that time?”

“If evidence recovered inside number One Tangerine indicates that Mr. O'Malley should be put into custody, rest assured we shall do so.”

I catch Mr. O'Malley shooting Kevin a look.

“And,” I say, “just so you don't waste your time sending over Sean or a cleaning crew, the State Police already have the house locked down tight.”

“Excuse me, officer,” says Rambowski, “are you in any way implying that my clients would tamper with potential evidence?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

Hey, you work with Ceepak long enough, you end up telling the truth on a regular basis.

Ceepak and I roll out of the King Putt parking lot. He's behind the wheel.

“He did it, right?” I say.

“So it would seem,” says Ceepak in that way he has of letting me know he really hasn't made up his mind.

“What? You don't think he did?”

“If he did, I am somewhat surprised at his stupidity and sloppiness.”

True. Most criminals leave you a trail of breadcrumbs to track. This guy's dropping whole loaves—those round pumpernickel ones the size of armadillos.

“Well, who else?” I say. “Mazzilli? That's what Marny thinks. Mazzilli and the mob.”

“It is too early to reach a definitive conclusion, Danny. We haven't even searched inside the house, the one place where all the current suspects intersect.”

Ceepak takes an unexpected left turn on Ocean Avenue.

“Where we heading?” I ask.

“North. Mayor Sinclair's house. It's early. I don't think he goes to his office until ten or eleven.”

Probably later if he had a busy night in a hot tub somewhere.

We pull into the mayor's driveway.

He lives north of the center of town, up where the homes are more like compounds behind stockade fences and evergreen walls. I see his son Ben's motorcycle leaning up against some boxwood shrubs. Looks like he parked it there after scootering home drunk. No big surprise. We've been writing the kid up ever since I was an auxiliary cop working the Tilt A Whirl case with Ceepak, and Ben Sinclair terrorized an entire video arcade.

We go ring the doorbell.

After about the fourth ding-dong-ding, Mayor Sinclair shuffles to the foyer in pajamas. His crimped hair is sticking out at all sorts of jagged angles. Maybe he went punk overnight, the better to communicate with his wayward son. Then I see a pair of bright red Crocs on his feet and a scrolled “HS” embroidered on his chest. He sleeps preppy, too.

“What the hell are you two doing here at eight o'clock in the morning?”

Before his first cup of coffee, the mayor is neither sunny nor funderful.

“We apologize for disturbing your sleep,” says Ceepak, “but we need to ask you a question regarding a phone call you received early Friday morning.”

“What? You're kidding.”

“No, sir. Do you recall the telephone conversation?”

“When?”

“Yesterday. Three fifteen
A.M.”

“And this couldn't wait until I was in the office because …?”

“Because it is related to our ongoing murder investigation. The dismembered body found at One forty-five Tangerine Street.”

The mayor steps out on the porch, closes the front door behind him.

“Jesus, Ceepak,” he whispers angrily, “didn't Chief Baines talk to you? That poor girl was mutilated by out-of-town mafioso—the crew that runs the Atlantic City escort service she works for— because they caught her skimming off the top, cheating her pimps out of their cut.”

“Gee,” I say, “wasn't that an episode on
The Sopranos?”

“Mayor Sinclair,” says Ceepak, “Chief Baines has not proffered a theory on the murder of Gail Baker.”

“Crap on a cracker! I told Baines to call off the investigation … get the State Police out of my town. The FBI organized crime people will look into it. They'll find a woman to wear a wire.”

“Adriana,” I say. “Christopher Moltisanti's girlfriend. That's from
The Sopranos
, too!”

“Mayor Sinclair,” says Ceepak, “we only have one question: Why did Mr. Patrick O'Malley call you at three fifteen
A.M.
on Friday.”

The mayor frowns. Furrows his brow. “Was that him?”

“Come again?”

“Friday morning. My phone rings at some ungodly hour.”

“Three fifteen?” I toss in.

“Probably. Yes. I remember seeing the time when I checked the caller ID.”

“Was it Patrick O'Malley?” asks Ceepak.

“No. Whoever it was, they had their number blocked. The screen said ‘Private Caller.' I think. I was half asleep. Truth be told, I had forgotten all about it.”

“What did you and the unidentified caller talk about?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Right.”

“Then why did he call?”

“Beats me. All I remember is crawling over to the phone. Picking it up. Saying ‘hello' about a hundred times. No one on the other end said a word. My wife told me to be quiet, she was trying to sleep. I figured it was a prank caller. Anyway, I checked the caller ID, said ‘hello' one last time, my wife kicked me in the shin, and I hung up.”

“Interesting,” says Ceepak.

“Annoying,” says the mayor.

“Thank you, sir. We have no further questions at this time.”

“Whoa. Wait a sec. What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Excuse me?”

“That ‘at this time' bit.”

“Ah. Yes. We will most likely question you later about the activities taking place at number One Tangerine Street.”

“The what?”

“The parties,” I say. “With the girls. Up in the hot tub?”

The mayor slips into a catatonic coma.

“Danny?” Ceepak is shaking his head.

Perhaps I said too much.

Or perhaps Ceepak wants the mayor to stress about how much we know on the subject of his dalliances with the sugar daddies and how much his wife may soon want to kick him someplace besides his shin. I hope Mr. Sinclair uses extra-strength deodorant. I have a feeling the man is going to be perspiring like the inside of a sweat lodge today.

“We'll contact you later,” says Ceepak.

“Wait a minute!” Sinclair wiggles a finger at me. “You can't slander my good name like that, young man. I'm the mayor! You work for me! I can have you fired!”

“Actually,” says Ceepak, “Officer Boyle and I work for Sea Haven Township. Unless you can prove we have engaged in conduct unbecoming a public employee or have violated certain departmental rules and regulations, I think—”

The mayor misses the rest of Ceepak's front porch dissertation. He yanks open the front door, runs inside (probably to see if son will let him borrow the motorcycle for a speedy getaway), and slams the door in our faces.

That's when the cell phone starts chirruping on Ceepak's belt.

27

“T
HIS IS
C
EEPAK
. G
O
.”

He always says that when it's a business call.

We amble away from the porch, head toward our car.

“Hang on. I'm putting you on speaker so my partner can listen in.”

The next voice I hear belongs to Dr. Rebecca Kurth, the county medical examiner.

“I called in some new autopsy findings to Bill Botzong and the State MCU team. He requested that I relay the information on to you.”

“Standing by,” says Ceepak handing me the phone so he can take notes.

“Upon further examination of the remains,” Dr. Kurth continues, “two things struck me as peculiar. Number one: Although we found the residue of soap underneath Ms. Baker's fingernails, we found no traces of it on any other part of her body. This seemed extremely odd—unless, of course, she was attacked as soon as she reached for the bar, before she had a chance to lather up. However, we found no shampoo residue on her skin, either.”

Ceepak nods. So I say, “Interesting” to the phone like he would.

“Sure is. If shampoo was in her hair, some foam should have trickled down to her shoulders, her torso. There should even be a trace amount on her hands. There is none anywhere. Perhaps our killer rinsed the body parts clean after severing them.”

This time, I just nod.

“This next part is even stranger,” says Dr. Kurth. “When we opened her up and examined her organs …”

I do a silent
urp
. My imagination is too vivid. I see this stuff when people talk about it.

“… we found that a dark blue substance had stained her esophagus and lungs. I'm having a hard time explaining how it got there. If she drank something, say, with a heavy amount of blue food coloring in it, it might explain the discoloration on the interior of her throat but not the lungs.”

“Any idea what sort of dye it is?” asks Ceepak.

“No. Not yet. We're still analyzing its composition, running it through the database. First guess—and it is only a guess—I'd say it's some kind of heavily dyed automatic toilet bowl cleaner. Toilet Duck and Tidy Bowl are both the same intensely blue color.”

Yep. There's even a Tidy Bowl cocktail: vodka and Blue Curaçao liqueur. Bud makes them at Big Kahuna's for frat boys. Sure, they suck 'em down, but not into their lungs.