Rolling Thunder (24 page)

Half of the State Police Major Crimes Unit is working the phones, calling up doctors, surgeons and pharmaceutical supply companies.

Meanwhile Ceepak and I race up Ocean Avenue to the studios of WAVY.

So it's only fitting that we're listening to their live broadcast from the Rolling Thunder on the radio in our police cruiser.

It's nine fifty-nine
A.M.
One minute to blastoff.

“And so,”
we hear Mr. O'Malley say into Skeeter's microphone,
“I hereby dedicate the Rolling Thunder to my late wife, Mrs. Jacqueline O'Malley—a woman who loved family and fun more than anything in the world.”

I wait for him to say, “so I'm sorry I killed her,” but he doesn't.

“Thank you, Mr. O'Malley,”
says Skeeter in his deep-and-velvety voice, the same one he used whenever he would intro a Barry White track when we did wedding gigs together back in the day.
“Thank you for those truly touching and inspirational words.”

And then he shifts gears.

“Are we ready to do this thing? Boo-yeah! Let the thunder roll!”

My cell phone starts blaring Springsteen's “Born to Run.”

Samantha Starky's ringtone.

I ignore it.

Ceepak, who is currently behind the wheel, punches off the radio.

“Go ahead and answer it, partner.”

“It's a personal call. Sam Starky. I'll let it bounce over to voice mail.”

Ceepak gives me this pursed-lip look to say, “It's okay this one time.”

Bruce is screaming, “tramps like us” as I flip open the phone.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Danny. Where are you?”

“On the job.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Hey—thanks for getting me home last night. I was kind of tanked. Three drinks, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So, did that other girl spend the night at your place?”

“Yeah. She had nowhere else to go.”

I refuse to say “but I didn't sleep with her.” If Sam thinks that, well, it's her problem.

“Hey, a bunch of us are down here at the new roller coaster.

“Sounds like fun.”

Roller coasters usually are—as long as no one jabs you in the back of the neck with a hypodermic on that first hill.

“You want to come hang out with us? So far, no one's had a heart attack.”

She's making a joke. I'm not laughing.

“Of course, we're stuck in this incredibly long line—longer than last weekend and I thought it might be neat if you came down and rode with us and then maybe you and me could have the talk we need to have if we want to do this the right way.”

“Do what?”

She takes a breath. A rare occurrence. “Break up.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm on the job.”

“I know, but … well … it's Saturday.”

“So?”

“Saturday is supposed to be a day off.”

“Not for a cop running a case. Come on. You know that.”

I gesture to a squat and boxy building sandwiched between Pizza My Heart and Captain Video—the not so glamorous WAVY studios. Ceepak sees it, pulls to the curb.

“I gotta run, Sam.”

“Okay.”

“Have fun with your friends.”

“Say hi to Ceepak.”

“Yeah.”

I fold up the phone.

“Problems?” says Ceepak as he slides the transmission into park.

“Sam. She wants me to go hang out with her college pals, ride the new roller coaster, and then have a deep meaningful discussion so she can dump me with a clean conscience.”

“Sorry, Danny.”

I grab my door handle. “I'll deal with it later. Right now, we need to focus on figuring out who killed Gail Baker and Mrs. O'Malley.”

“Roger that.”

As we climb out of the cop car it hits me: Damn. I've turned into Ceepak junior. The guy's contagious.

30

A
NDREW
M
EYER
,
ONE OF THE YOUNG GUYS AT
WAVY, escorts Ceepak and me into an audio studio.

“This is where we cut commercials and promos,” he says. “You can use the computer there, call up the digital archives.”

The walls are covered with gray foam rubber shaped like egg cartons. Soundproofing panels. Out in the hall, we can hear Cliff Skeete at the Rolling Thunder.

“There they go! Whoo-hoo. Listen to that rumble! Like thunder rolling across the clouds!”

Poor guy. He's already running out of material and the ride's only been open for fifteen minutes. Cliff promises to be right back with more
“fun in the thundering sun”
and segues into Springsteen's biggest radio hit: “Hungry Heart,” the one about the wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack. Makes me think about Sam. And boardwalk nachos smothered in jack cheese. Guess we should've grabbed those eggs at The Rusty Scupper. I'm starving.

Meyer closes the door to cut off Cliff while Ceepak sits down in front of the microphone and mixer board.

“Can you call up last weekend's live remote?” he says to Andrew Meyer.

“Sure.” Meyer leans in. Clacks some keys on the keyboard. Scoots the mouse around. Clicks it.

“Whoo-hoo!”
The Skeeter from last Saturday is back.

“Can we fast forward to the point in time where the disc jockey was taken off the air?” asks Ceepak.

“Yeah. Hang on.” Meyer slips on a pair of headphones. Skitters the mouse around. I see sound waves scroll across the screen like a rapid-fire lie detector test.

“Here we go.” Meyer flicks a switch to put the sound back up in the speakers.

“We need someone to call nine–one–one! Now! Omigod! She's in bad shape! Call nine–one–one. We need an ambulance. Go to music! Go to music!”

A second or two of jumbled screams and shouts.

“What the hell happened?”

“Oh, Jesus Jackie. Jesus.”

“We need to go back down!”

“No! She's having a heart attack! Unbutton her blouse.”

Ceepak raises a hand. Meyer pauses the playback.

“Any idea who said, ‘no,' Danny?”

“I'm not one hundred percent sure, but it might be Kevin. Skippy's definitely the one who said they should go back down.”

Ceepak nods. That was his pick, too.

“Please continue,” he says to Meyer.

More commotion. Screams. Cliff taps his microphone a couple of times.

“Elyssa?”
he says to whomever must've been his engineer/ producer last Saturday.
“Listen, sister, we need a goddamn ambulance and we need it fast! She looks bad, man. Bad. Call nine–one–one.”

And then a new voice is heard—closer to the microphone.

“Daddy killed Mommy!”

“That's Mary,” I say. “The sister. She was sitting right in front of Cliff.”

Ceepak leans in. Me, too. We're straining to isolate Mary's voice from the general hubbub.

“Daddy did it! I saw him! Daddy killed Mommy!”

“Shut the fuck up, Mary.”
Sean. The sensitive son.

“Daddy did it, Daddy did it.”

“Shut! Up!”

“I'm a little birdy and I'm gonna tell—”

“Okay, lady. You're freaking me out.”
Cliff.
“Just sit down and chill, all right?”

“Does anybody know
CPR?” Kevin.

“Please, God, someone help!”
Mr. O'Malley.

“Skip? Help Mom.”
Kevin again.

“I … I …”

“You were a fucking cop, for Christ's sake! Help her!”

“I can't.”

“What?”

“I don't know how.”

“Jesus!”

“They never taught me.”

Um, yes they did.

“I'm a little birdy and I'm gonna tell everybody!”

“Sit down, lady. You're rockin' the damn car.”

It goes on like that for nearly ten minutes.

Skippy starts crying.

Kevin calls him a worthless sack of shit.

Sean tells Kevin to
“cut Skipperdoodle some fucking slack, man.”

Mr. O'Malley tells them all to
“be quiet, the whole damn lot of you!”

Mary giggles like a maniac and softly chants,
“I saw Daddy do it,”
over and over and over.

Cliff keeps talking to his producer, telling her it's getting ugly up here and he sees the cop cars and the ambulances and maybe a fire truck and two guys running up the roller coaster track.

“Wait—it's Danny … Danny Boyle … and … Ceepak. We're gonna be okay. Hey, Danny? Yo!”

Ceepak motions for Andrew Meyer to stop the playback.

We know what happens next.

Mrs. O'Malley dies.

31

“M
R
. O'M
ALLEY IS READY TO TALK
,”
SAYS
C
HIEF
B
AINES
when he radios us at the radio station.

Andrew Meyer is burning us a CD of what was recorded when Cliff was bumped off the air.

“Big Paddy and his lawyer have already left the Rolling Thunder,” the chief continues, “and are currently en route to headquarters to complete their interview with you two.”

“We're on our way,” says Ceepak.

“Good. The lawyer says he's bringing in a witness to corroborate O'Malley's story.”

“Any idea who?”

“Of course not. The shyster's slicker than an eel in olive oil. He's building suspense, trying to play us like he plays the poor saps in the jury box.”

“We may need to question Mr. O'Malley about a second death.”

More dead air on the radio, this time from the chief. Even though he's a couple of miles away, I can see him tugging at his mustache, trying to pluck the thing out of his lip. It's what he always does when one of us gives him a new ulcer.

“Second death?” he says finally.

“Yes, sir. New evidence recovered inside the home at number One Tangerine suggests that Mrs. O'Malley's death last week may have been something other than a heart attack.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Numerous vials of potassium chloride, several of which were empty.”

“You're telling me somebody poisoned Mrs. O'Malley?”

“No. I'm saying that is what the evidence recovered so far would seem to suggest.”

“That's what I just said, John.”

“If I may, sir, there is a difference. Until we find evidence linking the drug ampoules to the deceased and/or a suspect, all we have is proof that someone was in possession of a very powerful poison that they, most likely, removed illegally from a pharmacy.”

“You're right,” says the chief. “Let's take this thing one step at a time.” I think that last bit was aimed at himself.

We hit the house, head straight for the interview room.

Big Paddy, Loud Rambowski, and Golden Boy Kevin are seated at the table. So is that fiery redhead from the funeral: The lady I pegged to be Mrs. O'Malley's sister. In this light, her hair looks orange.

“Officers,” says the lawyer, standing up, pointing to two chairs, like he's in charge.

Ceepak? He finds a different open chair. Stands behind it.

“I don't believe we've met,” he says to the orangehead.

“Frances Ryan.”

“My sister-in-law,” says Big Paddy.

“She can tell you where Dad was when the girl was murdered,” adds Kevin.

“Indeed?” says Ceepak, finally sitting down. So I grab a seat, too. “Can she also explain why we found potassium chloride in the medicine chest at number One Tangerine Street?”

“Huh?” This from Daddy O'Malley.

“What the hell are you trying to pull here?” says Rambowski. “Have you made a connection between this … this …”

Ceepak helps out: “Potassium chloride. When delivered in a lethal dose, it causes the heart muscle to stop beating, leading to death by cardiac arrest.”

“So?” says the lawyer. “Is there any connection between what you found and my client?”

“Not at this time. However, we have established that your client, Mr. O'Malley, was a frequent visitor to the house.”

“No you have not,” says Rambowski. “Not to my satisfaction.”

“You wanna see the videos?” I ask.

Every drop of blood drains out of Mr. O'Malley's face.

“Goddamn that Johnson. Arrogant prick.”

“Pardon?” says Ceepak, like we're at a tea party and somebody just farted.

“Keith Barent Johnson! He's the one who wanted the cameras in every bedroom! Said the videos were the only thing that got him through July and August when Bruno rented out the house to tourists and we all got busy making our nut for the year, couldn't screw around with the girls.”

Mrs. O'Malley's sister has her purse in her lap and is twisting the straps like crazy. I think right about now she'd like to tear one off and use it to strangle her brother-in-law.

“Gentlemen,” says Rambowski, “let's talk about why we're actually here. This morning you intimated that you had enough evidence to arrest Mr. O'Malley for the murder of Ms. Gail Baker. Is that what you intend to do, now that you've uncovered somebody's stash of potassium chloride, even though, if I might remind you, Ms. Baker did not die from a heart attack?”

“We have not yet written up an arrest warrant,” says Ceepak, somewhat reluctantly.

“Good. Because my client has an ironclad alibi. Patrick?”

I can tell Mr. O'Malley is still thinking about the lethal injection and the heart attack.

“Hmm?” he says.

“Tell these gentlemen about the telephone call. Thursday night.”

Mr. O'Malley sits there. Nods a couple of times.

“Dad?” Kevin prods him.