Rolling Thunder (27 page)

Just a tumbling ribbon of blue, blue water.

“Ceepak?” I say.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“He did it here!” I say. “In the river.”

Ceepak peers through the window. “Why is that water so blue?”

“They probably dye it,” says Dylan Murray. “To fight algae and weeds. My uncle has a pond up in Pennsylvania. He dumps in this stuff called Aquaclean. The blue blocks the sunlight.”

“Thank you, Dylan.”

“No problem.”

“We'll call our supposition into the medical examiner,” says Ceepak, adding, “as soon as we get a chance.”

“Roger that,” I say. Holding a locked and loaded pistol always makes me talk much more militaristically.

“We need to clear the course, Danny.”

“You want to split up?”

“Swing right, I'll head left. Any golfers you encounter send them down here to the Murrays.”

The pink pyramid is about to become Fort Apache.

We dart through the back door, the one that takes you out to the first hole.

“We'll want to search inside that utility shed,” says Ceepak, head gesturing toward the smaller pyramid tucked behind a clump of fake palm trees. “Later.”

“Right.”

He heads to the eighteenth hole.

A family foursome is clomping down the hill to play the final hole, where if you can run your ball up the ramp so it flies into the crocodile's snout instead of his wide-open mouth, you win a free game.

“Sir? Ma'am?” says Ceepak. “You and your children need to head into the office. Immediately.”

They give him no guff. People seldom do when you're wearing what they'd call a bulletproof vest and have your semiautomatic weapon out and up.

The mom's good. She calmly ushers everybody down the winding concrete path before they have time to panic. While Ceepak clears the back nine, I make my way up to the front. It's a little after noon so King Putt isn't very crowded. In fact, it's almost deserted. Must be why T.J. and his pals opted for an early tee time: They'd have the course to themselves.

I cross a sand trap (more like a kidney-shaped sandbox, but it goes with the whole Sahara Desert theme) and come to the Python Pit. Hole number six. Three high school girls are giggling every time the cobra head pops up out of his basket.

“Girls?” I say.

They shriek. I came up behind them.

“You need to head back to the office. Now.”

They squeal and scamper away.

“In here, girls!” Jeremy Murray screams from the office doorway. “Now! Move!”

Guy could be a lacrosse coach.

I swing around holes seven and eight, remembering when I came here as a kid how much fun I had. Hoping I don't see it all again when my life flashes in front of my eyes two seconds after Skippy pops out of the cave with one of his tactical shotguns. Or his Beretta. Or whatever else he's got.

A towering mountain sculpted out of plaster on chicken wire looms at the center of the course, linking holes nine and ten. Up top is the fake Victoria Falls, with tons of water the color of windshield washer fluid fountaining up through its crater top, then tumbling down over craggy outcroppings until it splashes into the mighty blue Nile snaking through the labyrinth of holes.

There is a tunnel cutting through the fake mountain. It's dark and dank.

It's where I'd hide if I were Skippy.

The civilians on my side are all safe. I see Ceepak gesturing at an elderly couple at the eleventh hole. Both seem to need new hearing aid batteries.

Meaning I need to take the cave alone.

I suck down a deep breath and grab the Maglite off my utility belt. I use what some guys call the Arnold Technique when juggling a flashlight and a Glock: Maglite coming out of the bottom of my left hand, fist held to my collar bone, gun pointed at the ground when searching, at the target as needed.

I'm pretty fast on the upswing.

I creep forward, shine the light into the darkness. I see nothing but slick walls. I step into the mouth of the mountain.

“Skippy?” I shout.

My voice rings off the sculpted rock.

No answer.

I swing the flashlight left, to where I know there's a recessed nook, a ledge where you can sit and make–out with your date in the dark.

Nothing.

I swing it right.

The blinding beam bounces back at me.

Reflected off the POLICE letters on Ceepak's chest.

This is why I like to keep my gun pointed at the ground in the flashlight searching situations. You shoot fewer partners.

Ceepak radios in a BOLO APB.

That's a “be on the lookout” all points bulletin. We assume Skippy hightailed it off the golf course two minutes after his dad called him up to ask who had the magic cell phone on Thursday night. He knows we're onto him.

“Request all available assistance, local and state, police, fire department, sanitation workers: anyone with eyes on the street. We need to locate Skip ‘Skippy' O'Malley. Male Caucasian. Sandy hair. Freckled face. Approximately six feet tall, hundred and thirty pounds. Slight build. Stooped shoulders. No known distinguishing tattoos or scars.”

Although sometimes he wears a chariot skirt.

I check out the parking lot on the other side of the fence penning in the golf course.

“He might be in the King Putt pickup truck,” I say because it isn't parked where it was parked the last time we came by to stop Mr. Ceepak from harassing folks picking out their tiny pencils and score pads. “It's got the logo painted on the doors.”

Ceepak nods. “Suspect could be driving a Dodge Ram pickup truck with King Putt Mini Golf signage painted on the doors.”

Ceepak is, of course, one step ahead of me. I say pickup truck, he says Dodge Ram, because he remembers those tire treads Carolyn Miller found over on Tangerine Street.

“Please be advised, suspect is thought to be heavily armed and mentally unstable.”

Wow. Dr. Ceepak. Much tougher than Dr. Phil.

We listen in as Mrs. Rence broadcasts the bulletin.

“Should we hit the road?” I ask when she's done.

“Not just yet,” says Ceepak. “I want to investigate that tool shed.”

We head over to the smaller pyramid in the stand of artificial Egyptian trees.

I reach for the handles.

“Danny?”

I look over. Ceepak has assumed a firing stance, weapon aimed at the split between the twin doors.

“Do you think?”

“It's a possibility. Jump clear as you open.”

I nod. Damn. Would Skippy really hide in the shed?

“On three,” says Ceepak. “One, two, three …”

I pull the door open, fly to the right.

But nobody discharges their weapon.

“Suitcase,” says Ceepak who, in the time it took me to wince, already has his flashlight up and is working it around the storage hut's clumpy shadows. “Matches the color and style of those found at the crime scene.”

Now his beam hits a sand pit rake.

Then a hacksaw hanging on a hook. The blade is too clean. It's brand-new.

“He did it here.” He turns around. Surveys the bright blue river. “He crept up behind her, whacked her in the head with a blunt metal object—”

“A putter,” I suggest.

“Yes. A putter. Similar impact pattern to that of a hammer. Good going, Danny.”

I'd say thanks but we are talking about a creep bashing out a bathing beauty's brains here.

“Realizing she was dead, he most likely dismembered her body in the river, knowing that the water would wash away most of the evidence, that the blue dye would cover up the blood.”

“Especially if he dumped more in when he was done.”

“We should check the filtration system. We may find traces of Ms. Baker's blood and bone matter trapped inside.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “If Skippy killed Gail here, how come we found blood splattered all over the shower walls?”

“Because he wanted us to. I suspect, Danny, that Skippy took some of Ms. Baker's body parts out of the suitcases when he arrived at number One Tangerine. That he pressed the bar of soap up under her fingernails. It's why there was so much green residue trapped under her nails yet no soap on the rest of her body.”

I hate to ask but I do: “And the shampoo?”

Ceepak grimaces and looks a little queasy. “Skippy took Ms. Baker's decapitated head into the shower stall, lathered the hair with shampoo and then, when he noticed that the recently severed neck was still dripping blood, spun around, and, holding the head out, splashed blood droplets on all four walls.”

Like a little boy making a spiral-art painting at summer camp.

“It would explain the unusual spatter pattern,” Ceepak continues. “He then went to the twenty-four-hour CVS and purchased the white shoe polish, knowing that it would further implicate his father. He took the empty bottles and the potassium chloride vials, three of which he emptied, into the house.”

“How'd he get in?”

“Perhaps he had learned from his father or his younger brother where the spare key was kept.”

Yeah. Guys that rich probably bought one of those plastic key-hiding rocks they sell in “People With Too Much Money” catalogs.

“Hey, Dad!”

It's T.J. and Dave Tranotti. They're coming into the golf course sucking on milkshakes from the restaurant across the street.

“You looking for your father?” T.J. asks.

“Come again?”

“The skeevey old guy with the wild greasy hair,” says Tranotti, who must not have studied international diplomacy during his first year at the naval academy.

“He said he was my grandpa,” says T.J. “Well, stepgrandpa.”

“My father was here?”

“Yes, sir. Joe Ceepak. But the other cop already hauled him away. Told your father he was in direct violation of an active restraining order.”

“Who was this other cop?”

“Freckle-faced dude,” said Tranotti. “Had on a cop cap, black cargo pants, uniform shirt.”

“Holster and pistol,” adds T.J.

“He works the counter here on his days off,” says Tranotti.

“You know him, Danny,” says T.J. “Skippy O'Malley.”

36

“W
HAT DID MY FATHER WANT WITH YOU
, T.J.?”

T.J. shrugs. I'm still not used to his buzz cut. I keep expecting to see his bouncing bundle of dreadlocks bobbing up and down.

“Said he wanted to ‘get to know me.' Talk to me about my grandmother. I know you and mom want to keep him way from Grams.”

“So T.J. told the old wino to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” says Tranotti.

“Yeah,” says T.J., looking down at his sneakers. “Sorry about that.”

Ceepak nods. “An understandable reaction, son.”

“Next time, I'll be nicer.”

“Let's hope there isn't a next time. Did Skippy O'Malley put my father into the King Putt truck?”

“Yeah. He slapped him in cuffs and everything. Sort of shoved him into the vehicle, held down the top his head—did it just like the cops do on TV shows. When I told him to take it easy on the old fart, dude flashed me his badge. Said I shouldn't interfere with police business unless I wanted to take a ride, too. Oh, there was a rifle in the truck. I saw it on the floor. Wicked-looking shotgun.”

“Do all auxiliary cops get to carry that much firepower?” asks Tranotti.

“Auxiliary cops?” says Ceepak.

“That's what O'Malley said he was when I asked him how come he worked at the golf course all the time if he was a police officer.”

“T.J., David—young Mr. O'Malley is in no way affiliated with the Sea Haven Police Department. It is very important that we locate and apprehend him ASAP. Could you tell what direction he headed with my father?”

“Not the jail,” says Tranotti. “He peeled wheels out of the parking lot and headed north on Ocean.”

Cherry Street is south.

“The causeway is north,” says Ceepak.

True. And it's the only road off the island.

My partner reaches for his radio. “Dorian, this is Officer Ceepak.”

“Go ahead, Officer Ceepak.”

“We need a roadblock.…”

“Ten–four. The Causeway. Chief Baines already ordered one.”

“We have confirmation that Mr. O'Malley left the golf course in the King Putt pickup.”

“A Dodge Ram,” T.J. tosses in.

“A Dodge Ram,” Ceepak says to the radio, even though he already knew that.

“Ten–four. You told me that already.”

“Sorry. Dorian?”

“Yes, Officer Ceepak?”

“We've just been informed that O'Malley has taken a hostage.”

“Copy that. Any ID on who he grabbed?”

“Yes. Joseph Ceepak. My father.”

There is a beat of dead air.

“Ten–four.” I can hear our new dispatcher straining to remain professional. She cracks. “Hang in there, hon, ya hear?”

“Yes, ma'am. Will do.”

Down comes the radio mic.

“Danny? We need to be mobile. Fortunately, the vehicle is easy to spot. We should get a hit on it soon.” Then he turns to T.J. “I need for you to go home, in case Skippy, for whatever reason, decides to come after you, your mom, or Marny.”

“Yeah,” says T.J.

“I'll hang with you, man,” says Tranotti, who, I can tell, has put in some serious physical training during his first year at Annapolis. “We can play Battleship.”

T.J. laughs.

“Sorry about this, son,” says Ceepak. “Guess I ruined your big day even more than we had anticipated.”

“Nah,” says T.J. “I ruined it myself. Shot six over par on the back nine. Did even worse on the front of the course. Go on. Go rescue your old man.”

“Will do. Tell your mother I love her.”

“Hey, tell her yourself. Tonight. After you come home safe.”

“Roger that.”

Then they hug. Seriously. I don't think I ever hugged my dad. Not even when I graduated high school, which, by the way, many people considered a mathematical impossibility.