Ceepak stares at his torn beer label.
There are beads of sweat on his forehead, even though Mike keeps the thermostat set at 65 and The Mug feels like a frosty icebox.
“Were the bombers in the taxi?”
“No, Danny. It was a family. The father was a taxicab driver. His wife was up front in the passenger seat. The two in the back moving around were their children. A ten-year-old boy and his six-year-old sister. They were coming home from the hospital where the boy went for his asthma treatments. The others went with him … so the boy wouldn't be afraid. The two children were dead on the scene. The parents died about an hour later. We wiped out the whole family.”
The old guys at the bar pick up their beer bottles and take long, slow drinks and wish they had another shot of whiskey to chase. Mike folds his towel and shakes his head. Ceepak stares at his hands.
He's quiet but I'm still listening.
“If I hadn't been driving … if I had been the one manning the weapon … maybe I could've seen it sooner … seen it was kids … maybe….”
I nod.
I understand.
It won't happen again.
He won't be the one driving and we will not let another kid get hurt.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I crawl out of bed at 7 A.M. on Sunday. I've had about five hours of sleep.
I wonder if Ceepak's had any.
I go to the station house and sign out the Explorer. There's this newspaper vending machine on the sidewalk near our parking lot.
“HART BROKEN!”
The Sunday papers have found a clever way to link the two tragedies-run a big four-color photo of Betty Bell Hart's anguished face under a bold banner headline. On one side of the photo is a story about her ex-husband's murder. On the other side, a two-column spread about the disappearance of her daughter. In the big photo, you can see the former weather girl's mascara running in black globs down her cheeks. They're going to sell some papers this Sunday.
I read as much of the Ashley story as I can without actually depositing four quarters in the tin box and buying the thing.
They suspect the young “heiress” was kidnapped and is being held for ransom. Sounds like the reporter got his scoop from Chief Cosgrove.
“It's one possibility,” I mumble out loud.
Ceepak and I will probably look into a few others.
The Mussel Beach Motel is a family-owned and operated establishment on the sandy side of Beach Lane. It's a clean, two-story, horseshoe-shaped stucco box with a sign out front advertising a “newly furnished pool.” Becca's dad, Mr. Adkinson, decorated the place, so that's why there's this three-foot-long stuffed fish in the lobby. It's hanging right next to the window air conditioner Mr. Adkinson decided to mount through the wall because the window was too far from an electrical outlet.
If your motel room is on the first floor, you can park two feet from your front door. If you're upstairs, you have to lug your suitcases and beer coolers up a flight of metal steps but the room rates are cheaper. Every room comes with its own air conditioner and coffee-maker, and another one of Mr. Adkinson's trophy fish. They hang between factory-made oil paintings of seascapes and lighthouses bolted to the walls.
Like the Web site says, there's plenty of parking on the premises, so we pull into an empty spot out front.
It's 8:15 and Becca's in the lobby behind the bright blue counter sipping coffee out of a styrofoam cup. Her dad must've gotten a good deal on that countertop because I have never actually seen that particular shade of royal blue marble. It kind of looks like bowling ball blue.
“Hey, Becca.”
“Hey. He's still here. Mendez.”
“Cool. This is John Ceepak.”
Becca likes what she sees.
“It's awesome to finally meet you. Danny talks about you all the time….”
“It's good to meet you too.”
Ceepak does a cheek-dimpling smile, shakes Becca's hand, and she falls in love. Big John doesn't notice.
“Is Mr. Mendez awake?” he asks.
“Yep.”
“How do you know?” I ask, wiggling my eyebrows suggestively. This is a motel, after all.
“Because, you skeeve, I just took some towels out to the pool and Mendez is up on the sundeck doing these freaky exercises.” She demonstrates in slow motion.
“Tai-Chi,” Ceepak says.
“Could be. Or maybe Tae-Bo? Like that guy on TV?”
“Sure. That'll work.”
“We'd like to talk to him,” I say.
“Fine by me. You guys want some coffee? Pastry? I'm putting out the breakfast buffet.”
She's also putting out the Sunday papers. Ceepak sees the screaming headlines and knows he has no time to waste on danish.
“No, thanks,” he says. “Danny?”
We head for the sundeck.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Ceepak.”
He smiles back, and Becca almost drops her Raspberry Crumble Cake.
The deck is out back, overlooking the beach. You have to go around the pool and climb up some stairs to reach it. On one side of the deck, there's a row of Wal-Mart white vinyl chairs. The other side faces the ocean.
Mendez is wearing boxer shorts and a white nylon doo-rag that makes the top of his head look like a nurse's kneecap. His eyes are closed as he stretches and toasts his brown body in the early morning sunshine.
I can see the Blessed Virgin's face stretching up on his shoulder every time he flexes those particular muscles. The guy is a regular tattoo gallery, but there's no dragon up on his neck. I looked. He has a flaming heart with a knife jabbed through it.
Ceepak clears his throat to let the guy know we're here.
“Mr. Mendez?”
Mendez stops in mid-leg-lift and opens his eyes just enough to see we're cops. He doesn't care.
“Yo. Wazzup?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir. We need to ask a few questions.”
“Now? Damn, son-I'm in the middle of my moves. Tryin’ to start the day right, you know what I'm sayin’?”
“Yes, sir. Again, I apologize for any inconvenience. If this is a bad time….”
“What if I said it was?”
“We could arrange to meet at a more convenient hour.”
“Nah-uh, nah-uh. What you need to know?”
“We'd like to talk to you about Mr. Reginald Hart.”
“Now deceased?”
“That's correct. Have you ever done business with Mr. Hart?”
“Shit, son. You got that ass-backwards, you know what I'm sayin’? Mr. Hart? He do business with me. See what I'm sayin’?”
“Yes. Thank you for the clarification. You're an independent contractor?”
“That's right.”
Ceepak rubs his eraser around in his notebook, like he's correcting some faulty information someone gave him.
“What type of business activities did Mr. Hart hire you to perform?”
“He, you know, he hired my firm to perform what you might call real-estate consultation-type activities.”
“Your firm?”
“That's what I said, isn't it?”
“Very well,” Ceepak says. “So … your firm? What sort of real-estate services do you provide?”
“You know-little this, little that.”
“Groundskeeping? Sprinkler maintenance?”
Mendez looks hurt.
“Nah-uh, man. Tenant relations.”
“I see. In his new buildings?”
Mendez smiles, and I can see the glint of bling-bling: he has a small gold cross implanted in his upper left incisor. This guy is seriously Catholic.
“Nah-uh-we worked mainly in the old buildings. The ones Hart was fixing up but, you know, he couldn't get started without a little spring cleaning. That was back in the day. Now we be, you know, branching out.”
“Diversifying?”
“Yeah. Diversifying. I'll show you something you might be interested in….”
He goes to a pile of clothes in front of one of the vinyl chairs and pulls a slick brochure out his jeans.
“Project we be working on.”
He hands Ceepak the brochure.