I'd say something witty in reply but Ceepak is bounding up the front steps and I'm right behind him.
Two seconds later, I hear the Chief's big Expedition screech to a stop in the street.
“Inside, Malloy. Santucci? Off your ass! Move it! Move it! Go, go, go!”
The coach is sending in the whole team. Behind me, I hear the sound of heavy men thundering up the porch steps, jangling all the tinkley wind chimes hanging off the ceiling.
Chesterfield's front foyer is stuffed with antique furniture. Doilies and little glass candy dishes sit on top of everything.
Room number two features wingback chairs on oriental rugs in front of green-striped wallpaper and oil paintings of hounds and horses. Cozy.
Ceepak looks completely out of place, making his way to the main dining room, his pistol hanging by his hip in his hand.
He reaches the hostess at the double doors. Do we have a reservation? She studies her big burgundy binder while Ceepak looks over her head, trying to locate Mendez.
“May I help you, sir?”
She's wearing some kind of costume with a frilly shower cap, like she just came inside from churning butter.
“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says firmly, yet politely. “Please vacate these premises immediately.”
“I'm sorry?”
“Danny?”
“Out here, ma'am,” I say.
“Ceepak?” The chief is lumbering up the hall behind us. Malloy and Santucci are with him. They all have their weapons in their hands.
“Mendez and Stone are the only diners,” Ceepak says. “I'm going in. Cover me.”
“Roger that,” the chief whispers.
Ceepak makes a swing move into the dining room.
We swarm in after him like we're on military maneuvers. A waiter sees us and drops his tray. Muffins go tumbling everywhere.
“Upstairs,” Ceepak yells to the waiter. “Now. Go!”
The guy thinks about picking up his muffins for a second and then hightails it out of the room.
Cynthia Stone and her companion are sitting at a corner table under a brass wall sconce with a flickering glass globe that's lit kind of low to set a more romantic mood. They were both sipping mimosas before we so rudely interrupted.
“Mr. Virgilio Mendez?” says Ceepak.
“Yeah?”
“Keep your hands on the table, where I can see them.”
“Yo. Why you actin’ like G.I. Joe all of a sudden? Take it easy, son.”
“Officer?” Ms. Stone swivels around to face Ceepak. She sees the small army assembled behind him. “I hope you gentlemen have an explanation for this unwarranted intrusion.”
Ceepak ignores her. His beef is with Mendez.
“Mr. Mendez, in my book, a man's word is good as gold-until he breaks it.”
“You got that right.”
“You were dishonest in your dealings with me this morning.”
Mendez looks insulted.
“I will not tolerate a liar.”
“Say what?”
“You stated you had never met nor had any contact with the man we are searching for, the street person known as Squeegee.”
“I say I might, you know, see him around, here and there, maybe over to the car wash. But, yo-I do not know the dude….”
“You two never had discussions concerning his need to vacate The Palace Hotel?”
“You tellin’ me he's one of those skanks squatting up there?”
“You tell me.”
“Damn, they all be lookin’ the same to me. Every shaggy-assed crackhead junkie one of them.”
The chief bulls forward.
“What's the story here, Ceepak?”
“At the car wash, Danny and I interviewed a witness who stated Mr. Mendez here had several conversations with our suspect.”
Ms. Stone started to say something, then thought better of it.
“Mr. Mendez was working for Mr. Hart,” Ceepak continues.
“Removing unwanted tenants from an abandoned property….”
“Nah-uh, I was, you know-measuring the windows for curtains and shit….”
“This witness went on to state that Squeegee was attempting to work a deal with Mr. Mendez. Some way he and his girlfriend could remain in The Palace Hotel. They were negotiating.”
“Say what?”
“Did you work out a deal, Mr. Mendez? A way for this junkie, as you call him, to pay his rent? Was Squeegee your hired assassin? Your hitman? Did he murder Mr. Hart for you?”
“What? What's a deal like that gonna do for me?”
“Maybe allow you to sell me a time-share.” Ceepak pulls the Sea Palace brochure out of his back pocket. “When did Mendez Enterprises take possession of this property? Yesterday? Sometime shortly after 7:15 A.M.?”
Mendez almost leaps out of his chair to go nose to nose with Ceepak.
“Don't answer that,” Ms. Stone now says. “In fact, don't say another word.”
“Mr. Mendez?” Ceepak and Mendez are both about the same size. Same height. Same build. They stare into each other's eyes. Mendez blinks first.
“She don't want me talkin’ to you ’cause she the one who call me. That's right. Yesterday morning. Say she got the damn power of attorney. Until they pro-rate the dead dude's will and all, she in charge of every damn thing Hart owns. His whole damn empire. You want you a casino or some shit like that? Maybe a shopping mall? She'll cut you a deal, bro … cheap too.”
I hear the chief start breathing real loud, his nose hairs whistling like he's a lobster in a pot about to boil.
“All right,” he says. “That's enough. Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work. Malloy?”
“Yes sir?”
“You and Santucci-run these two clowns down to the station.”
“Don't be preposterous.” Ms. Stone smoothes out her skirt like she's ready to order her eggs benedict and skim the Sunday funnies. “On what possible charge?”
“I don't know,” the chief grumbles. He looks like one of those guys in the antacid commercials, like his stomach is ballooning up with gas and his face is going to turn green, then explode. “I'll think of something later. Haul them out of here. Hustle! Move it!”
“Yes, sir.” Malloy and Santucci go to the table. “Sir? Ma'am?”
Ms. Stone stands.
“Chief Cosgrove, I am going to sue your ass and nail it to a cross-”
“Get them out of here!” the chief hollers.
Malloy and Santucci escort Ms. Stone and Mendez to the front door.
“Ceepak?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Check out this hotel. This Sea Palace place.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Chances are, Squeegee is holed up nearby. See if there's a dock up there, too. Find the goddamn boat he used.”
“Will do.”
“Move it. Go.”
The three of us stomp out, rattling curio cabinets and shaking Hummel figurines as we go. When we hit the porch, Malloy waves for the chief to come over. Quick.
“What?” The chief stomps down the steps. “What is it now?”
“Dispatch,” says Malloy. “You just received a fax at the house.”
“What? Another damn newspaper reporter?”
“No, sir. It's from Squeegee. It's a ransom note.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“I was simply carrying out Mr. Hart's wishes,” Ms. Stone is saying. “It's what Reginald would have wanted.”
“The ex-Mrs. Hart just smiles.
“Were you sleeping with him?”
“I don't see how that is relevant.”
Lucky me.
I'm stuck in the chief's office with the two of them.
Ms. Stone is waiting to be processed on whatever charges the chief cooks up.
Betty came to hear what the ransom note says.
“Ladies?” I say. “Would either of you like some more coffee?”
Trust me-caffeine is the last thing these two women need right now. They're pacing around, twisting the chief's paper clips, rubbing their arms, doing all kinds of itchy, twitchy stuff. But this is my assignment. Stay with the ladies. Get them what they need, keep them comfortable, and keep them away from everybody else while the chief and Ceepak and this guy from the state police study the ransom fax.
“When will we see the ransom note?” Betty asks. “Hear this man's demands?”