“No, ma'am. After coffee? Go anywhere?”
“Yes. I went to the bank. The cash machine. I didn't dare use my credit cards for anything.”
“Or we might find out you were in town when you weren't supposed to be?”
“Something like that.” She tries to bat her eyes at Ceepak. It doesn't work.
“You know an ATM takes a photograph during every transaction?”
“Really?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“So if I'm lying, you'll soon know-won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am. I will.”
“Isn't technology marvelous? First the E-Z pass, now the ATM? It's a wonder we don't all wear collars around our necks and send out radio signals, like some sort of endangered geese.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I was at the bank.” Betty enunciates every word, like she's doing closed captioning for the hearing-impaired. “I withdrew two hundred dollars. But I suppose you'll verify that as well, won't you?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Ceepak makes a note.
She sighs.
“Look, I'm sorry I lied.”
“Well, you should be!” the chief snaps.
“Won't you forgive me?” Betty looks at Ceepak the way she used to look at the baby bunnies when she did her Easter Sunday forecast. “Please?”
Ceepak is sorry she lied, too. I can tell by the way he bites his lip while he nods his head. He might forgive her, but he sure as hell won't forget what she did.
Guess that's how The Code works. If folks follow it, you can trust whatever they say, you can even follow them into battle. If they don't? If they lie? You have to watch your back any time they ask you to believe a word they say.
The chief stands up.
“Okay. The damage is done. We move forward. I'll get Santucci or somebody to do the bank and EZ Pass calls.”
Ceepak stands, too.
I guess we're done with Betty.
“You'll bring my little girl home safe?” she asks, eyes moist.
“We'll do our best,” Ceepak tells her stiffly.
“Let's head back to headquarters,” the chief now says, checking his watch. “Time to talk to Mendez-”
The chief's radio squawks.
“Jesus. What now?”
I don't think the chief likes the way this Tilt-A-Whirl case keeps spinning him around and making his stomach lurch.
He stabs the radio talkback button with his thumb.
“Yeah?”
“It's Adam Kiger, sir.”
“What you got, son?
“Gus's gun. We found it.”
“Where?”
“In the trunk of Mendez's car.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Ceepak is staring out the car window, watching the beach roll by, thinking.
He asked me to take the scenic route home-up 247, the coast road, which turns into Beach Lane when it hits the town limits of Sea Haven proper.
I'm doing a little thinking too.
I'm starting to wonder if crime one and crime two are even connected.
Maybe somebody killed Hart because, as they say down South, he needed him some killing. Then maybe somebody else pulled the kidnap, figuring the kid had to come into some pretty fat money when her old man's ticket got punched.
“‘With her killer graces, and her secret places….’” Ceepak's mumble-singing again. Another Springsteen song. I know this one. It's called “She's the One.”
“Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Two things. One. We need a warrant. I want to search that woman's car.”
“What sort of secrets are we looking for?”
“Car-wash coupons. Air fresheners. Cash-register receipts….”
“From Cap'n Scrubby's?”
“Roger that.”
“You think she hired Squeegee?”
“It's certainly a new possibility. Two-let's swing by the bank.”
“Now? We're with Mendez at three-”
“Mr. Mendez can wait. I need to use the cash machine.”
The First Atlantic Bank is located on Ocean Avenue between Snapper's Grill and Mango's Swimwear, about three blocks down the street from The Pancake Palace.
I park out front and follow Ceepak into the lobby. He dips his card into the ATM.
“You need cash?” I ask.
Ceepak doesn't answer. He tilts his wrist and punches a button on his G-Shock.
“Okay,” he says, “I'm taking out $200.”
I'm a little jealous. Ceepak's actually got $200 to withdraw.
While he waits for the machine to spit out ten twenties, he smiles up at the black plexiglass over the ATM.
“Cheese,” he says.
Ceepak tucks the bills into his pocket.
“Okay. Follow me.”
He heads out the door and up the block to the corner of Ocean and Maple. The light is red. We wait for it to change.
When it does, Ceepak checks his wrist and says, “Thirty seconds.”
We head across the street. On the other side of Ocean Avenue, Maple Street creates one corner of the Sunnyside Playland property. So the fence leading down to the beach is on our left; on our right, rental houses. Two blocks’ worth. The closer we get to the ocean, the higher the rents.
The sidewalk ends, and now we have to walk up planks laid across the sand dune to reach the beach.
“Three minutes,” Ceepak says. I can tell he's trying not to walk too fast or too slow-he's just walking with what they call a sense of purpose.
We're up and over the dune and on the beach.
The first thing I notice is how empty it is for a hot Sunday afternoon. Guess folks weren't listening when the mayor told them Sea Haven was open for fun in the sun again. As far as I can see, there are only maybe five umbrellas, and the little kids are building their sand castles pretty darn close to where mom and dad sit in their beach chairs, terrified to take their eyes off their children.
We head left a gain. The ocean's on our right. Playland's chain-link fence is on our left.
Behind the fence, I can see parts of Playland. First, the Kiddie Rides: “Hot Doggers Hot Rods,” tiny race cars shaped like hot-dog buns that putter around in a circle; “The Beachball Express,” a little train that chugs around in a circle; “The Sandpiper Cub High Flyer,” little airplanes that sort of fly around in a circle.
When you're a little kid, having fun at an amusement park involves a lot of riding around in circles.
Now I see the Italian sausage stand, the funnel cake and zeppole wagon, the French-fry and Coke stands.
Next come the bumper cars, and the Flying Fish Boat, which rocks you back and forth and swings you higher and higher until you wish you had skipped the sandwich with peppers and onions back at the Italian sausage stand.
Finally, I see the Turtle-Twirl Tilt-A-Whirl.
We're standing outside the fence, near the little plywood trapdoor, still covered with sand. I see the yellow police tape I hung fluttering in the breeze. I also see that Sunnyside Clyde has sent out his cleaning crews. Gone is any trace of Mr. Hart's last bloody thrill ride. The turtle's all green again, no red anywhere.
“Seven minutes, forty-five seconds.” Ceepak says, stopping his digital watch with a beep. “Two or three more minutes to crawl under the fence, get in position.”
“So we're what? A ten-, fifteen-minute walk from the bank?”
Ceepak nods.
“We need to talk to the medical examiner. Calibrate a more precise TOD.”
Time of death.
Looks like Betty is this close to becoming another possibility.
“Yo! Someone planted that, man!”
Mr. Virgilio Mendez is none too happy about what young Officer Kiger found in the trunk of his El Dorado.
Gus's gun is sitting on the table in front of him and his lawyer, Cynthia Stone. It's a Smith amp; Wesson 9-mm semi-automatic with an evidence tag tied to it so it looks like it's on sale at some cop's yard sale.
“We're running the ballistics,” the chief says. “I'm sure it'll match the slugs we found at the Tilt-A-Whirl-”
“Like I'm really gonna be leaving my piece in the trunk like it's a beer cooler or some shit-”