The chief, in his sleep-deprived, agitated, I-hate-the-FBI state, has blown any element of surprise.
If there was any evidence linking Bell to Cap'n Scrubby, clever Betty probably just flushed it down the toilet. We might need to get a search warrant for her septic tank.
“What the hell makes you think Betty Bell Hart is involved in this thing? Jesus, Ceepak….”
“We need to consider all possibilities in the investigation of suspicious deaths. Especially the less obvious lines of inquiry.”
“What? Why?” The chief is none too interested in Advanced Theories of Criminology right now. “Mendez had the goddamn gun. In his car. He had the murder weapon!”
“Correction,” Ceepak says. “Officer Kiger found the gun in Mendez's trunk.”
“Same difference.”
No, it's not. Even I know that. The shooter could have planted it there, just like Mendez claimed.
Ceepak doesn't press the issue.
I have a hunch he won't be telling the chief about our bank-to-beach time trials this morning, either. His old Army buddy seems to have a serious case of Mental Overload bordering on Brain Burnout.
The chief slumps down in his big rolling chair.
“So,” Ceepak says, “how can you have a file on Squeegee? We don't even know his real name.”
The chief cracks a smile, the first I've seen on his face in about forty-eight hours.
“I lied a little,” he says.
Oh, boy.
People keep saying the wrong things in front of Ceepak today.
“I stretched the truth.” The chief opens the folder. “This is an unsolved case from two years back. We kept it quiet at the time. Didn't want to panic the tourists. Fourth of July weekend. Young girl by the name of Jennifer D'Angelo is lured off the beach and under the boardwalk by a quote skinny homeless man with big, buggy eyes end quote.”
“May I see that?”
The chief hands the folder to Ceepak.
“I put two and two together. Sounds like our same guy. Sounds like Squeegee. So I just used it for leverage.”
Ceepak is studying the file.
“He raped her,” the chief says quietly.
Ceepak nods. I guess he just got to that part.
“Case is still open. Of course, two years ago, we didn't know from Squeegee. The doer didn't leave many clues.”
“Except this,” Ceepak says, holding up a copy of a crime-scene boot print.
Another Timberland.
“The girl was twelve, almost thirteen,” the chief says, standing up and looking out his window.
“Same age as Ashley.” Ceepak neatly tucks all the paper back inside the manila folder. He's seen enough. A cold look frosts his face.
The chief's door opens.
“Chief?”
It's Jane Bright.
“What you got?”
“E-Z Pass. It checks out. Her transponder left the city via the tunnel at 10:43 A.M. Friday. She got off at exit 15 of the parkway at 2:12 P.M.”
Two and a half hours from the city to the shore? She made pretty good time. Must not be too much traffic that early on a summer Friday. The people playing half-day hooky usually don't hop in their cars until one or two in the afternoon, after, they figure, they've put in enough work so the Friday doesn't have to count as a vacation day.
“What about the ATM?” the chief asks Jane.
She places a sheet of paper on his desk. It's a grainy, black-and-white image of Betty tapping the First Atlantic Bank ATM keypad. She's wearing a dark scarf and sunglasses, but I can tell it's her. So can Ceepak.
“What's the time stamp read?” Ceepak asks.
“7:03 A.M. Saturday.”
“Her story holds up,” the chief sighs.
“So it seems,” Ceepak says.
“Thanks, Jane,” the chief says.
“Where do you need me next?”
“Run with the FBI down to this Mussel Beach Motel. The girl who works there….”
“Becca Adkinson,” I say.
“Right. She's working with an artist on some sketches. Ramirez. Echaverra. See if you can help her remember stuff.”
“Yes, sir.” Jane hustles toward the door.
“And Jane? Tell Santucci to swing by Chesterfield's and keep an eye on the lawyer.”
“You didn't arrest her?”
“No. The gun was enough to make Mr. Mendez our guest for another night but we've got nothing solid on Ms. Stone.”
“Will do.”
Jane is gone. The door is once again closed.
“Can I be honest with you, Ceepak?”
Ceepak nods.
“Ms. Stone's probably clean. I was just using her in there to get at Mendez.”
“You lied a little more?”
“Yeah.”
“What's your theory?”
“Mendez is playing both sides against the middle. He orchestrated the Hart hit, the kidnapping. And he doesn't mind cashing in on Ms. Stone's penny-ante real-estate rip off either. I think that's all she's got the balls to do. Steal a lousy piece of beachfront property when nobody's looking. But Mendez? He sees himself taking Hart's place. Becoming the new-crowned king….”
“But first he had to kill the old king….”
“And steal the princess.”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak has that look again.
Like he's the judge, jury, and executioner in the matter of the People vs. Squeegee.
“John,” the chief says, “you know these guys … these pedophiles … even when they're caught … they don't stop. They just go somewhere new and do the same old stuff. Hurt more kids … ruin lives … like that Baptist minister who turned up on the base in Germany….”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hell, you know this stuff better than anybody.”
“Yes, sir.”
“So you know what I'm saying, right? What we need to do?”
“Yes, sir.”
Somehow, I don't think this fairy tale, this story of kings and princesses, is going to have the usual happy ending.
I don't think everybody involved is going to live happily ever after.
I don't think some of them will be allowed to live at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Ithought we'd swing by Cap'n Scrubby's first. Maybe have another chat with Red and draw up a map of The Palace Hotel, get the lay of the land before we launch our reconnaissance mission.
Instead, we drive straight north.
I guess Ceepak doesn't want word getting back to Squeegee that The Man's coming after him.
About the only thing we did back at headquarters before hopping in the car was check the cargo bay of the Ford.
Ceepak wanted to make sure his Sniper Weapon System was locked and loaded, ready to go. He raised the tailgate and used it to hide what he was doing while he twisted all the pieces together, snapped the telescopic sight into place, screwed on the silencer.
We take the back streets. Ceepak wants to avoid the reporters, the vigil crowds outside Playland, the traffic streaming off the island in fear.
It takes about twenty minutes to reach the tip of the island.
We pass the Ship John Lighthouse with its white-red-white striping that makes it look like a stubby candy cane. Ceepak wants the Explorer on stealth mode. I try to avoid potholes, skirt around gravel patches.
I see the profile of what's left of the old Palace silhouetted on the horizon. As the sun sets, the faded red turrets, all six of them, look like Santa Claus caps on top of sugar-cube towers.
“Coast.”
I jam the transmission into neutral, shut down the engine, and drift downhill across the rutted asphalt field that used to be the hotel's parking lot.
“There.” Ceepak is pointing.
There's still some remnant of a covered entryway, a crumbling canopy hanging off the second story. If we park under what's left of that, fewer folks upstairs will be able to see us.
Stopping the car takes my whole leg-the power brakes went out when I cut the engine. I practically pull a thigh muscle.
It's about 7:30. The setting sun makes the craggy stucco walls look kind of pinkish, like an Easter egg somebody already tapped and cracked.