Jesus.
Sounds like Joey T. and Ceepak really hit it off. They discussed this crap before the sun was even up.
Ceepak keeps going.
“The non-sand objects are then transported to a hopper which can be hydraulically dumped.”
“Wow. Great. What'd you do? Climb in and go on a treasure hunt?”
“In fact, that is correct.”
“Find anything interesting?”
The waitress brings a platter loaded down with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and butter tubs.
“This'll work,” Ceepak says. He rubs his knife against his fork tines and looks over to me. “You sure you're not hungry?”
“No, thanks.”
In fact, the smell is causing the remains of the six beers in my belly to slide down to my intestines where they can make loud, rumbling noises.
Ceepak checks his watch.
We must be on a schedule, even though I figure our big case closed around midnight last night.
He digs in, letting the egg yolk ooze across the pancakes with the melting butter and warm syrup.
I think he's purposely trying to make me hurl.
And he never says whether he found anything-because it's not polite to talk with a mouth full of eggs.
Ceepak devours his Lumberjack Special and downs several quick cups of coffee. He hasn't actually been to bed since I dropped him off at the police station last night.
He says he was “working on a few things” while I was home drinking and passing out. Now he's raring to go.
We walk to the car.
“Standard patrol, sir?”
“No, Danny. Let's swing down to Beach Crest Heights. I'd like to talk to Betty Bell.”
“Why? The case is closed.”
“Loose ends.” Ceepak says. Then he starts humming because, of course, Springsteen has this whole song called “Loose Ends” and Ceepak can't resist.
“They have returned to the city,” the butler says.
“Do you work for Miss Bell?” Ceepak asks.
“I am attached to the house in a management capacity.”
I think that means he's like a live-in maid with attitude.
“I see,” Ceepak says. “So you also worked for Mr. Hart? Whenever he came out here?”
“Certainly. However, he was rarely in residence.”
“Mind if we come in?”
The butler does a sniff that lets us know he does mind but he steps to the side and gestures for us to come in if we must.
I have no idea what the hell we're doing here, but we walk into the sunroom.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Me?” The butler does a good shocked. He even flutters his hand near his heart like he might faint. “I thought the unfortunate situation had been resolved.”
“Indeed. The kidnapping? That's done. When did Ashley and her mother head back to the city?”
“Before dawn.”
“Well, we're just tying up some loose ends. Investigating the arson up at The Palace Hotel.”
We are? Why?
The butler scrunches his face. “Nasty business, that. I understand the kidnapper, this Squeegee fellow, I understand he perished in the blaze?”
“So it seems,” Ceepak says. “Did you know that Mr. Hart owned that hotel?”
“No. I am not often privy to the details of Mr. Hart's real-estate holdings.”
“Of course not. Ms. Stone, however, was?”
“I wouldn't know.”
“When she stayed here with him, was it all business?”
“How do you mean?”
“Was there anything romantic? Between Ms. Stone and Mr. Hart?”
“However would I know? I was not their confidante.”
“They didn't sleep together?” Ceepak presses him.
“Of course not. Ms. Stone stayed in the guest cottage. Out beyond the pool.”
“Is that where she spent Thursday and Friday night?”
“Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“It's where all her things were. When Ms. Bell told me to remove Ms. Stone's luggage, I went into the cottage to retrieve it. I had to pick up a few loose articles of clothing off the floor. I suppose Ms. Stone assumed she would be returning here on Saturday.”
“Was there a great deal of lingerie?”
“No. None. I believe she slept in very long T-shirts.”
“Really?”
The butler blushes, realizing that maybe he knows a little too much about Ms. Stone's sleeping attire.
“I found one such nightshirt hanging on a hook in the bathroom. It featured a large canary on the front.”
“Tweety?” I say.
“Perhaps.” The butler doesn't know from Tweety Bird.
“Tell me,” Ceepak says, “in your opinion, were your employer and her daughter close?”
“Oh, yes. Extremely so. Inseparable, I'd say. Certainly, Mrs. Hart could be a stern disciplinarian, something of a perfectionist, but she and Ashley were, as you say, quite close. Quite close indeed.”
“Glad to hear it,” Ceepak says. “Not always the case with teenage girls and their mothers.”
“Yes.”
“Especially when the child has so much money.”
“Pardon?”
“Ashley now owns everything Mr. Hart used to own. His houses. His corporation. His casinos. She inherited it all. She's probably one of the wealthiest little girls in the whole world.”
The butler actually smiles. Maybe he thinks Ashley's a soft touch. Maybe he thinks he's overdue for a raise. Maybe a promotion. Maybe he always wanted to be a casino manager when he grew up.
“Oh, drat,” Ceepak says.
“Problem?”
“Well, I wanted to call Ashley … talk to her about all this … but I don't have her cell phone number.”
“Allow me….”
I guess the butler figures Ceepak is going to put in a good word for him. Tell Ashley how helpful the guy's been. He writes down a cell phone number on the back of a cream-colored note card and hands it to Ceepak.
“That is the number.”
“Thanks.” Ceepak tucks the card into his shirt pocket. “Hey, Danny? You got a cigarette?”
I look at Ceepak like he's nuts. I don't smoke. Neither does he.
“Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “Fresh out.”
Ceepak eyes the sandstone box on the glass coffee table.
“Do you mind?”
“Please,” the butler says. “Help yourself.”
Ceepak lifts the lid and grabs a cigarette.
The butler reaches for the clunky lighter but Ceepak waves him off.
“I'll save it. For later.”
He sniffs the cigarette.
“Clove?”
“Yes. Actually, they're called kretek. Djarum Black. Imported from Jakarta. Indonesia? Very hard to find. I have to special-order them over the Internet.”
“Wow. You don't see many cigarettes wrapped in black paper like this, do you? I guess you can't just run down to the 7-Eleven for a pack?”
“Hardly.”
“You sure you don't mind me taking one?”
“Not at all. Enjoy.”
“Thanks. Well, we need to be going. Thank you again for your time and assistance.”
“My pleasure. Have a pleasant day, gentlemen.” The butler ushers us to the front door. “Give my best to young Miss Ashley.”
“Will do.”
When we're back inside the Ford, Ceepak pulls out one of his evidence bags and places the fresh cigarette carefully inside it.
“I suspect it will match,” he says.
“Match what?”
Ceepak unsnaps a pants pocket and pulls out a rolled-up bag. He opens the top so I can see the evidence inside.
A stubbed-out black cigarette butt covered with gray, gritty sand. There's a thin gold band wrapping around the filter, just like on the one he snagged off the coffee table.
When the bag is under my nose, I get a good whiff.
Burnt clove.
He smiles.
“Don't you just hate it when smokers treat the beach like it's their ashtray?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
We're driving back to town.
Ceepak is on his phone with Morgan from the FBI. He rattles off Ashley's cell number from the cream-colored card. “It syncs up with what you said earlier,” he tells Morgan. “Your theory on the note….”