In his boat.
Suddenly, I'm feeling queasy again and, this time, beer has nothing to do with it.
The boat that pirated Ashley away from her mansion? I have a funny feeling Chief Cosgrove was the skipper.
I'd tell Ceepak what I think but I believe he is, at least, two or three pages ahead of me.
“Has she ever been in here?”
Ceepak places a photograph of Betty Bell Hart on the glass counter in front of the droopy-eyed clerk. The guy looks like he reads too much. I know when I read, I always get sleepy. He's wearing a T-shirt showing Shakespeare in swim trunks holding a small beach ball in one hand, rubbing his chin with the other. It's the Boardwalk Books logo.
The clerk rubs his chin and studies the snapshot.
“Yeah … the old weather girl … she's in here all the time.”
The clerk sips coffee from a mug with a different Boardwalk Books logo printed on it. This time, I think it's Charles Dickens in the swim trunks. He's building two sand castles.
“She lives in that glass McMansion down on the south beach? Right?”
“Right,” Ceepak says. “She come in here often?”
“Sure. She loves books. You wouldn't think it to look at her, would you? I mean she's still pretty hot and all.”
“What kind of material does she read?” Ceepak asks.
“Harlequin romances. True crime. Those Motley Fool investment guides.”
“Was she here on Sunday?”
“Sorry, I didn't work this weekend. Duane did. You want me to call Duane? He's the manager.”
“She ever use the fax machine?”
The guy thinks about it for a second, tilting his head sideways.
“Nope.”
Ceepak looks disappointed.
“Wait a minute….”
Bingo.
“She did use it this one time. I had to help her. This was a couple weeks ago. Yeah. I remember thinking she was acting so totally blonde, you know what I mean?”
Ceepak nods.
“I mean, it's pretty simple. Just like a copy machine. You lay your paper down, lower the lid, punch a few buttons on the keypad, and bam-you're done. It's why it's totally self-serve. But she kept asking questions. Made me show her how to do it, over and over, like a hundred times.”
“Guess she wanted to make sure she got it right.”
“Yeah,” the guy chuckles. “In case she ever had like, you know, a fax emergency.”
Or if she was ever in a hurry to fax a note spelling out the details of where to deliver ten million dollars in ransom money.
“Where to next?”
We're sitting in the Explorer out front of Boardwalk Books. I can tell Ceepak has a list of spots he wants to hit before he busts the bad guys. He checks his watch.
“Remember that tricycle theft?’
“No.”
“Saturday morning? Adam Kiger caught the call?”
“Yeah. Okay….”
“We never did solve that crime, did we?”
“No. We've been kind of busy.”
Ceepak nods.
“Still,” he says, “that trike owner is a tax-paying citizen. Well, his parents probably are. They're entitled to a full and proper criminal investigation.”
“They are?”
“It's our sworn duty, Danny.”
“Oh-kay….”
“Besides-it was the first crime of the day.”
Solve the first crime, solve the second.
Advice from Dr. McDaniels. Okay. Got it.
Maybe it was no coincidence Officer Kiger wasn't on the beach Saturday morning to give Squeegee his wakeup call, wasn't there to see folks crawling in and out under the fence, shooting people on the Tilt-A-Whirl.
Maybe he was taken out of the game a half hour before kickoff.
They sent him to answer a call on Rosewood Street.
The mayor's sister's house. The kind of summons you usually can't refuse, especially if you want to keep your job.
We're in the bushes near the front porch steps. Rose bushes. Thorns, wild tangles. I guess if your street is called “Rosewood,” you're officially obligated to grow the prickly buggers.
Ceepak has his magnifying glass out, looking for fibers, I bet. The trike thief could have snagged his shorts on the thorns. I know I just did.
“Excuse me. What are you gentlemen doing in my bushes?”
I think it's the mayor's sister. She's very tan. And very stacked.
“Good morning, ma'am.” Ceepak is, of course, friendly, courteous, and kind. “We're investigating your report of a stolen vehicle.”
“You work for my brother?” she asks Ceepak.
“We work for Sea Haven Township.”
“Like I said … you work for my brother?”
“Yes, ma'am. I suppose we do.”
“I'll have to commend him on his new hiring policies.”
Ceepak steps back from the bushes and onto the lawn.
“Sorry to bother you like this, ma'am.”
“Oh, it's no bother.”
“We have a few questions.”
“So do I. Are you married?”
Ceepak actually blushes.
“Was the tricycle situated here on the porch?” he asks.
“The tricycle?”
“Yes, ma'am. Was it on the porch?”
“Are you really investigating a missing tricycle?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“What a waste of manpower.” Now she's arching her back, like she's yawning, like maybe she needs to go back to bed and maybe somebody should go with her.
“Miss?” I say. “We're kind of in a hurry.”
“Who are you?”
Figures. When you're with Ceepak, women don't even notice you.
“What is this? Take A Stupid Kid To Work Day?”
The mayor's sister? She has this nasty side. And when it comes out is when she squinches up her nose and glares at you. Then you notice where the plastic surgeon didn't do such a hot job.
“Where exactly did you go to cop school?” she asks me. “Some doughnut shop?”
I'm no Boy Scout, so I don't have to do the courteous bit.
“Where'd you get that tan?” I say. “Sears, or Costco?”
“Oh, I see. You're the comedian cop?”
“He's part-time,” Ceepak says.
“He's going to be no-time after I call my brother.”
“No need to bother your brother,” Ceepak says, whipping out his little notebook. “I'll take care of it.” He jots something down.
“What're you doing? You writing him up?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Hah! Good.”
“Now if you could … could you please tell us what happened?”
“Of course.” She acts like she's composing herself, smoothing out any crinkles in her shorts, front and back. She spends more time smoothing out the back than the front. “My son left his tricycle on the porch steps like he always does, even though I tell him not to. Maybe if his father were still living with us, maybe if I was still married-which, incidentally, I'm not-maybe things would be different….”
“When did you first notice it was stolen?” Ceepak asks.
“When he was stealing it! The thief made so much noise! He banged the thing against my screen door!”
“Did you see him?”
“No. I called the police right away. I was all alone … I didn't dare confront him….”
Now she's doing a damsel-in-distress thing that makes it look like she's a ship flashing Morse Code because her eyelids are painted baby blue and every time she blinks we get a dot or dash of bright light.
“You must have been terrified,” Ceepak says.
“Oh, I was. He was right here. And my bedroom? It's right there….”
She points dramatically to a window. I can make out chintzy pink curtains on the other side and one of those hurricane table lamps catalogs say add a touch of romance to almost any room.
What all this means is that the trike bandit banged it against the door just to make certain anybody inside knew he was out here stealing something.
The thief wanted her to call the cops.
“He even kicked over one of my potted plants.”
“We'll write it up … additional damage … for your insurance claim….”
Ceepak jots down another note in his pocket pad.