“And, look down there….” She points to the other side of the porch. “He crushed my Fairy. My beautiful pink Fairy.”
“Your Fairy rosebush?”
Oh. Ceepak knows horticulture, too.
“Yes! See?”
“Yes, ma'am. What a shame.”
“I'll say.”
“Fairies are prolific climbers,” Ceepak says.
“I'm impressed. You know your roses….” She's leaning on the porch railing again.
“A little,” Ceepak says, looking down at the shrubbery instead of up at the mountains. “I'm no expert. Not like you. You did an excellent job mulching these flower beds.”
“Moi?” She gives Ceepak a coy, “silly boy” look. “Hardly. I hire a man to do it for me. He says mulch is the only way to retain moisture in our sandy soil. It's so hot down here.”
She says “hot” like she said “man” earlier.
Ceepak studies the trampled rosebush.
“What a shame. He crushed it under his boot,” he says.
I look down and see where the moist, mulched soil has retained a print.
“His Timberland boot?” I ask.
Ceepak nods.
“Only kind he ever wears.”
We're back in the car. Working Ceepak's punch list. Off to dig up more evidence.
“So,” I say, “the chief sent the first ransom fax? Because of the boot prints, right? Outside the hotel room? On that patio there?”
“Solid analysis, Danny. I may need to write you up in my little blue book again.”
“Are you really going to give me a reprimand for mouthing off?”
“Negative. I said I was writing you up. I was contemplating penning a letter of commendation to place in your personnel file.”
“Excellent. It'd be like my first, I think.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt it will be your last.”
I glance over. Ceepak has the proud-big-brother smile on his face again.
It's all good.
“The way I see it,” Ceepak says, “Chief Cosgrove wore his Timberland boots whenever he wanted us to think Squeegee had been somewhere. I speculate that Cosgrove had met Mr. Shapiro and knew of the man's fondness for thermal boots, even in the summer months. In fact, it's highly probable that, once the chief and Miss Bell selected Mr. Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, as their scapegoat, they paid keen attention to such telling details. It's why they chose the Tilt-A-Whirl. They knew we'd find evidence linking the location to Squeegee, even if he wasn't sleeping in the bushes Saturday morning. They knew we'd find his blood sample in the hypodermics, his muddy footprints on the platform….”
“Why'd the chief wear his boots to the mayor's sister's house?”
“Simple.”
“What?”
“He made a mistake. Most criminals usually do. It's how we catch them. He never anticipated we'd investigate a tricycle theft.”
“Hell, you wanted to do it first thing Saturday morning!” I'm feeling kind of jazzed, like you do after chugging two cans of Red Bull and snarfing down some Hostess Ding-Dongs. “Remember? Before any of this other shit even went down. You wanted to ‘swing by and check it out.’ Remember?”
“Did I?”
“Hell, yeah. Fuckin’ A!”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall expressing an interest. And Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary.”
“Yes, sir.”
Next stop is The Smuggler's Cove Motel, where Ceepak suspects our suspects “had their trysts.” I think that means they went there to have sex on a regular basis.
“She stayed there Friday night because she knew, as she stated later, ‘they're very discreet.’”
Ceepak is flipping through his notebook again. You tell this guy something? He writes it down or memorizes it.
“Remember how the chief acted when she told us that?” I remember stuff, too. “He was so totally ticked off.”
“Roger that. I suspect he would have preferred that his accomplice make some other choice of accommodations so we wouldn't ask questions that might warrant unwanted answers.”
“So the chief's, like, cheating on his wife?”
“So it would seem. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we were to discover that Chief Cosgrove has made an arrangement with the motel's management allowing them to operate in their unseemly fashion in exchange for their discretion as called for. The pornography. The inherent probability of prostitution….”
“Doesn't really fit with the whole Sea Haven ‘family fun’ image, does it?”
Ceepak just shakes his head.
I think he's very disappointed in his fellow soldier. His brother in arms. Chief Cosgrove knows The Code, but chose not to follow it because, frankly, he didn't feel like it. I guess that's what a lot of guys do.
We're at Ocean Avenue and Locust Lane.
The Smuggler's Cove is about three blocks up and two over.
I see flashing lights in my rearview mirror.
A cop car requesting that I, another cop car, pull over.
“Pull over, Danny.” Ceepak sees them too. His eyes are glued to the side mirror.
I ease to a stop in front of Santa's Sea Shanty.
Some of the women hauling Sailor Santa Nutcrackers out of the year-round holiday store stop to gawk as Ceepak and I climb out of the Ford.
Two cops step out of the other cruiser.
Malloy and Santucci. Two of the chief's favorites.
“Hey, guys,” Ceepak says. “What's up?”
“You need to come with us,” Santucci says, giving his chewing gum a sharp snap.
“We're on a run-”
“It can wait. The chief needs you in his office. Now.”
“That'll work,” Ceepak says. “We'll follow you guys in.”
Santucci takes another step forward. He even does the lean-on-his-gun-belt thing I've seen Ceepak do.
“It'd be best if you rode with us,” he says. “Both of you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
“Jesus! What the hell did you guys freaking do?”
Gus Davis greets us from the desk as we enter headquarters. Santucci and Malloy are flanking us as they escort us into the building like we're on a perp walk.
If our theories are correct, if the chief is capable of helping his girlfriend bump off her ex-husband and then masterminding a kidnapping hoax with cold-hearted, military precision, I'm sure he's worked out some clever way of taking care of Ceepak and anybody else who might stand in his way on the road to riches. People like me.
“Ceepak? Boyle? Get your asses in here.”
The chief stands behind his desk. His face is flushed, redder than raw meat.
“Move it! Now! Move!”
I pick up my pace.
Ceepak takes his time.
“You need us, boss?” Santucci asks.
“Wait outside.”
“Yes, sir.” Santucci and Malloy leave.
“Would you like me to close the door?” Ceepak asks pleasantly.
“Yes! Close the goddamn door! Now!”
When Ceepak pushes the door shut, I see Gladys, the bag lady from the hotel.
Ceepak sees her too.
“Good to see you again. I take it you safely evacuated the hotel?”
“Fuck you, fuzz!”
Gladys has not mellowed much in the hours since last we met. She hasn't bathed either. I can still see those white streaks on her cheeks where the tears trickled down.
“What am I going to do with you, John?” the chief says.
“Sir?”
“I gave you this job to help you recover from what you've been through. To take you away from the horrors of war. The senseless loss of lives….”
“You’re a war criminal,” Gladys shouts. “A baby killer! I heard what you did! How you gunned down that taxi driver's family! Baby killer!”
Guess the chief shared some stuff with Gladys he might've kept confidential if he lived by a different kind of Code.
“I thought I could bring you home,” the chief says, all hushed and earnest. “Thought I could give you a chance to put it all behind you. Instead, you go all gung-ho? Become some sort of vigilante? You hunted down and killed your suspect?”