Ocean Avenue is to the west of us, Shore drive to the east. One block past Shore is Beach Lane, not to be confused with Beech Street, but, as you might guess, it often is, especially by out-of-towners looking for the beach, which is on Beach. Not Beech.
State police cars and vans are parked in our lot and up and down the street out front. Two hours after it went down, the Hart homicide is already big. By noon, it'll be huge.
“Let's see where the CO needs us,” Ceepak says, climbing out of the car. He's talking military talk again, saying “CO” for Commanding Officer, sounding more like the old Ceepak.
We move inside and feel the 68-degree AC smack us in the face. It feels good.
“What a freaking day, hunh?”
It's Gus Davis, the desk sergeant. He's about sixty years old and completely out of shape. His regulation police pants don't fit any more and sort of droop off his bony hips. Gus is about two months away from retirement and has been a Sea Haven cop for close to thirty years. He used to ride up and down Ocean Avenue in a pink-and-turquoise cruiser, but now he works behind the front desk answering phones, taking messages, dealing with walk-in civilians.
I think Ceepak took Gus's street job, but Gus isn't bitter. Not about that, anyway-just everything else. Life in general.
“This freaking day!”
“What's up?” Ceepak asks. He and Gus get along. Maybe because Gus did time in the Army, too. Korea. Vietnam. One of those. “Switchboard busy?”
“Busy? It's a freaking funhouse in here. First, we get a call at 6:28.”
“The tricycle?”
“You heard?”
“I was up anyhow….”
“Normally, I'd blow the caller off. You know, tell her to come in at a decent hour and file a report. I mean, come on-it's a freaking tricycle! Who spends three hundred and fifty bucks on a tricycle? But guess who the caller is?”
“Who?”
“The mayor's sister. You ever meet her?”
“No. Not that I'm aware of.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” Gus shivers to help paint the picture. “She's like a piranha that's had plastic surgery. A real man-eater.”
“Check.”
“So I radio Kiger. Pull him off beach sweep, send him over to write up the missing bike.”
“Who's Kiger?”
“Adam Kiger. Young kid. Works the graveyard shift. Rides his scooter up and down the beach, looking for riff-raff.”
“Scooter?”
“ATV,” I say. “All Terrain Vehicle? Good on the beach….”
“It's a freaking scooter! He looks like a mailman!”
I can tell Ceepak's gonna want to talk to Kiger. Find out what kind of riff-raff's been spotted near the Tilt-A-Whirl playing with hypodermic needles.
“Then you two …” Gus gestures at Ceepak and me like he's disgusted. “Seven something-you get a body! Now, I got the press calling. The mayor? He's bitching about the roadblock, how it's ticking off the tourists. I gotta track down the kid's mom, find Hart's lawyer, his corporate people, the works. I'm never freaking going home.”
“What's the problem? You don't like it here, Gus?”
It's the chief.
He's a big ol’ bear, but he has this quiet way of slipping up behind you right when you're bellyaching about him.
“No, chief. I was just saying-”
“Sketch artist needs coffee,” the chief says.
“Do I look like freaking Starbucks?”
“Go rustle her up a cup. Move it. Shake a leg.”
Even old-timers like Gus jump when Chief Cosgrove pulls his gym-teacher act.
“So,” the chief says to Ceepak, “how badly did Slobbinsky screw things up?”
“Royally.”
“Damn. Sorry he caught the call. Good thing we have the eyewitness….”
“Yeah,” Ceepak says. “How's she doing?”
“Not bad. Considering.”
“Yeah.”
“Her name is Ashley. Ashley Hart. She's been asking for you.”
“Me?” Ceepak seems surprised.
“Apparently you're her new hero. Says you flew over a fence or something?”
“Playland's main gate was locked. I gained access by alternate means.”
“She said you looked like Batman.” The chief turns to me. “Guess that makes you Robin, hunh, kid?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Sorry McDaniels was out of town,” he says to Ceepak.
“I think we'll survive. The CSI crew is boots-on-the-ground. They're all pros.”
The chief nods. “I'd like you to go in and talk to the kid. We're getting nowhere on the perp sketch. It's like she can't remember what happened, what the guy looked like. Either that or she doesn't want to remember.”
“Post-traumatic stress?”
“Maybe. I dunno. Seeing you might help.”
“Where is she?”
“Interrogation Room.”
“Seems kind of severe….”
“The windows in the other rooms spooked her. She thought the bad guy might be outside.”
“Check. I'll see what I can do.”
“Jane and the artist are with her.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ceepak heads up the hall to the windowless cinderblock room with the one-way mirror. The Interrogation Room.
“How's he holding up?” the chief asks when Ceepak's out of earshot.
“Fine, sir.” I see no need to mention the M-80 incident behind The Pancake Palace. “Just fine.”
“He hates to see kids in trouble.”
“Yes, sir.”
The chief leans up against the front counter and crosses his ham-hock arms across his chest. He looks like a contemplative moose resting against a stump. I've never had a heart-to-heart with Chief Cosgrove, but I think he's about to unload a monologue on me. I'm right.
“We were stationed in Germany together,” he starts, his eyes narrowing like he can actually see what he's remembering. “There was this chaplain. Baptist minister, I think. Short guy. Little moustache. Had this soft southern twang when he spoke. Anyhow, he was accused of molesting kids at his church down in Texas, so they got rid of him by shipping him overseas with us. A year later, he starts messing around with some of the kids on base. Soldiers’ boys. Nine-, ten-, eleven-year-olds. Their moms and dads are over there serving their country, and he's … you know….”
“Yes, sir.”
“Ceepak led the investigation. I was tactical support.”
“Did you guys stop him? The chaplain?”
“Of course. John Ceepak? He always gets his man.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
I slip into the dark room next to the Interrogation Room. It's dark because otherwise, everybody in the IR would be able to see me through the one-way mirror.
This is one of the few times our IR has actually been used for questioning. Usually, it's where stuff like Christmas decorations gets stored or where we cut somebody's birthday cake. In fact, I can see a wrinkled red balloon lying on the floor near Ashley Hart's new shoes.
She's also wearing a new dress with Hawaiian flowers and hula dancers on it. I figure somebody picked it up on Ocean Avenue so Ashley wouldn't have to sit around all day in a blood-soaked sundress. Her hair is damp. She probably took a shower in the women's locker room. She looks like a young girl who just finished swimming in a motel pool and went back to her room to get dressed for dinner. Her cheeks are clean and ruddy; her blond hair is pulled back in a ponytail. It's only her eyes that look terrified, like she found some horrible monster stuck to the floor drain in the deep end of that swimming pool.
Ceepak is sitting at the head of the long table. Ashley is to his left. Next to her is Jane Bright, the closest thing to a child welfare officer we have on the Sea Haven Police Force-Jane has her masters degree in Social Work. Across from them both is the state police sketch artist.
“I like your new dress,” Ceepak says, trying to break the ice.
“Thank you,” Ashley says. “Mrs. Bright picked it out for me.”