Whack A Mole jc-3 Page 15

  “You know where I keep his dry food? Right. That's under the sink, too.”

  Yeah. It's Rita. She'll be taking care of Barkley again tonight. Ceepak and I will, most likely, be busy-trying to save some young girl's life. Trying to stop Ezekiel from playing another round of Mrs. Potato Head.

  “Enjoy your night off.” His expression softens. “Me, too,” he whispers into the phone.

  I figure Rita just told the big lug that she loves him, but he's way too macho to let me hear him say it back so he goes with the ol’ “me, too.”

  “Thanks again,” he says. “Right. Don't worry.”

  Telling her not to worry isn't exactly a lie; more like wishful thinking.

  Ceepak presses a button to power down his phone. He's officially switching off his personal life until we collar Ezekiel and stop him from causing another young girl's lewdness to cease.

  There's nothing left of the old Palace Hotel on the north end of the island but a flat field of charred bricks. It burned down last summer. I know because I was here when it caught fire. So was Ceepak.

  Beyond the rubble and burnt brick, I see the chief's black Expedition and Santucci's cruiser. They're both parked near the dilapidated old pier that used to be the hotel's private marina.

  I drive over that way, parking our cruiser alongside Santucci's.

  Ceepak and I climb out.

  The chief is standing next to a three-foot-deep hole in the sand, hands on hips, head swinging back and forth like he can't believe how beyond-bad this situation has become.

  “John,” he says to Ceepak, “fill me in.”

  “Sir?”

  “We need to know everything you know. We need to know it now.”

  Santucci and Malloy flank the chief. The three of them look like all of this is Ceepak's fault.

  Ceepak tilts his head toward the sand hole. “Might I see the evidence you uncovered?”

  “Later,” says the chief.

  “Time is of the essence.”

  “Tell me something I don't know!”

  Santucci smiles smugly-a quick change from the scowl on his puss when he greeted us.

  “I need all available units working the case,” the chief continues. “I can't afford any Lone Rangers on this one, John. We all need to know everything you know. Immediately.”

  Ceepak keeps his cool.

  “Might I suggest, once again, that we contact the FBI?” he says. “We should have the NCAVC enter it into the Profiler computer.”

  “There's no time to call in NCAVC!”

  Santucci looks confused. So does Malloy. They stand on either side of the chief, squinching up their faces.

  Ceepak helps them out. “National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. The FBI Profiler computer could help us ID the perp.”

  Santucci snorts. “Yeah? Well, you heard the chief. We don't have time for all that FBI crap. Not on this one, Ceepak.”

  “We have a deadline, John,” the chief starts in again. “According to the evidence Santucci and Malloy uncovered, your killer has selected his next victim and is poised to strike before midnight tonight!”

  Your killer?

  All of a sudden this serial sicko works for Ceepak?

  “So tell us what you know! Now!”

  Ceepak pulls out his spiral notebook.

  “We are dealing with an organized serial killer who plans his murders and escapes with utmost care. As Vronsky states in Serial Killers: The Method and Madness of Monsters….”

  I see Santucci grimace. He's probably only read one book since high school: The Sergeant's Test Study Guide for Dummies. I'll bet he moves his lips when he reads the phone book.

  Ceepak continues. “Our killer scrupulously targets his victims and stalks them for as long as necessary. This is often referred to as the ‘trolling phase’….”

  “You troll when you fish,” says Santucci, like he knows everything Ceepak knows. “You spread out your net where you figure there's a whole bunch of fish to catch. That's what we call ‘trolling,’ Chief.”

  “After he's seized his victim,” says Ceepak, “the killer typically takes her to another, more secure location. There he disposes of the body in a manner meant to insure it will never be found.”

  “We found the skulls!” says Malloy.

  “Only because he wanted us to. In fact, he literally drew us a map. It's what led you here.”

  “Go on,” says the chief.

  Ceepak closes up his notebook. He has it all memorized.

  “The organized serial killer is difficult to track. He is, typically, socially competent and gainfully employed. He is often married. He follows reports of his crimes in the media. He is intelligent, cunning, and controlled. He brings his own weapons and restraints….”

  The chief holds up his hand.

  “Okay. Enough. What do you know about our guy?”

  “I suspect he is a local.”

  “On account of the newspapers,” says Santucci. “He uses a local newspaper.”

  “Which a tourist could easily purchase from numerous curbside vending machines,” says Ceepak. “No, I suspect he is local because of his intimate knowledge of the island's topography. He knows where he can safely bury his treasures and not be detected doing so.”

  “What else?”

  “Our killer is also something of a missionary who, most likely, thinks he is doing society a favor. If he is offended by the young women he stalks, if he considers them to be ‘whores,’ then in his mind the people around him must feel the same way. That they don't act on their disgust simply means that he is more powerful, more righteous than any one else in his community.”

  The chief nods agreement. “Understandable. He's going after runaways. Maybe hookers. His vics are society's losers and leeches.”

  Ceepak grimaces.

  I figure he's seeing Antwoine James's face again. The poor black kid who got blown up over in Iraq and nobody back home seemed to give a damn. The kid who was somehow less dead because he was one of civilized society's so-called losers and leeches.

  Ceepak narrows his eyes. He's not happy. When he speaks again, it's in that tone he uses when he's pissed. “Our killer clings rigidly to religious doctrine as spelled out by Ezekiel in the Old Testament. I further suspect he is familiar with, or was at one time a member of, Reverend Billy Trumble's congregation. It appears that the majority of our victims passed through the boardwalk ministry and the community it feeds.”

  “So you think Reverend Trumble knows who did this?” asks the chief.

  “I believe he and the killer may have met. That's all I can surmise at this juncture.”

  The chief checks the time.

  “Okay. It's two forty-five. Ceepak, you and Boyle talk to Trumble. Santucci?”

  “Sir?”

  “You and Malloy scour the island, find the girl in the picture.”

  “We're on it, sir.”

  “May I ask a question?” says Ceepak.

  The chief checks his watch to see if it's changed any since he checked it ten seconds ago.

  “What?”

  “The penultimate hole,” says Ceepak. “The one before this, the clues that led you here. Who was the victim? What was the date?”

  The chief shoots a look to Santucci.

  “Girl named Orpah,” Santucci says reluctantly. “You know like Oprah, only spelled wrong.”

  “Actually,” says Ceepak, “Oprah's name is the misspelled one. Orpah is a biblical character who….”

  “Save it for Sunday School! We've got work to do.”

  “What was the date?”

  “July. 1992.”

  “Interesting,” says Ceepak. “The killer has been dormant for a full fifteen years.”

  “Well, he's awake now,” says the chief. “That's why we're in a hurry. There's not a minute to waste.”

  “He's got his next girl all picked out,” adds Malloy. “From the look of things, I figure she's a prostitute from down in Atlantic City bringing her ac
t up here, you know what I mean?”

  “No,” says Ceepak. “May I see the photograph?”

  Baines looks at Santucci, who reluctantly pulls something from his back pocket.

  The suspense is killing me.

  What Ceepak takes from Dom isn't a Polaroid, like all the other photographs we found in all the other holes. It's a folded sheet of regular typing paper.

  “Computer printout,” says Ceepak.

  “Yeah. I guess,” says Santucci. “Probably. Off a printer.”

  Ceepak nods. “Inkjet, not laser. We need to check all local office supply stores. Track residents and visitors who may have purchased color ink cartridges. We should also ask if anyone has special-ordered ribbons for an antiquated IBM Selectric typewriter. I'm assuming the index card found in this hole had typography similar to that found on….”

  “John?” The chief rolls his eyes. “We don't have time for any of that.”

  “Understood.” Ceepak stares at the photo. “He's definitely gone digital. He's using a camera with an impressive zoom ratio.”

  The chief cuts him off. “And guess what? We also don't have time to go see who bought digital cameras at Best Buy and Circuit City!”

  “Agreed.”

  Ceepak studies the photo of the killer's next intended victim. The Bride of Ezekiel. How can this be happening in Sea Haven? The big event this week was supposed to be the Sand Castle Competition, not the beheading of a beach babe.

  Now he hands the paper to me.

  It's a snapshot of a girl hitchhiking near the causeway bridge.

  Stacey.

  The redhead who recently dyed her hair green.

  It's a good thing the photographer didn't zoom out, didn't capture more of the scene.

  My Jeep might be in the picture.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Santucci, Malloy, and the chief take off.

  They're heading back to headquarters to work up anything they can on the redhead. See if she's on file in Atlantic City. Check with the State Police over in Trenton. See if Stacey is a “person of interest” to them, as Malloy so eloquently assumed when he called her a hooker. At the same time, they need to call in every off-duty cop on the SHPD roster and start a hard target search-the beach, the boardwalk, the motels, the works.

  I'm left wondering if Stacey is her real name. Maybe that's just what she tells suckers like me who can't stop staring at her cleavage when she climbs into their cars.

  “I'll drive,” says Ceepak.

  I have a feeling we're going to fly down to The Sonny Days Inn for our second interrogation of Reverend Billy, like avenging angels flapping wings at warp speed. Ceepak clutches the steering wheel with one hand, works the radio mike with the other.

  “Helen?” he says to the dispatcher. “Please ask Officer Bright to go into the evidence room and examine the guest book from The Howland House Whaling Museum. Tell her we're looking for the following male names on the guest list: Billy Trumble. Ralph….”

  He looks at me.

  “Uh….”

  I realize I don't know Ralph the bartender's last name. He's always just been “Hey, Ralph” or “Catch you later, Ralph,” so the only answer I can give is a shoulder shrug.

  “Any and all Ralphs,” Ceepak says. “The one we're interested in works as a bartender at The Sand Bar….”

  “Ralph. Bartender. Got it,” says Helen. “Who else?”

  Ceepak lets go of the button, slides us into the center lane so we can do ninety instead of just eighty.

  “Danny? That surgeon. Do you recall his name?”

  I rattle around some brain cells. Knock some useless stuff, like the meaning of the “33” on a Rolling Rock beer bottle, off my mental shelf. Strain to remember. Oh, right. He gave me a business card!

  “Teddy. Teddy Winston.”

  Ceepak depresses the red button again. “Dr. Theodore Winston.”

  “Theodore Winston. Got it. Keep going.”

  “10-4. Gus Davis.”

  “Gus?”

  “Right.”

  “Our Gus?”

  “Yes, Helen.”

  “He likes whales?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Well, I know he likes to fish … never knew he was into whales.”

  “Helen?”

  “Yes?”

  “Tell Jane we need this information, stat.”

  “Will do. But the chief has her running through mug shots right now, trying to match them to some picture Sergeant Santucci found.”

  “Understood.”

  Ceepak can't overrule the chief's commands or reset the boss's priorities. We'll have to wait a little longer to see if any of our suspects were cocky enough to sign the museum guest book.

  I decide it's time.

  Time to turn the front seat of the Ford into a rolling confessional booth.

  Forgive me, Ceepak, for I have sinned. It's been at least eleven months since my last confession….

  “Ceepak?” I say.

  “Yes?” He's only half-listening. He's also half-driving like a maniac, racing around this cute little Honda with a surfboard sticking out its open hatchback. Any other day, Miss Honda would have earned herself a ticket or at least a stern lecture about the dangers of unsecured objects in automobiles becoming unguided missiles in rapid braking situations.

  “That girl?” I say. “In the picture?”

  “Yes?” Now we weave past a pickup truck with a whole row of burlap-balled hedges bouncing around in its bed. Louie the Landscaper, taking his foliage out for a ride.

  “I met her.”

  “Come again?”

  “I picked her up. Hitchhiking. She was wearing the exact same clothes she had on in the picture.”

  “When?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Two days ago?”

  “Yeah. I was on my way home after dropping you off to meet Rita at the animal shelter and I saw her thumbing near the causeway. Just like in the picture.”

  Ceepak cuts a sharp left turn. We tilt sideways, like we're riding a corkscrewing roller coaster, the kind that sends you upside down into a spinning barrel roll. We swerve into a rubber-squealing, tail-skidding U-turn.

  “We need to re-examine the area surrounding Santucci's final hole.”

  “Okay.” I'm confused. Plus, my stomach has been involuntarily relocated to my rib cage.

  “It's possible Ezekiel only recently selected his next victim. If the photograph shows her as you saw her two days ago….”

  “He probably just buried the picture yesterday or maybe today!”

  “Affirmative. We may find trace evidence at the scene. Some clue as to who he is. Good work, Danny!”

  I decide to get it all off my chest.

  “She was also at Reverend Billy's.”

  “The motel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “This morning.”

  Ceepak's brows pinch together to puzzle over my remark. “Danny, I specifically requested that we both be on the lookout for….”

  “She dyed her hair. It was green.”

  He turns, shoots me a look.

  Shit.

  Yes, technically I obeyed The Code. I did not lie, cheat, or steal. This morning, he asked me if I saw a redhead. I did not. I saw a girl with green hair. Therefore, I did not actually tell him a lie-I just totally screwed up.

  “I'm sorry,” I say. “I should've … you know … said something.”

  Ceepak nods. Looks glum. No. Heartbroken. I have so totally let him down.

  “I should have….”

  He presses his foot down hard on the accelerator. I can see his thigh muscles twitching under the cargo pants. He keeps applying this much pressure, he might break the gas pedal off its post. The engine is rattling, the whole hood rocking. I don't think we've ever asked our friendly Ford to do over 100 before.

  “I know I should've said something,” I say-loudly, so Ceepak can hear me over the engine. “I didn't. I'm sorry. I
guess I was embarrassed. Didn't want you to think I'm out on the street picking up girls. I should've told you!”

  Our speed eases. We're back down in the 90s.

  “I'm sorry. I should've known better.”

  We dip under 85. When we hit 75, Ceepak finally speaks.

  “Danny, don't ‘should’ all over yourself. We are where we are. You had no way of knowing the significance of your omission. We'll deal with it.”

  “Okay.”

  “However, in the future, I hope you will be more forthcoming with any and all information you may possess. No matter the personal embarrassment it may entail.”

  “Sure. No problem.” I let it all come tumbling out. “She was also with the surgeon. I saw them outside The Sand Bar. Saw them head off to Smuggler's Cove together. You think he's already killed her?”

  He shakes his head. “No.”

  Duh. Of course not. She was alive when I saw her this morning! I should probably engage my brain before I speak.

  “Whoever placed the girl's photograph in that final hole is goading us, Danny. First, he revels over his past triumphs by placing his souvenirs on public display. Then, he sends us all on a treasure hunt up and down the island-rubs our nose in the murders he has committed for decades without arousing any suspicion. Now he is daring us to catch him before he strikes again.”

  Ceepak presses the pedal to the metal again.

  If anybody can catch Ezekiel before he kills another girl, it's John Ceepak.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  We park where we parked before.

  Ceepak kneels down beside the hole. He shakes his head.

  The sand is dimpled with footprints. Mostly the kind made by big, clunky cop shoes.

  “I'm afraid we won't find any evidence of significance here.”

  “Yeah. Unless we want to frame Sergeant Santucci.”

  Ceepak actually smiles. “Don't tempt me,” he says.

  I smile back. We're a team again.

  Ceepak stands up. Scans the horizon. Mumbles.

  “There are ‘Lives on the line where dreams are found and lost.’”

  He's quoting Bruce again-still doing “Darkness on the Edge of Town.”

  He keeps looking around. Keeps mumbling.

  “‘I'll be there on time and I'll pay the cost, for wanting things that can only be found ….’”