Tilt-a-Whirl jc-1 Read online

  “Upstairs,” she says. “Room 215.”

  “Thank you. Danny?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Stay here with….”

  “Gladys,” she says.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ceepak holds out his hand to me.

  “I need the keys to the car.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Gladys is sitting on the floor in front of me, petting her dog. Her legs are splayed out and Henry is nuzzling against her knee.

  “He likes it when you scratch under his ears.”

  “Unh-hunh.”

  Behind her, I see Ceepak out front where we parked the Ford. He's unlocking the hatchback. Opening it. Pulling out his rifle.

  “Ah, Jesus. I think he has a tick.”

  I glance down to see Gladys pinching something buried in Henry's fur.

  “Got it.”

  Whatever she got, she flings across the dark lobby like I might flick a wad of earwax when no one's watching.

  I look out front again and see Ceepak toting his sniper weapon system around the side of the car and heading to what I can only guess is some kind of alternate entrance. Maybe where the fire steps exit into the parking lot.

  He probably doesn't want to deal with climbing up the same staircase we recently scrambled down.

  He probably doesn't want Gladys to see him going upstairs with a sniper rifle.

  “You have a dog, kid?”

  “No, ma'am.”

  “Jesus. What's with you fucking fuzz? Ma'am, ma'am, ma'am.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Your partner? Slezak?”

  “Ceepak.”

  “Yeah. Ceepak. He seems like a good man. Decent.”

  “Yes. He does.”

  He sure seems that way.

  You ever talk to a bag lady for fifteen minutes? It's totally random. A barrel of laughs.

  Gladys tells me all about Karl Marx and the redistribution of wealth and how Henry will always have the Milkbones he needs provided he contributes to society to the best of his ability.

  Then she gets into some guy named Friedrich Nietzsche and says his tendency to seek explanations for commonly accepted values in the less-elevated realms of animal instinct was crucial to Sigmund Freud's development of psychoanalysis.

  I nod and say “Is that so?” a lot.

  All the time, I keep waiting to hear the rifle shot, the snap-pop report, but I guess I won't because Ceepak screwed on that silencer.

  He's been up in Room 215 a long time.

  I'm sure he's interrogating Squeegee, pumping him for information about Ashley. If he gets what he needs, will he still pump a bullet into the guy? I hope not. But I keep thinking about a certain pedophile chaplain in Germany who, as far as I know, nobody ever heard from again.

  And why does Ceepak need a sniper rifle?

  If his animal instinct is telling him Jerry Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, needs to die, why doesn't he just use his pistol? The rifle with the sniper scope seems kind of dramatic. Seems like overkill. But maybe he forgot to pack a silencer for the pistol. Maybe a pistol silencer is the one thing he doesn't have in his cargo-pants pockets.

  “Danny?”

  Ceepak is on the staircase behind me. He's holding the rifle at his side.

  I sniff the air, searching for “transient evidence,” just like he taught me to. The air reeks of gunpowder.

  “Jesus!”

  Gladys sees the rifle.

  “What did you fucking do?’

  “Ma’am, you need to leave here. Now.”

  “What did you fucking do, you fucking liar?”

  “You need to take your dog, find any of your friends who may be habitating here with you in the hotel, you need to find them and tell them all to leave. You have ten minutes.”

  “Where's Jerry?” She lurches toward the staircase. Ceepak holds up his hand and stops her.

  “Ma’am, you do not want to go upstairs. You want to vacate these premises.”

  “You motherfucking …”

  “Ma’am, like I said-you need to take your dog, find your friends, and evacuate this location. You need to do so immediately.”

  Ceepak checks his watch.

  “You now have nine minutes and thirty seconds.”

  Gladys is crying. I can see the tears clearing a white path down her dirty cheeks.

  “You lied to me … gave me your fucking word….”

  Ceepak doesn't say anything.

  “You goddamn motherfucking son-of-a-bitch liar!”

  Gladys tugs her twine leash and Henry stands up.

  Her shoulders are shaking as she drags Henry toward the front. When she steps outside, she hesitates, thinks about coming back in to drag her friend's dead body out of the room upstairs.

  “You have nine minutes,” Ceepak shouts.

  “Motherfucking fuzz!”

  Henry snarls.

  The two of them run and disappear into the darkness.

  I turn to Ceepak.

  “Did you?”

  “Danny? Don't make me say things I'd rather not say.”

  I've never seen Ceepak look so intense. Veins pop out of his arms. His eyes dilate. It's as if he's possessed of some unnatural energy.

  Guess killing a man gives a guy a rush.

  “Don't force me to tell you a lie,” he says.

  “You mean another one?”

  Ceepak just lets it hang there.

  He steps off the staircase and leans the rifle against the railing and pulls out his pistol. He checks the clip, slides off the safety.

  He points it to the floor and fires.

  The explosion rings in my ears.

  “Listen up!” Ceepak shouts. “If you can hear me, you need to leave here immediately. It is not safe for you to remain in this location. Repeat-it is not safe to remain here! You have eight minutes!”

  He puts his gun back in his holster.

  “We need to leave.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I am so quitting this job.

  It sucks.

  Ceepak sucks.

  “Danny?”

  “What?”

  Now there's some kind of sadness in his eyes. Like he wants to explain something but he can't.

  “Do you know where the old train depot is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We need to go there. Immediately. To release Ashley.”

  “He confessed?”

  “He told me where we could find Ashley.”

  Ceepak stalks across the lobby. I follow him because, at the moment, I don't know what else to do.

  We negotiate our way across the crumbling parking lot and climb into the Ford. I feel like creamed shit on toast. My muscles ache, my joints creak, I feel like I'm somebody's grandmother with arthritis. I need a beer.

  Ceepak takes the walkie-talkie off his belt and motions for me to drive away from the hotel.

  “We need to relocate to a more secure position or we run the risk of becoming collateral damage,” he says. He's in that cold, military-speak mode. Sort of numbs you to the horror of what you're actually doing if you use big words to describe it.

  Ceepak radios headquarters.

  “This is Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

  I start up the engine. Ceepak points to the abandoned Ship John lighthouse, like I should drive over there. I'm on autopilot, so I head in that direction.

  “Ceepak for Cosgrove. Ceepak for Cosgrove.”

  “This is Cosgrove, go.”

  “Implement the mobilization plan.”

  “You found her?”

  “We have high-probability intelligence on her location.”

  “Where? Where did the bastard stash her?”

  “The old Pennsylvania Depot up here at the north end. She is detained in the baggage room. Request an ambulance and all available backup.”

  “Do you have the perp in custody?”

  The Ford rocks. I hear something bang the rear window like a sonic boom from a low-flying 747. I check my
mirror.

  The Palace Hotel has just exploded.

  “Repeat-did you apprehend the perpetrator?”

  “Negative. We encountered an unanticipated snag.”

  A snag?

  “It seems the hotel was wired to blow.”

  “What?”

  “Implosion. I suspect Mendez. Demolition and arson are his areas of expertise. I sense he went overboard. C-4 plastic explosives coupled with strategically placed petrol canisters. Like dropping a stick of dynamite down a gas pump. The hotel has collapsed and is on fire. Request immediate fire department support.”

  “Are you guys okay? You and Boyle?”

  “Affirmative. We were able to vacate the building two steps ahead of the fire.”

  “So Squeegee is dead?”

  Ceepak waits a second before he responds.

  “I did not see him exit the building. Copy?”

  “Roger. Copy.”

  I figure he's got a plan. This is how you hide the bullet when you gun down your suspect instead of arresting him. You set off the C-4 and gasoline you were lucky to find all wired and ready to blow. You burn down the whole building so everything melts. You cremate the body in a towering inferno, which then turns into a pile of rubble. It's messy, but it works.

  “Grab the girl!” the chief growls. “We'll meet you up at the depot!”

  “Roger that. And chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Alert Ashley's mother to our situation. Be best if you did so immediately. Her daughter is safe. It's all good.”

  “Will do. I'll tell her you kept your word!”

  There are some more explosions behind us. The fire must've found extra gas cans.

  “Request second alarm on fire department response….”

  “Will do. Ceepak?”

  “Yes sir?”

  “Good job.”

  “10-4.”

  Ceepak snaps off his radio.

  “Let's go get Ashley.”

  We're the first unit on the scene, of course.

  The old train depot is really more like a covered platform with a small hut attached. On one side of the hut is the arched window where they used to sell tickets. On the other is the baggage room where they stored suitcases and packages.

  It's not so dark any more. The fire from the hotel, about a half-mile farther north, is lighting up the sky pretty good.

  “Careful,” Ceepak says as we walk across the weedy railroad bed. There's no rails, just the rotting, tarry ties and some compacted gravel.

  As pissed-off as I am, I realize he's right. We need to be careful. There might be armed guards keeping watch over Ashley. Mendez's men could be inside with their own sniper weapon systems or shotguns or whatever you use to guard a kidnapped kid.

  “Should we wait for backup?” I ask.

  “I don't anticipate that will be necessary. But try to remain quiet.”

  Ceepak tiptoes ahead and climbs up on an old rusty barrel so he can peek in a window to the baggage room. He sees something because he holds up his hand to tell me to stay still, not make a sound. He watches for a second, then slowly slips down and motions for me to follow.

  We move around to the back of the depot. I see the door to the baggage room. There's a locker-room-size padlock through a hasp on the door.

  “Ashley?” Ceepak calls out.

  “Yes?” It's her voice. It's weak and trembling, but I recognize it.

  “This is Officer John Ceepak. I am here with my partner Danny Boyle. The two of us are coming in, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “We may have to kick down the door.”

  “Hurry! Please! Before he comes back! Hurry!”

  Ceepak walks to the door.

  But he isn't hurrying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I think every vehicle in the county with any kind of flashing light bar on its roof is parked in a circle around the train depot.

  Ashley is covered with a thick wool blanket and sitting in the back of an open ambulance while a doctor and nurse check her out. Her mom is with her on the little bed, hugging her. The kid was in pretty good shape when we kicked down the door and rescued her: She was sitting on an old steamer trunk with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles handcuffed together so she couldn't run. Fortunately, Squeegee didn't tie the knots too tight, so Ashley didn't have rope burn on her wrists. The handcuffs securing her legs were pretty loose, too. They didn't pinch into her ankles at all.

  Ashley was, however, still wearing the skimpy outfit she'd been forced to put on for the Polaroid. It's why she's wrapped up in the blanket now.

  The chief had some of the guys set up a perimeter so the reporters who raced up here behind all the police cars and fire trucks could be held at bay. The TV klieg lights are making it feel like high noon, even though it's closer to midnight.

  I see Ceepak over near a black sedan, talking to Morgan. They're nodding at each other. I guess the FBI agent understands-sometimes you have to shoot a guy in order to stop him from molesting more kids.

  The chief looks happier than I've ever seen him. Completely free of acid indigestion. He's bouncing around, shaking hands with everybody he bumps into. He struts over to the reporters and TV cameras to make a statement, looking like the football coach who just won the big game. Mayor Sinclair is beside him.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief says, “I am pleased to report that, thanks to the diligent efforts of some very brave Sea Haven police officers and the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group, Ashley Hart is going home. She's safe. Unharmed. She's doing great.”

  “Do you have the kidnapper?

  “Did he shoot Ashley's father?”

  “Did he confess? To the murder of Reginald Hart?”

  The chief holds up his beefy right paw to calm the crowd.

  “We do not have all the answers. Unfortunately, the kidnapper died in tonight's fire and explosion at the old Palace Hotel….”

  “How'd the fire start?”

  “We're not certain, but we suspect arson,” the chief says.

  “Are the crimes related? The arson, the kidnapping, the murder?”

  “I really can't speculate about that at this time….”

  “Was it just a coincidence? That the kidnapper happened to be in the hotel when an arsonist burned it down?”

  “As I said, I am not in a position to speculate on those matters at this time. An investigation is ongoing. The fire department is on the scene, working the hotel. State arson investigators are on their way as well. We hope to have more answers for you folks ASAP. But right now-well, I'm just damn glad we got Ashley! She's safe, folks! She's going home!”

  “And,” the mayor steps up to the microphones, “tomorrow is Monday! A sunderful new week begins here in Sea Haven. We're thinking of throwing a big beach party to celebrate Ashley's homecoming! Free refreshments….”

  The reporters ignore him.

  “Chief? When can we see Ashley? Can we talk to her? How's her mother holding up?”

  “Guys? Come on. Give the kid a break….”

  “There she goes!”

  One reporter points and all the cameras swing to see what he's pointing at.

  Ashley, covered in the blanket, walks with her mother to their Mercedes sedan, surrounded by a crowd of state and local police. Looks like they'll be traveling home in their very own motorcade.

  Ashley's in such good shape, I guess she doesn't need to go to the hospital.

  She just needs to go home.

  I walk over to where somebody has set up a folding table with food and drinks.

  Hey, what's a successful end to a manhunt without a few snacks and cold beverages?

  Unfortunately, there's no beer in the Igloo cooler, just Pepsi. I looked.

  “Boyle?”

  It's the chief.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “What's wrong, son?”

  “Nothing.”
/>   “Bullshit. You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

  Nope. No dogs were harmed in this evening's activities. Just this one homeless guy. Jerry, a.k.a. Squeegee. A guy who gave his girlfriend his favorite shirt because she was cold.

  “Listen, son-Ceepak did what he had to do. He did what needed to be done.”

  “Do you know what he did, sir?”

  “No. And I don't need to know any details. The end justifies whatever means he deemed necessary, understand?”

  No. Not really.

  “Yes, sir. Of course.”

  “You want to be a cop, you have to come to peace with this sort of thing. The greater good, Boyle. The greater good.” He's actually wagging his finger at me. “The Greater Good.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How's Ceepak holding up?”

  “Okay, I guess. Considering.”

  “Yeah,” the chief sucks in a chestful of night air. “Rough duty whenever you bring a man down. There will be an investigation. They'll want to ask you a bunch of questions. How did the fire get started? What happened to your suspect? Why didn't you apprehend him prior to the conflagration? That sort of thing. They might even recover the bullet … provided they find the body.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You think you can handle it, son?”

  “I hope so.”

  “You just need to give the right answers. It's actually pretty easy to do. Tell you what, when you're ready to go over your story, work up the details of what you remember, come see me, okay?”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Great. I never had a Code or anything but, on the other hand, I've never intentionally lied about something this big before, either.

  Now, it seems like lying is going to become part of my job.

  I go looking for Ceepak.

  Hey, I'm still on the company dime and it's my job to drive the guy home.

  Tomorrow?

  I'll probably start the sunny, funderful new week by quitting. Or at least asking for a new assignment. I've decided I don't want to be the hitman's chauffeur any longer. And I hope the department can whitewash their internal investigation without me, because if they ask me any questions, I will tell them no lies.

  “You seen Ceepak?” I ask this state cop standing guard outside the baggage hut.

  “Inside.”

  I walk in and find him on his hands and knees studying the floorboards.