Hell Hole Read online

  “Down range?”

  “Baghdad. Sadr City. Fallujah.”

  Dixon nods. “You re-up?”

  “Negative.”

  “Why not?”

  “Long story.”

  Dixon smiles. Gestures toward the Igloo ice chest loaded down with bottles and cans.

  “I’ll buy you a beer,” says Dixon. “You can tell me all about it.”

  “I’ll take a rain check on that,” says Ceepak.

  Now Dixon’s smile becomes a smirk. “Me and my men? Three tours.”

  “Four, sir!” shouts the shortest one as he fishes out a fresh beer.

  “I stand corrected, Private Hernandez. Mickey Mex went back four different times. Figures America might let him stay in the country, now. Hell, we might even let his girlfriend come over.”

  “Hoo-hah!” says Hernandez.

  “She’s a hooker down in Tijuana, right Mickey?”

  “Sí.”

  “What is she? Sixteen or seventeen?”

  “Fifteen, sir!”

  Over at the grill, there’s a minor grease flare-up, which the sleepyeyed tall guy, the one they call Lieutenant Worthless, douses with a splash of Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

  “So, Sergeant,” Ceepak asks, “what brings you gentlemen to Sea Haven?”

  “This is my uncle’s house,” says Dixon. “I kept promising my guys that if we made it out of the sandpit alive, if we hung together and covered each other’s asses, we’d have a fucking beach blanket blowout before we rotated back. Burnt meat, cold beer, and hot babes!”

  “Hoo-hah!”

  “We’re sorry about your loss,” says Ceepak softly.

  “You mean Smith?” says Dixon. Then he belches. “Fucking pussy. Couldn’t handle the dark mental shit that comes with doing the job.”

  “Many soldiers experience emotional stress when confronted with the realities of war.”

  “Jesus. Did you do your tour as a fucking shrink?”

  “No. Military police.”

  “MP? Then you’ve seen Smith’s type. Hell, maybe you even arrested him. Fucking hophead. Got into that serious Afghan shit flowing across the border from Iran, big-time.”

  “Heroin?”

  “And hash. Used to fuck himself up royally before we’d saddle up. Every mission, Smith was high as a fucking kite. Couldn’t trust that weak sister to cover your ass worth a damn.”

  “I’m told they found drug paraphernalia near his body last night.”

  “Roger that. Guess he smuggled some of that happy horseshit and a Russian PB/6P9 pistol home with him. I wanted to wash him out of our unit but the boys with the brass brains wouldn’t let me. Seems we were short on manpower. Too many guys checking out after a single tour.”

  Now the other guys stare at Ceepak, like it’s his fault one of their buddies became a junkie who hated being a soldier so much he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

  Dixon jabs a stubby thumb in my general direction. “Your partner here tells me you won some medals.”

  “One or two.”

  “You pick up a Purple Heart?” Dixon asks Ceepak.

  “No.”

  “Guess you weren’t there long enough. Rolled into Baghdad just in time to watch them pull down that Saddam statue and said, ‘hasta la vista, baby’—hightailed it home before the Hajis started blowing up every fucking American convoy they could with their roadside IEDs.”

  Now it’s Ceepak’s eyes doing the narrowing. I know he saw his share of improvised explosive devices during his stint in Iraq. I also know he came under some pretty serious enemy fire. He got one medal, the Bronze Star for heroic service in combat, when he risked his life to run up an alley in Sadr City and drag a guy to safety—some gunner he didn’t even know—while Sunni snipers up on the rooftops tried to nail him. My man may have only served one tour of duty but he’s definitely done his time in hell.

  “I was never wounded,” Ceepak answers without any emotion. “Not in Iraq.”

  “Me neither. Too fast.” Dixon does a quick juke step and head fake, like he’s a point guard for the Nets. “Kept dodging the bullets and the bombs. Now, my man over there, Lieutenant Worthless …” He points to the tall guy doing tong duty at the grill. “Old Worthless took a Haji bullet in the leg.”

  I remember now: he had a limp when he came out with the cell phone to tell us about Smith last night.

  “They gave him all sorts of medals for that one. Right, Worthless?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You pack your Purple Heart?”

  “It’s inside.”

  “Well, shit, Lieutenant—pin it to your swimsuit. That and a beach badge will get your pecker wet.” He turns away. Walks back to the beer cooler. Fishes out a green bottle. Heineken. Twists it open. Takes a swig. Takes his time. “You gentlemen need something?” he finally asks. “Or is this just a condolence call?”

  “We need to examine Corporal Smith’s vehicle,” says Ceepak. “More specifically—the trunk.”

  “Why?”

  “We have reason to believe that he was the victim of a burglary last night. We think some local thieves stole his CD changer.”

  “Really?” Dixon shakes his head. Starts to laugh. “Jesus, Ceepak. The pussy freak blew his brains out in a fucking crapper. You think he or I or any of these men give two shits about a goddamn CD changer?”

  “No, I do not. However, I think investigating this criminal incident might lead us to the truth behind what happened to Corporal Smith last night.”

  “Come again?”

  “He didn’t commit suicide. I’m sure of it.”

  “What?”

  “Shareef Smith was murdered.”

  12

  It’s rare that Ceepak makes a pronouncement like that.

  Usually, you ask him, “Was this guy murdered?” he says, “It’s a possibility.” I think there’s something about a fellow soldier’s unseemly death that’s hit him hard.

  “You’re telling me somebody murdered one of my men?” snaps Dixon. All of a sudden, Shareef Smith isn’t a “pussy freak” who couldn’t handle the stress of battle. He’s back to being one of the guys.

  “I believe so.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I have no proof at this juncture.”

  “Fuck.”

  “As you know, I wasn’t on scene last night, but Officer Boyle was able to describe what he saw in sufficient enough detail for me to note inconsistencies that make me uneasy.”

  “I was there,” snaps Dixon. “He had the Russian pistol in his hand. Took a mouth shot. Blew his brains out. Splattered them against the back wall.”

  “But there was no blood on the floor.”

  “Come again?”

  “Somebody cleaned it up.”

  “No. He had those tissue rings around his neck.”

  “The sanitary seat covers.”

  “Right. That caught all the blood.”

  Ceepak shakes his head. “As you stated, there was blood and organic matter splattered against the rear wall, which the tissue paper would not, in fact, could not catch. In a crime-scene photograph taken with Officer Boyle’s cell phone you can see the droplets streaking down toward the floor. The floor itself remains clean.”

  Dixon squints. Tries to remember what he saw. Tries to find a logical explanation. “Maybe it didn’t drip down that far.”

  “Negative. I suspect somebody mopped the floor, which would also explain how the drug paraphernalia ended up in the adjoining stall.”

  Of course. The mop head slapped the drug stuff over into the next booth like a hockey stick smacking a puck.

  Dixon looks unconvinced. “Somebody mopped up while Smith was still sitting on top of the toilet?”

  “Roger that.”

  “Who? The janitor?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Who?”

  “Too soon to say.”

  “Jesus!”

  “Rest assured, Sergeant, we are going to investigate our su
spicions further. That’s why we need to examine Smith’s vehicle. Specifically, the trunk.”

  “You think the killer hid in the trunk?”

  “No. As it stands, we have no official interest or jurisdictional standing in what happened inside the rest area washroom. However, the burglarization of Smith’s vehicle by certain local recidivists might grant us limited access to all evidence associated with his death.”

  “We’re looking at two of the Feenyville Pirates,” I say, since Dixon seems stuck on Ceepak’s choice of the word recidivist. I can see he’s struggling to come up with a definition. “Repeat offenders named Nicky Nichols and Mr. Shrimp.”

  Ceepak turns. Nobody else can see what I see in his face: a wee wince—a small crinkling of the lines around the eyes. Oops. I don’t think I should have said that.

  “What?” says Dixon. “Fucking pirates?”

  “We have two small-time criminals on our radar for the burglary and, as I said, pursuing that investigation may open up access to evidence related to the corporal’s death.”

  Dixon yanks open the gate. Steps off the patio. Goes nose to nose with Ceepak in the patch of gravel near the garbage cans.

  “What do you mean ‘may’?”

  “I cannot guarantee that the Burlington County prosecutor’s office will welcome our interest in what they consider a closed case.”

  Dixon leans forward.

  “Let me see if I have this correct, Officer Ceepak. You’re telling me that two local yokels murdered one of my men in a lousy latrine on the goddamn Garden State Parkway but you can’t do anything about it?”

  “Actually, we have no reason to suspect the locals were the ones who—”

  Dixon turns his back on Ceepak, addresses his troops. “Gentlemen? Listen up. We will not be breaking camp tomorrow as previously planned.”

  “How long are we staying?” asks Lieutenant Worthless.

  “As long as necessary.”

  “Just a moment,” Ceepak tries. Dixon isn’t listening.

  “We may need to bring this shitty little town some goddamn noise!”

  “Sergeant Dixon, please!” says Ceepak. “There is no need for you and your men to pursue vigilante justice.”

  “That’s your opinion.”

  “I realize you are upset. But we can not and will not condone citizens taking the law into their own hands.”

  “Somebody has to.”

  “Justice will be served. The truth will be uncovered.”

  “Oh, really? Swell. Put it on a greeting card. Sell it to Hallmark.”

  “Give me twenty-four hours.”

  “To do what?”

  “To see if I can determine who did this.”

  “And if you can’t?”

  “We’ll have that beer and talk about next steps.”

  Over at the grill, I hear the whomp of flames. Everybody’s been riveted on Ceepak and Dixon. Lieutenant Worthless hasn’t been minding the meat. It’s flaring like waxy fireplace logs.

  “You have my word,” says Ceepak.

  “Your word?”

  “Yes, sir. And I will not lie nor tolerate those who do.”

  “You West Point?”

  “No. I simply choose to live my life according to their code of honor.”

  Dixon gives Ceepak a look. “Really? Well, my men and I have a code too: We look out for our own and will not tolerate any individual who seeks to do any one of us harm.”

  “All I’m asking is one day.”

  Dixon is thinking about it, I can tell. His breathing is almost regular. Finally, he turns around and calls out to the biggest ox on the patio. “Butt Lips?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do we have twenty-four hours’ worth of liquid refreshment inside the wire?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Handy Andy?”

  “Sir?” It’s the kid with the kielbasa nose.

  “How are we doing on acquiring cable TV?”

  “We’re wired up and good to go, sir.”

  Dixon nods. Returns his attention to Ceepak.

  “Very well. You have twenty-four hours, Officer Ceepak. This time tomorrow. Sunday. Seventeen-hundred hours. But that’s it. There will be no deadline extensions.”

  “Thank you. Now, may we inspect the trunk?”

  I hear car tires crunching across gravel.

  “You’ll need to ask the ladies,” says Dixon, indicating the car that just pulled into the parking pad. “Smith’s sisters. Apparently, the vehicle in question belongs to one of them.”

  13

  A dark red Dodge that rolled off the assembly line sometime back when Reagan was president parks next to my Jeep. I can see two silhouettes in the front seat but nobody gets out.

  “The troopers contacted Smith’s family,” says Dixon. “Alerted his sisters as to what happened. Told us the ladies would be coming up today to claim the vehicle and make arrangements for the body.”

  Ceepak nods.

  We’re all standing along the fence. Seven men staring at the two black women in the car. We must look like the receiving line at an Irish wake.

  Finally, I hear the clunk-thud-screech of heavy car doors opening. Two at once. Both of Smith’s sisters step out of the beat-up old Dodge.

  “We come for the car,” says the one standing behind the door on the driver side. “Tonya needs it for work Monday.”

  Tonya seems to be the shy sister. About my age and very pretty, she stands behind the door on the passenger side. She’s thin and, right now, looks like she wishes she were even skinnier so she could become invisible. She won’t lift her head to meet any of the fourteen eyes staring at her.

  “Which one of you has the keys?” The driver-side sister, on the other hand, is no shrinking violet. I figure she’s older, maybe thirty. She talks with a sassy swagger and looks tough enough to take out half of Dixon’s unit, especially if she packs all 290 of her pounds into the first punch. “Maybe you gentlemen didn’t hear me. I said, ‘Who has the damn keys to Tonya’s ride?’”

  “Butt Lips?” Dixon calls out.

  “On it, sir.” Rutledge, aka Butt Lips, heads into the house to retrieve the car keys. Ceepak takes a step toward the women. When he does, Tonya, the shy one, retreats half a step. The other one? She doesn’t budge.

  “Ma’am, we are all very sorry for your loss.”

  The driver doesn’t answer. She gives Ceepak a bull snort out both nostrils and stands her ground.

  “Will you be taking the vehicle home to Maryland?” Ceepak asks. He’s not that good at guessing where people are from by the way they snort at him. He just knows how to read the license plates on the Ford and the Dodge: Maryland.

  Now the big sister glowers at him. “You a soldier?”

  “No,” says Ceepak. “I’m with the local police.”

  “But he used to be a soldier,” I chime in. “Over in Iraq.”

  I figure she might relax if she knows everybody here except me played on the same team as her brother. But she doesn’t. In fact, she looks angrier.

  “Local police have a problem with Tonya picking up her own damn car?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then it’s none of your damn business where we’re headed, am I right?”

  Ceepak gestures toward the smaller of the two cars. “Would you mind if we inspected the trunk before you drive home?”

  “Why?”

  “Part of an ongoing police investigation.”

  “What kind of investigation?”

  “We think we know who stole the air bags and CD changer.”

  “They took the air bags?”

  “Yes, ma’ am.”

  She shakes her head, disgusted. “Who has the damn keys?”

  Rutledge comes back out to the patio. Tosses a key ring to Dixon, who snatches it in midair. He steps forward and dangles the key ring off the tip of his index finger in front of the big sister’s face. Swirls it around some.

  “Miss Smith,” he says, “these keys are hereby
presented to you on behalf of a grateful nation and the United States Army as a token of appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”

  Geeze-o, man.

  I think Dixon is mocking a dead soldier’s sister.

  The big sister rips the key ring off his wiggling finger. Mutters something nasty. I hope it was “fuck you.”

  “Excuse me?” says Dixon.

  Apparently, it was.

  The back of his neck flushes red with rage. If he had any hair back there, it’d be standing up like dog hackles.

  “What’d you say?”

  Ceepak steps forward. “Let it go, Sergeant Dixon.”

  Dixon pivots. Glares.

  “Let it go,” Ceepak says again.

  “This woman disrespected me.”

  “And I’ll do it again,” she says. “In fact, I’ll tell you to go straight to hell you ever talk that kind of trash about my baby brother again.”

  Dixon grins. “Perhaps you misunderstood me, Miss Smith. I said nothing derogatory against your brother.”

  “Uhm-hmm. I heard the words behind your words.”

  “Sarge?” It’s the lanky guy they keep calling Worthless. The lieutenant. The guy who should be in charge but, apparently, isn’t. “Let it go.”

  Dixon’s skin tone steps down to code orange from its previous status at red.

  “Tomorrow,” he whispers to Ceepak. “Seventeen-hundred hours.” He turns. “Gentlemen? Inside.”

  The short dude in the do-rag, Hernandez, hops to and shoves open the sliding glass door. The soldiers head into the rental house. Hernandez is the last man in and slams the patio door sideways and shut.

  I hear sizzling over on the grill. Those sirloins are officially shoe leather.

  “You drive that one, Tonya,” says the big sister when the soldiers are all gone. “I’ll follow along behind you.”

  “Jacquie?” The shy girl speaks.

  “What?”

  “The police officer said he needs to inspect the trunk.”

  “What for? It won’t do Shareef any good.”

  “Jacquie? Please.”

  The big woman, Jacquie, lets out a hurricane gush of exasperation. “Fine.” She flings the key ring at my partner. “Five minutes.”

  Seems everybody’s giving us deadlines today.

  “Thank you.” Ceepak moves around to the rear of the Ford. I follow. So does Tonya.