Mind Scrambler Page 8

  “What about Katie and the kids?” I ask.

  “Hunh?”

  “If they go backstage after they do that opening bit, why don’t you see them in the hallway?”

  “Maybe they used a different exit or something.”

  “Wouldn’t matter. You’d see them back there. Crossing the T where the two corridors intersect.”

  “Hey, I don’t know,” says the guy, who’s used to staring at pictures, not listening to them talk back. “Maybe they didn’t go to their rooms.”

  “Yes they did! That’s where I found her body.”

  “Boyle?” says Parker. “First things first. We gotta find the children.”

  “But . . .”

  “Parker’s right,” says Ceepak.

  Fine. But I can tell: he and Parker know I’m right. How the hell could Katie end up dead in her room if the camera didn’t even see her walking backstage?

  “Put your best shot up on the screen,” Parker says to the woman. “Frontal if you’ve got it. I’ve met the kids. Know what they look like.”

  “Hang on. Here we go. This is a head-on shot. Twenty thirty. They’re riding escalator E-three.”

  “That’s them,” says Parker. “Richie and Britney. Where did they end up?”

  “Can’t say for certain. I thought they were headed for the ice cream place downstairs. Twenty thirty-two, however, they leave the building.”

  “Which exit?”

  “Boardwalk.”

  “For a chariot ride,” I mumble.

  “Come again?” says Parker.

  “The boy. He likes the rolling chairs. Calls them chariots.”

  “This way.”

  Parker leads us out a side exit—another Authorized Personnel Only door. It’s faster than trudging across the casino floor.

  We come out on a sidewalk running along what must be the service-entrance side of the Xanadu. No flashy lights. No dazzling neon. Just plaster white walls and fluorescent fixtures filled with dead bugs. I see a cluster of uniformed pit people in black vests, white shirts, and red bow ties taking a smoke break near a bench. Across the street is a very seedy, triple-decker motel: the Royal Lode. I think it used to be the Royal Lodge but the G is burned out so the sign reads like a bad toilet joke.

  To our right, of course, are the ocean and the bustling boardwalk. Under the streetlights, I can see guys in baggy pants and polo shirts pushing those canopied chairs on wheels. The chariot races are underway.

  “Let’s go,” says Parker.

  The three of us jog up the sidewalk, hit the boardwalk, slow down as the crowd swarms around us.

  “Evening, officers,” a voice calls out. “Over here.” It’s the Great Mandini—the street magician we met in Starbucks, Gary Burdick’s AA sponsor. He’s wearing his bright red Chinese tunic and a black cape, shuffling cards behind a table with collapsible legs that’s covered with a shimmering blue cloth. A shaggy bunny rabbit sits in a frayed top hat, nibbling on a carrot.

  “Looking for someone?” he asks.

  Guess we look like we’re looking for someone, what with the running-up-the-sidewalk-in-a-bunch bit.

  “Two children,” says Ceepak. “Six-year-old boy. Ten-year-old girl.”

  The Great Mandini nods. Points. “They went thataway.” He grins. “Always wanted to say that.”

  “Blond hair?” says Parker.

  Another wise nod. “Very much so. Just like their father, Mr. Richard Rock.”

  “You recognized them?”

  “Of course. Richie and Britney. I saw their show when it was in previews and the tickets were somewhat less expensive. I was surprised to see the children out this late unsupervised. So I kept one eye on them, the other on my cards.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Not far. About three hundred yards due north. The girl said she wanted candy apples. The boy wanted a rolling chair ride. They eventually compromised. Hired Royal rolling chair number three-oh-five and proceeded up the boardwalk to my friend Andy’s candy-apple stand. You can’t miss it. Blinking lights. Smells of hot buttered popcorn and melted caramel.”

  “Thank you,” says Parker.

  “Semper Fi, gentlemen. Semper Fi.”

  What do you know—Mandini’s another soldier. Actually a marine. Semper Fi is short for “Semper Fidelis,” the Marine Corps motto. “Always faithful.” It’s why some people call their dogs Fido. Short for Fidelis. Ceepak taught me that, back when he named his dog Barkley. I don’t know what Barkley’s short for.

  Anyway, Ceepak and Parker, both former military men, shoot Mandini a quick salute. I sort of wave buh-bye. Mandini rubs the fur behind his bunny’s ears.

  “Godspeed, gentlemen!”

  We run up the boardwalk, bobbing and weaving through the strolling crowds, dodging the rolling chairs. We pass about six psychics and tarot card readers, a couple open-air T-shirt shops, and maybe a dozen Chinese full body massage parlors. Who knew the Chinese were so tense?

  “There they are!” I see them first.

  “Richie?” yells Parker. “Britney?”

  Britney smiles and waves—the queen riding in the back of the homecoming convertible. Her lips are a bright red ring. She looks like my grandmother when she tries to put on lipstick before putting on her glasses. Guess Britney went with the cinnamon-flavored apple.

  “Hello, Mr. Parker,” she says. “Did they send you to tell us we can go back now?”

  “Who?”

  “Jake and Nanny Katie. Jake gave us fifty dollars. Told us to go have some fun. Guess they wanted to have some fun, too, hunh?”

  14

  “You really can’t buy all that much with fifty dollars, can you?”

  Britney. What a chatterbox.

  “When Jake told us to get lost, he gave us a brand new Ulysses S. Grant—that’s the president who’s on the fifty-dollar bill, in case you’ve never seen one—I figured I could score like a billion candy apples but, nooooo. They cost like five dollars each and big baby Richie wanted to ride in one of those stupid push chairs that cost like ten dollars. The man who pushed us? He was from Bosnia. Smelled like ass because he had BO. That means body odor.”

  I just sort of nod. We’re in this tight little knot, walking down the boardwalk, making our way back to the Xanadu. Parker is up front, talking into his handheld radio, letting the parents know that we found their two adorable children. Ceepak is behind me, covering our “rear flank” as he called it. I glance over my shoulder and see him scoping out the crowds, searching for a murderer mingling among the mob. Who knew you could do military maneuvers on the boardwalk in Atlantic City?

  “Katie made Richie take his homework when they kicked us out,” says Britney. “That’s what’s in his backpack. She made him take it because she’s supposed to be our teacher and Richie is a slow learner. I think he might be dyslexic or retarded or something.”

  I am so glad I never had an older sister. Well, I had Katie. She was a couple months older than me, definitely more mature. But Katie was the cool kind of sister, the type who’d clue you in to what girls really think and tell you all sorts of secret stuff about what was hidden inside the girls’ bathroom. Kotex machines. Who knew?

  “Richie has to take remedial reading. He’s doing Hop on Pop while I’m reading Ella Enchanted and stuff because I can already read at a seventh-grade level even though I just turned ten and would only be in the fifth grade if we went to regular school.”

  Richie hasn’t said a word since we found him and his sister at the candy-apple stand. Maybe his big sister never lets him talk. Maybe she’s right and he has some sort of learning disability.

  “You okay, Richie?” I ask.

  He nods a yes.

  “You eat a candy apple?”

  He shakes his head no.

  And that is the extent of our conversation.

  “So, did Jake and Katie hook up and get busy?” says Britney. “Did they beat cheeks? That’s slang, you know. For ‘having sex,’ but doing it in a differen
t kind of way. Some ways are pretty gross and look stupid, too. I’ve seen a book.”

  “You’re ten?”

  “Yes. But I’m very mature for my age. Precocious. That’s a word I memorized. Means I’m more developed, especially mentally, even though I’m already getting my boobies, too.”

  The kid talks faster than those TV commercials for prescription drugs listing side effects that may include death and anal leakage.

  “Richie, on the other hand, still eats his boogers and blows snot rockets when he isn’t busy floating air biscuits. Air biscuit means fart.”

  “Here we go, kids,” says Parker. Holding open a door into the casino. “Your parents would like to talk to you.”

  “Why?” asks Britney.

  “I guess because you took off like that.”

  Britney freezes. Plants both hands on her hips. “We only did what our stupid nanny told us to do!”

  “We know,” Parker says, leaning down and grinning like he’s the friendly ol’ bear in a picture book. “I think they want to talk to you about, you know, something else, too. Something pretty serious. Kind of grown-up.”

  “Oh. Like Jake and Katie doing the nasty?”

  Somehow, Parker keeps smiling. “Your mom and dad are downstairs. Uncle Chang’s Ice Cream Parlor. Do you like ice cream, Britney?”

  She blows Parker the lip-noise equivalent of one of those air biscuits. “Well, duh.” She marches into the casino shaking her head and muttering, “Do you like ice cream? Jesus!” like the big man is retarded, too.

  We happily drop the kids off with their parents and head back to room AA-4.

  The Atlantic City homicide detective has arrived and wants to talk to us. More specifically, he wants to speak to me—the guy who discovered the body and, if the digital video in the surveillance control room is to be believed, the only human being to set foot backstage after “Rock ’n Wow!” started.

  “Brady Flynn’s a good guy,” says Parker as we make our way past two of his casino security guys stationed outside that Authorized Personnel Only door near the Shalimar Theater. “Ex-boxer. Former Golden Gloves champ.”

  We head down the hall.

  “He also used to work with Sandy McDaniels. State major crime unit. You know her, right?”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. “I’ve studied her forensics field guide extensively. Danny and I also had the privilege of working with her on one or two occasions.”

  “Well, Detective Flynn is almost as good. Helped McDaniels update the fifth edition of her book. Wrote the chapter on computer fraud.”

  We pass the stage door. I’m looking for Mr. Event Staff. Of course he isn’t there. But the door is propped open and I can see some of the set pieces from the show: the archery target, the human-sized Rubik’s Cube, and the two glass booths that they used to transport Mrs. Rock from one side of the stage to the other in under a second.

  “There he is,” says Parker as we hit the T and take the right. “Detective Flynn?”

  “Yo?”

  There’s this stocky guy in a suit that looks too small for all his muscles standing outside room AA-4. I figure he’s in his late thirties or early forties. Caesar-style haircut. Crooked nose where he took a punch or two from someone else’s golden gloves. He’s twitching his shoulders a lot.

  “I’m Cyrus Parker. Head of hotel security. We’ve met before.”

  “Sure, sure. How you doin’?” His head jerks sideways like he has a crick in his neck he can’t crack out.

  “Been better,” says Parker. “This is Danny Boyle. He’s the one who found the body. He’s also a cop, up in Sea Haven.”

  “Boyle.” Flynn shoots out a hand the size and texture of an antique catcher’s mitt. “How you doin’?”

  Parker continues with the introductions. “His partner, John Ceepak.”

  The mitt moves right. “How you doin’?”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” says Ceepak, who doesn’t realize “How you doin’?” is the official manly-man greeting of the Garden State and has been long before Joey showed up on Friends.

  “Excusemeyouseguys.” Flynn mumbles worse than my dad, who always sounds like he’s talking to himself even when he’s talking to you. The detective turns around. Looks up the hall, toward Mr. and Mrs. Rock’s rooms and whatever else is up that way. Leans back. Examines the ceiling tiles.

  “Wheresdacameras?”

  “Excuse me?” says Parker.

  Flynn points up. “How come there ain’t no cameras back this way?”

  I think that’s what he said.

  “No need,” says Parker. “Security department always considered this hallway an area of minimal interest.”

  “Yeah. Untiltonight.”

  “Say again?”

  “Until tonight. Major interest tonight, am I right?”

  Flynn turns around to gaze in our general direction again. Scrunches up his nose. Doesn’t mumble anything so Ceepak jumps in: “I can vouch for Mr. Boyle from nineteen hundred hours through twenty-one twenty.”

  “Unh-hunh. And that’d be like from seven to like what?”

  “Nine-twenty PM,” I say since I do the time-clock conversions quicker than Ceepak. “I found the body around nine-thirty.”

  “Hunh.”

  Oh-kay. If this guy helped Dr. McDaniels rewrite her book, why do I think the forthcoming fifth edition will be totally incomprehensible?

  “You two busy?” Flynn suddenly asks, with another triple twitch of the neck.

  “Sir?” says Ceepak.

  “Busy?”

  “We are at your disposal.”

  “Good. Good.” He nods, tugs at his suit coat, sniffs. “Iheardaboutyousetwo.”

  Ceepak gives him a quizzical look. Me, too.

  “Sandy. McDaniels? Says you’re sharp. You guys watch cowboy movies?”

  Ceepak looks totally confused. I’m right there with him.

  Flynn is unfazed. Guess he’s used to nobody understanding what the hell he’s talking about.

  “Westerns. The Searchers? John Wayne?”

  Ceepak nods slowly, the way you do when somebody tells you the CIA has implanted GPS transponders in your teeth.

  “Too many crimes in this town. Drunks. Disorderlies. Shooting-stabbings. Fugghetaboutit.” He shakes his head, twitches twice, tugs three times at his lapels. “As youse two undoubtedly know, all New Jersey officers have the authority and, I might add, the duty to enforce all state laws within the confines of New Jersey twenty-four-seven, regardless of your current geographical location. So, I’m hereby deputizin’ youse two until we figure out what the hell is goin’ on here. And don’t ask about the pay. There isn’t any. Cyrus?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I need to see that tape.”

  “Which one?”

  He jabs his thick thumb in my general direction. “Boyle here. Walking down the hall.” He scissors two stiff fingers back and forth to, I guess, illustrate a person walking.

  “You got it,” says Parker.

  “Have you established the time of death?” asks Ceepak.

  “Hmm?”

  “The time of death.” Ceepak is accenting every syllable, the way you might if you were talking to a deaf person in a noisy airplane hanger.

  “Yeah. Sure. I got a good guesstimate.”

  “And?” Ceepak waits.

  “Hmmm?”

  “Is Danny in the clear?”

  Flynn nods, which sets off another spasm of sideways head jerks and some more neck-cracking.

  “Detective Flynn?” Ceepak wants an answer. “What do you postulate as the time of death for Ms. Landry?”

  “Nine. Maybe nine-fifteen. Definitely before the show was over.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. Used the Glaister equation. Ninety-eight point four minus measured rectal temperature divided by one point five.”

  Great. He took Katie’s temperature. That way.

  “Extremely reliable in this instance what
with, you know, the temperature inside being thermostatically controlled since the room is windowless and all. So, like I said, I like Glaister in this particular instance.”

  Yeah. Me, too. Except for the rectal thermometer bit. Nine or nine-fifteen means I didn’t do it.

  “That tape?” Flynn says to Parker.

  “Yeah. I’ll go grab it.”

  Ceepak raises a finger as if he has a question, which, I guess, he does.

  “Hmmm?” says Flynn.

  “If we have established that Danny was in the theater at the time of death, why do you still need to see the tape?”

  “I’m looking for her.”

  “Ms. Landry?”

  “Yeah. How come, if you see Mr. Boyle walking down the hall, you don’t see her?”

  Oh, yeah. I love this guy.

  We ask the same kind of questions.

  15

  Around 11:00 PM Parker heads back to his office to deal with the impending PR crisis.

  I think the general manager of the Xanadu is coming in for a meeting with his security chief. Probably bringing lawyers and spin doctors. Kinky sex, celebrities, backstage romance, murder, death. This is the stuff Access Hollywood and ET live for. The Xanadu will try to keep a lid on it.

  The Rocks have sent their children upstairs to a regular hotel room. One of their wardrobe supervisors from the show has agreed to be the kids’ nanny for the night. Little Richie was still clutching his tiger backpack to his chest. Britney? She wanted her special synthetic down pillow because she’s allergic to feathers and threw a temper tantrum when the Atlantic City cops guarding her old room told her she couldn’t go in and get it. Kid wailed all the way up the hall. Sounded worse than that singer destroying the Motown oldies out in the lounge.

  I follow Ceepak and Detective Flynn into AA-4. When I walk past the two bicycle cops still stationed outside the door, they both nod grimly, glad, for the moment, that they’re riding bike patrols instead of being me.

  Yeah, I wish I wasn’t me, too, because it’s time to examine the crime scene. Again.