Rolling Thunder (John Ceepak Mystery) Page 9

  “Nah. Won’t clock in until six.”

  “Any sense of when he might be moving on?”

  “Nope. Says he has some family business to take care of.”

  Now Ceepak just nods and stares.

  So I jump in. “Bud, we need to ask you about Gail Baker.”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Someone killed her.”

  Bud’s too stunned to even say “No way.”

  “I had lunch at the Scupper on Tuesday,” he mumbles. “She was just in here. Couple nights ago.”

  “Was she with anybody?”

  “Yeah. Mike. Mike Charzuk.”

  “Who’s he?” I ask.

  “Trainer at the gym. Has a chin goatee like Springsteen. You know—the tiny triangle.” He points to his chin to give us the visual.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I saw them goofing around together last weekend at the gym. She said she was free to hook up with him this week.”

  “Lucky bastard,” mumbles Bud. Then he remembers that Gail is dead, throws up both hands. “No disrespect.”

  “What about the dentist?” asks Ceepak.

  “Marvin Hausler? Yeah—you guys should definitely check him out. Total psycho killer qu’est que c’est material.”

  Ceepak and I quote Springsteen; Bud goes with Talking Heads.

  “What makes you say that?” asks Ceepak.

  “Dr. Marvin was also in here on Tuesday—I think because all well drinks are two for one on Twofer Tuesday. Anyway, he sees Gail and Mike doing their aerobics routine out on the dance floor, almost went postal on us. Your pops helped out. Hauled Hausler to the door, tossed him into the parking lot, scared the living shit out of the little dude.”

  Great. Busboy Ceepak is doubling as a bouncer.

  “Anyone else we should be aware of?” asks Ceepak.

  “You mean other guys?”

  Ceepak nods. Bud thinks.

  “No. Not really. Last weekend, she came in with a bunch of her girlfriends. Didn’t see her much over the winter or spring.”

  Ceepak’s cell phone chirps. The business line.

  “This is Ceepak. Go.” He covers the mouthpiece so he can mouth, “MCU, Bill Botzong.”

  I nod. It’s the state police. Maybe they found something.

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. “Agreed. Very unusual. We’ll look into it. No. We should have her phone records soon. Right.”

  He closes up his phone.

  “Thank you for your time,” he says to Bud. “If we have further questions.…”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Danny?” Ceepak head gestures toward the door.

  “What’s up?”

  “The State CSI crew has transported the two suitcases back to their lab in Hamilton.”

  “And?”

  “In examining the contents, they came upon all of Ms. Baker’s bloody clothes—jeans, undergarments, socks, shoes—everything except a shirt.”

  “Well, she was definitely wearing a shirt when we wrote her up last night.”

  Ceepak nods. He remembers it, too: tight. Snug. Four sizes too small. Mustard-yellow with cranberry lettering: Sugar Babies. Just like the candy wrapper.

  “We need to talk to Santucci,” says Ceepak.

  We sure do.

  Maybe when he went on his treasure hunt for Gail’s ID, he decided to take home a souvenir T-shirt.

  16

  I GIVE SAMANTHA STARKY A QUICK CALL TO LET HER KNOW our unofficial standing Friday night date is officially cancelled.

  Our murder investigation “To Do” list just keeps getting longer.

  Go to the dentist (we have a 5:45 appointment).

  Talk to Santucci about a missing T-shirt.

  Track down Gail Baker’s phone records.

  Wait for the medical examiner and Major Crimes Unit to tell us what they’ve learned from the forensic evidence—especially those torn luggage tags.

  Swing by The Rusty Scupper, see if any of Gail Baker’s workmates can clue us in to who may have wanted to hurt their star waitress.

  Go back to that Naughty Gnome Museum on Tangerine Street, knock on the door, see if Papa or Mama Smurf are home.

  We’re cruising south on Ocean Avenue toward the Sea Haven Smile Center, which is what Dr. Marvin Hausler calls his dental office in a strip mall at the corner of Jacaranda Street. We’re at Fig, five blocks north.

  “Isn’t that where Mrs. Starky works?” asks Ceepak as we stop at a traffic light near All-A-Shore Realty.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s pull in. See if she can tell us anything about the owners of that corner house on Tangerine Street.”

  “Even though Mayor Sinclair told us to leave the innocent citizens alone?” I say, just snarky enough for Ceepak to know I’m kidding.

  “All the more reason to investigate further,” he says.

  Yeah. My man has a very well-tuned BS detector. It buzzes like crazy every time we’re near our mayor, a city council member, or politicians in general. With that many booze bottles in the recycling bin, Ceepak is figuring somebody might have been there last night. So, for him, it’s worth a quick chat with Mrs. Starky.

  For me? Not so much.

  Let’s just say Sam’s mom isn’t crazy about Danny Boyle and her only daughter being romantically linked, especially the assorted sleepover dates. I don’t think Mrs. Starky would ever cut off my head and stuff it into a suitcase, but she may have other Lorena Bobbitt–style ideas in mind, if you catch my drift.

  But duty calls.

  So we park out front and head inside.

  The office of All-A-Shore Realty always smells damp and moldy—like yesterday’s bath towel that never got dry because you kind of clumped it on the rack on top of some other wet towels. There are ugly black amoeba splotches crawling across the ceiling tiles near the air-conditioning vents. I always think I’m gonna come down with Legionnaires’ disease when I drop by Mrs. Starky’s workplace.

  “Hi, Danny,” says Janet Costello, the girl behind the front counter. She answers the phones while stuffing the plastic “Welcome to Sea Haven” bags every renter receives when they pick up their keys. They’re crammed with coupons for all sorts of stuff like 15% off fudge at Pudgy’s Fudgery, $1 off any pie at Pizza My Heart, and a free dental exam at the Sea Haven Smile Center (two X-rays included). Janet and I have been pals since high school.

  “Is Mrs. Starky available?” I ask.

  Janet grimaces. Guess she knows what’s coming.

  “Hang on.” She presses a button on a phone with fifteen blinking lights. “Mrs. Starky? Danny Boyle and another police officer are here to see you. Yes, ma’am.”

  Janet gently returns the phone to its cradle.

  “She’ll be right out.” Now she looks ill.

  “Appreciate it,” says Ceepak.

  “Excuse me. I need to, um.”

  “Take your break?” suggests Ceepak.

  “Yeah!” Janet Costello dashes up the hall.

  But not quickly enough. Mrs. Starky steps out of a door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Bathroom?”

  “Make it fast.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Janet hurries to the last door on the left. Goes in. Pulls the door shut. I hear her lock it.

  “I was just on the phone with my daughter,” Mrs. Starky says to me. “You remember her, Daniel?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, she tells me you broke another date. I told her she was lucky.”

  Ceepak steps up: “Officer Boyle and I are working on a murder investigation and have had to temporarily put our personal lives on hold.”

  “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I suppose we do.”

  “Which is why, if you don’t mind a little free advice, the two of you should grow up; stop playing cowboy all day.”

  My fingers tickle the handgrip of my Glock.

  Not really. Just in my mind. And my dreams.
>
  Mrs. Starky looks like she sounds. Dyed hair that streams down to her too-low-for-her-age neckline. Her bangs hit her eyelashes because I suspect her hair curtains are designed to cover scars from the assorted facelifts that pulled her puffy cheeks back to her ears.

  Years ago, my mother told me the spookiest thing: The girl you are dating will become her mother when you marry her.

  I think I want to join Janet Costello in the toilet.

  “We need some information,” says Ceepak, totally unruffled by Mrs. Starky.

  “Me, too,” she says, turning to me again. “Are you ever going to get serious, Mr. Boyle? Because Samantha could do a whole lot better. I tell her she should date the boys at law school. Go online. Do Match dot com.” She turns to Ceepak. “No disrespect to your wife, Officer Ceepak, but who in their right mind would marry a cop?”

  My turn: “Well, if somebody didn’t marry us, where would all the little cops come from?”

  Mrs. Starky just sighs. I think I proved her point for her.

  “What kind of information do you need?” she says to Ceepak.

  “We’d like to talk to the owner of number One Tangerine Street.”

  I see her nose twitch a little, which means it wants to twitch a lot but her plastic surgeon made the skin too tight in the last nose job.

  “Why?”

  “They may have been witnesses to a murder.”

  “The waitress?” The way she says it, she wanted to say, “The whore?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Gail Baker.”

  She turns to me again. “Friend of yours, Daniel?”

  “Yeah. Sort of.”

  Hey, I know just about everybody on the island; I grew up here.

  “Figures. Does Samantha know about this one?”

  “What? That she’s dead?”

  I’m hoping that knocks the horsey tooth smile off her painted face, but it doesn’t. Instead, she goes for the low blow.

  “That seems to happen to a lot of your ex-girlfriends, doesn’t it, Danny?”

  “Mrs. Starky?” This from Ceepak. “We came here for information. If you have issues with your daughter’s romantic relationships, may I suggest that you discuss that matter privately with the concerned parties at a more appropriate time?”

  That’s how Ceepak says, “Shut up, you old windbag.”

  The nose tries to twitch again. Just one nostril.

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Evidence on the scene indicates that number One Tangerine Street, unlike most of the other homes on the street, is currently occupied and, therefore, may present our best opportunity for locating a witness.”

  “We handle number One Tangerine,” she says.

  “Is it a rental property?”

  “During the high season. The owners typically use it themselves through the end of June.”

  “So the owners would be the ones using it now?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you tell us how to contact them?”

  “Do you have a warrant?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “A search warrant? Some sort of official document compelling me to release confidential information?”

  “No, but—”

  “I’m sorry. I have privacy issues to consider.”

  I put my hands on my gun belt, let the leather crinkle. “You did hear us say we’re investigating a murder, right?”

  “Protecting my client’s privacy is my primary concern. I’m sorry you wasted your time stopping by. And, Danny?”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “The next time a girl tells you that she loves you, at least pretend you heard her say it. Spare her mother the teary phone calls.”

  I know the receptionist at Dr. Hausler’s office, too.

  “He’ll be right with you guys,” she says—with a smile, naturally.

  The Smile Center is the same sort of drop-ceiling box of an office as All-A-Shore Realty. Only here the walls and fake flowers are pink. Like gums, I guess. There’s this huge black-and-white photograph behind the receptionist desk of two models with dazzlingly bright smiles.

  “Officers?” Dr. Hausler comes into the waiting area in his lime green smock.

  “Dr. Marvin Hausler?” says Ceepak in that scary way you never want to hear a law enforcement officer say your name.

  “That’s right. What’s this all about?”

  “Gail Baker.”

  “What about her?”

  “We understand you two dated.”

  “Is that against the law?” The monkey-faced schmuck in the smock thinks he just made a funny, so he triumphantly pushes his glasses up on his nose.

  “No, sir,” says Ceepak. “However, Ms. Baker was recently murdered.”

  “What?”

  I help the dentist out: “Somebody killed her.”

  Dr. Hausler blinks a lot. “Stephanie?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Perhaps you should go home.”

  Stephanie grabs her stuff, jams it into her pocketbook, and scoots out the door.

  “Am I a suspect?” Dr. Hausler asks when the receptionist is gone.

  “Where were you last night, Dr. Hausler?” says Ceepak.

  “I am a suspect, aren’t I? Why? Because I called her a bitch and a tease?”

  “Last night?”

  “I had a date.”

  “With whom?”

  “This girl.”

  “What girl?”

  Hausler unsnaps the collar of his smock. “Her name was Amber.”

  Ceepak and I each puzzle up an eyebrow.

  “She works for an escort service. Elegant Encounters.” Dr. Hausler fumbles in his pants—the back pockets, thank God. Pulls out a wallet. “Here. This is the credit card receipt. They put the girl’s name on the receipt, but I think it might be an alias or a stage name.”

  Well, duh.

  “When did your ‘date’ begin?” asks Ceepak.

  “Eight o’clock.”

  “And when did it end?”

  I’m guessing eight-oh-two.

  “She left at three or four in the morning.”

  “Why the long night?”

  Dr. Hausler blushes.

  “We ended up in a barter situation.”

  “Come again?”

  “Her tooth was hurting her. Number fifteen on the upper right. The pulp chamber had seriously deteriorated and she desperately needed a root canal. So, we came here.”

  Why do I think Dr. Hausler gave Amber all the nitrous oxide she wanted?

  “The procedure took quite some time … and then … well … as I stated, it was a barter situation.”

  “Do you have a phone number for this Elegant Encounters agency?” asks Ceepak.

  Dr. Hausler dips back into the wallet. Pulls out a black-and-pink business card. Or, it could be one of those club cards they punch every time you buy something, like at the coffee shop; get enough hole punches, you get a freebie.

  “Elegant Encounters provides a very useful service,” Hausler goes on while Ceepak jots down the information from the card. “They cater to professional and upscale gentlemen seeking companionship—men whose lifestyles may not allow them the opportunity to meet quality people in conventional ways.”

  I figure in his spare time Dr. Hausler memorizes the portal pages to porn sites.

  “Do you know of any other men who were dating Ms. Baker?” Ceepak asks.

  “Pick up the phone book.”

  “Can you be a little more specific?”

  “Look for a rich man. Probably someone older. A lot older. Very wealthy.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Gail liked her bling. The shinier and flashier the better. On our last date, I gave her this diamond pendant necklace. Cost five thousand dollars at the Tiffany store over in Red Bank. Came in the little blue box with the bow, the whole megillah. You know what Gail said when I gave it to her?”

  We play along. Shake our heads.

  “She t
old me it was cute. That’s when I noticed her diamond earrings. They probably cost four times as much as my chintzy necklace!”

  The happy couple in the black-and-white photo behind the counter is still smiling. Dr. Hausler, not so much.

  “We’ll attempt to corroborate your story with the escort service,” says Ceepak, “and we may need to speak with you again.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  The way he says it, it sounds like he’s commenting on the state of his life, not his travel plans.

  Ceepak’s cell chirps. The personal line.

  He answers it.

  “Hello.”

  I hear a voice leaking out, and it doesn’t sound like Rita or his stepson, T.J. I know both their squawks.

  “How did you get this phone number? I see. No. It’s not a problem, Skip. I’m glad you called. That’s right. We are currently investigating her death. And, may I offer you my condolences. If memory serves, you and Gail dated a few years back.”

  Yep. Back when Skippy was a part-timer with a cell phone stuck to his ear when he should’ve been directing traffic.

  “We’re on our way.”

  He closes up the cell phone.

  “Dr. Hausler, thank you for your time.”

  “Sure. I … I …” He fumbles for words. “I’m sorry someone did what they did to Gail. She was so full of life. Now she’s dead.”

  He probably should’ve fumbled a little longer.

  Ceepak nods grimly. Gestures toward the door.

  We head out, hit the parking lot.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “Skip O’Malley. He, like Dr. Hausler, thinks Gail Baker may have been dating a wealthier, older man.”

  “Really? Who?”

  “His father.”

  17

  KING PUTT MINI GOLF IS STARTING TO GET CROWDED.

  This is where the families with kids come after they boogie-board on the beach all day, before they go out for the fifth pizza of the week. More will come after dinner, before ice cream.

  We park off to the side of the big pink pyramid, right beside the King Putt pickup truck. The door panel is painted with a bubble-nosed cartoon of the boy king in his Pharaoh hat—a green golf ball where the emerald scarab usually goes.

  As we hike across the parking lot I can see a sunburned boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts lining up his shot on hole number eleven: The Sphinx. I want to tell him to forget about aiming for the tunnel between the lion’s paws, go for the bank shot; carom your ball off the curb to the right. But he’s nine and I’m supposed to be more mature. Just ask Mrs. Starky.