Rolling Thunder

20

“I wonder if the personal trainer lawyered up, too,” I say as we cruise back toward the house.

“It would be his right, Danny, and, even when innocent, an advisable move.”

Ceepak. The guy not only plays by the rules, he thinks they’re there for a reason besides making me wake up way too early on a Saturday morning.

“Before we talk to Mr. Charzuk,” says Ceepak, “let’s swing by Tangerine Street. See if the residents of number one are home tonight.”

I’m at the wheel, so I keep us headed south on Beach Lane when we hit Cherry, the street where the municipal buildings and stationhouse are all clustered together. We roll through a forest of alphabetical tree-named streets and come to the corner of Tangerine.

The lights are not on in number one.

“Let’s go knock on the door,” says Ceepak.

Sure. Maybe they go to bed early. Like right after watching Jeopardy at seven P.M.

We head up the steps to the porch.

“The statues are gone,” I mumble.

Ceepak pulls the Maglite off his utility belt, flicks it on. Swings the beam across the shrubbery clumped around the small landing. Guess he’s looking for tiny footprints. Maybe the gnomes all magically came to life last night and scurried away.

There’s a burst of static on my radio.

“This is Diego for Ceepak and Boyle,” comes a crackle out of the speaker.

I tug the thing off my belt.

“This is Boyle. Go ahead.”

“Hey, Danny. Found what you guys were looking for. That house on Tangerine? Number one, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, it’s owned by a corporation called Stromboli Enterprises.”

“You’re kidding me, right? Stromboli?”

“Hang on. Let’s put a smile on that face.”

She’s quoting The Dark Knight again.

“There’s more. This is why it took me, like, longer than five seconds to do a real estate title search. I had to dig through a sack of S-Corp crap to find some names. Here we go: Bruno Mazzilli is the CEO of Stromboli. Keith Barent Johnson is the chief operating officer. Hey, doesn’t Mazzilli, like, own all the boardwalks?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Denise.”

“And Johnson’s a big cheese, too, am I right?”

“Affirmative,” I say with a sigh.

“Thought so. You guys need anything else tonight?”

Ceepak motions for me to hand him my radio.

“Denise? We are going to need a subpoena,” says Ceepak. “For Mr. O’Malley’s phone records. The number corresponding to the one you ID’d on Gail Baker’s bill.”

“Yeah. Figured as much. It’s already in the works.”

“How long has this Stromboli Enterprises been the owner of number One Tangerine Street?”

“Um … four years. It’s listed as an asset of the corporation. They have a couple of cars, too. Mustang convertibles. Sounds like a good place to work. Lots of perks. Probably free food.”

“Thank you. Go home, Denise. Grab some shut-eye. I have a feeling we’ll be running you ragged tomorrow as well.”

“Saturday?”

“Yes. I’m afraid so.”

“Cool. There’s nothing on TV except baseball and infomercials about Snuggies. Hey, as soon as the O’Malley paperwork comes back from the judge, I’ll let you know.”

“Roger that.” Ceepak hands me back the radio. “We are quite fortunate to have Ms. Diego on our team.”

I nod, kind of absent-mindedly, because the hamster wheel in my head is spinning. Well, it’s creaking like a rusty bicycle chain. I don’t feed my hamsters enough sugar water.

“What’s on your mind, Danny?” says Ceepak, making me think my mental gym equipment is squeaking out my ears.

“Mr. Mazzilli, the CEO of this shell company-Stromboli Enterprises-he was with Marny Minsky last Saturday at Big Kahuna’s, which just happens to be owned by Stromboli’s COO, Keith Barent Johnson.”

Ceepak nods. He can sense I am attempting to make a logical deduction. I’m kind of new at it so it’s slow going. He’s patient. He’ll wait.

“Gail Baker was also at the club, with a group of girlfriends. Gail and Marny were all air-kissy. Mazzilli saw the two of them in their mini-dresses, hugging like that, and he looked like, well, he looked …”

I’m trying to think of a grownup word for “horny.”

“… lascivious! The two girls were in really short, really tight skirts. Showing lots of thigh.”

“What did you see Danny?”

I want to say “too much” but resist the urge.

“I saw Mr. Mazzilli whisper something naughty to Marny, who then whispered to Gail. She laughed. Shook her head. Mr. Mazzilli said, ‘Live a little.’ Gail said, ‘Not tonight.’ Mazzilli said he wanted a ‘rain check.’”

“What do you suppose Mr. Mazzilli whispered to Ms. Minsky?”

“I dunno. Something lewd. I think he wanted, you know, both girls. A three-way. And Gail didn’t seem upset by the suggestion. She just didn’t want to do it that night.”

“Have you seen Ms. Minsky since Saturday, Danny?”

“No. We should check with Bud. See if she’s been back to the club.”

“Agreed. Ms. Minsky and Ms. Baker were close?”

“Yeah. Looked like it.”

And Mazzilli wanted to see them closer. Probably here. Number one Tangerine. The pornographic garden statues were supposed to help the girls get in the mood for a little frisky fun.

“I think this is Mr. Mazzilli’s love shack,” I blurt out. “I think he and Mr. Johnson bring their girlfriends, their mistresses, their goomahs here instead of The Smuggler’s Cove.”

The Cove is our local Motel No-Tell. You can get hourly rates on the room even if, like most guys, you only need three minutes.

“So,” says Ceepak, picking up on my logic thread, flimsy as it is, “you hypothesize that, at a later date, perhaps Thursday night, Mr. Mazzilli once again made his proposal to the two young ladies.”

“And don’t forget, we have the Mazzilli-O’Malley connection.”

“Indeed. They are partners on the roller coaster.”

“Maybe, if Gail and Mr. O’Malley were texting each other, having an affair like Skippy suggested, Mazzilli knew about it. Wanted to be partners on that, too. Maybe he wanted a four-way.”

My stomach lurches up into my mouth at the thought of two flabby middle-aged men-undoubtedly with muffin tops around their bellies-rolling in the hay with taut and tawny Gail and Marny.

But I soldier on.

“Maybe the four of them came here. One thing leads to another, Gail ends up dead, and Marny, afraid she’s next, hightails it out of town.”

“Interesting,” says Ceepak.

“It’s just a hunch,” I say. “A wild idea.”

Ceepak nods. He knew that’s what it was.

“We need to search this house!”

“What would be searching for?” Ceepak asks.

“Evidence!”

“Danny, the Fourth Amendment requires that searches be specific and reasonable.”

I think Ceepak should run for president-he’s an expert on constitutional law, too.

“As you know,” he continues in his calm, professorial tone, the one he uses whenever I make a bone-headed suggestion, “a judge will only approve our request for a warrant if we are specific as to the items we are searching for and prove that probable cause exists that the specific item will be located in a specific place at the time the warrant would be executed.”

“Unless it’s in plain view,” I toss in. “Then we don’t need a warrant to seize it.”

“Only if we are legally in the location at the time the item is seen.”

Bummer.

Ceepak glances at his watch. He knows Gail’s personal trainer will be at the house in half an hour. “What do you suggest, Danny?”

“Let’s look around a little. We’ve got time. See if we can see anything out in the open.”

“Such as?”

“I dunno. Gail’s missing Sugar Babies T-shirt?”

“Very well. Let’s take a quick look around.”

“Can we look through the windows?”

“Negative.”

Yeah. I guess it’s not considered plain view if you climb up on each other’s shoulders to sneak a peek.

So we head down the porch steps and stroll through the manicured pebble lawn.

“Let’s circle around back,” I say.

Ceepak nods.

I’m hoping there’s a clothesline where Mr. Mazzilli might’ve hung his blood-soaked cabana outfit.

We head up the alleyway of concrete pavers that runs between Mr. Mazzilli’s place and the neighbor’s. The sun’s low in the west, sinking down on the bay side of the island, so its fading beams are blocked by Mrs. D’Ambrosio’s two-story house next door and the PVC fence on the borderline between the properties. It’s kind of dark. Hard to see where we’re walking. I knee something wobbly. Glass bottles jingle.

“Sorry.”

Seems I accidentally bumped into that booze bottle recyclables barrel that somebody dragged back here-probably when they came over to hide the lewd lawn ornaments.

The rattling bottles and cans startle Puck. We hear yippy barks on the other side of the fence.

“Interesting,” says Ceepak.

Yeah. This walkway must pass a window where Puck likes to snooze. Was somebody else back here very early this morning? Is that what made him start barking up a storm at three A.M. when every dog I’ve ever met is usually sound asleep on the living room couch or curled up in their master’s favorite chair?

Ceepak flicks on his Maglite and spotlights the outdoor shower built up against the fence that I noticed earlier.

It’s really just the Jersey Shore equivalent of an outhouse, even behind the most expensive home on the block. Typically, you have your white-washed tongue-and-groove walls, an elevated cedar deck for a floor, and a drain that dumps water on the sandy soil that’ll drink anything it can get, even if it’s soapy.

Ceepak swings his light down to the bottom of the propped-open door. There’s a cinder block acting as a doorstop, maybe so the inside will dry out, keep down the mildew and toe fungus grunge.

We move closer.

Peer through the open door.

In plain view we both plainly see two things: a bottle of No More Tears No More Tangles Plus Conditioner for Straight Hair and a green bar of Irish Spring soap.

Time to call Bill Botzong and the state CSI crew.

I think we just found where the shampoo and soap residue came from.