Rolling Thunder

25

“Would you like more water?” asks Ceepak.

Marny shakes her head. The blonde coils bounce. “No, thank you.”

It’s a little after six in the morning and we’re sitting in a booth as far from the windows as we can get at the Bagel Lagoon. The Coglianese brothers open their place early every day; bakers always do. Marny has barely touched her cinnamon-raisin with a schmear of cream cheese. She is wearing my navy blue POLICE windbreaker like a vinyl sack but is still shivering, and not because she’s cold.

Rita’s at the counter talking to Joe and Jim about Marny and how important it is for them to forget they ever saw her.

The brothers nod. They dig Ceepak and Rita, their upstairs neighbors. They also look juiced about keeping a secret, playing cops with us.

Me? I’m a little tired from snoozing in the chair with one eye open all night, but I’m happy Marny is safe. She looks more wiped out than me. Pooped. Still, Ceepak needs to ask her a few questions.

“Was Mayor Sinclair ever present at the house?”

“Yeah. A couple times. He liked the hot tub. I was with him one night. Bruno asked me to, you know, show him a good time. This was back when Bruno, Mr. Mazzilli, wanted to buy that burned-down pier for the roller coaster him and Mr. O’Malley wanted to build.”

Ceepak nods. Guess he understands New Jersey politics. Guess we all do. You grease the wheel. Let people dip their beaks. That’s why you see so many of our elected officials perp-walking into court with handcuffs on their wrists and raincoats over their heads.

“Tell us about Mr. O’Malley.”

“He was kind of bossy at the house,” says Marny. “Told me I was getting chubby this one time when my face was bloated after a heavy night of partying. He could also be very generous. Gave Gail a ton of money to buy better clothes. He had a thing for lingerie, too. I think he runs a tab at Victoria’s Secret. And, he bought her, like, a ten-pack of personal training sessions she couldn’t afford so she wouldn’t get fat.”

“Were Mr. O’Malley and the mayor close?”

“How do you mean?”

“When the mayor dropped by the house on Tangerine Street, was Mr. O’Malley with him?”

“I don’t think so. No. It was Bruno and Mr. Johnson and the guy who owns the newspaper. He was there. Said I could make a ton of money modeling swimsuits for local stores like Teeny’s Bikinis and offered to give me an audition.”

Yeah. Right. A private audition, I’m sure.

“Did you ever see the mayor with Mr. O’Malley?”

“No. But Gail might’ve. You could ask-”

She realizes what she almost said.

Her eyes tear up.

“I’m sorry.”

Ceepak reaches across the table. Gently puts his gigantic hand on top of Marny’s tiny one. “Ms. Minsky-what happened is not your fault.”

“I got her into this.…”

“Perhaps. But you did not kill her.”

“Who did?”

“We can’t say for certain. Not yet. However, Danny and I intend to find out.”

“We better get busy,” I say, standing up. It’s time for us to hit the house, put on our uniforms, climb into a police car, and go nab the bad guys. Once we, of course, figure out who that might be.

Rita comes to the table with a white paper bag.

“I got us some cold cuts,” she says to Marny. “We can make sandwiches later-after you wake up from your nap. I put fresh sheets on our bed. Oh, and I found a pair of jeans that’ll probably fit. Plus, I’ve got all sorts of blouses and shirts and stuff. If you need anything else, T.J., that’s our son, he’ll run out and buy it before he heads off to this going-away party a couple of his buddies are throwing for him.”

“Where’s he going?” asks Marny, sounding like the twenty-four year old kid she actually is.

“Annapolis!” says Rita, beaming over at Ceepak who beams back. “He’s going to be an officer.”

“And a gentleman,” I add because I like that movie.

“Awesome,” says Marny, momentarily brightening.

“You’ll be safe upstairs in our home,” says Ceepak.

“You sure will,” says Rita. “So relax. Finish your breakfast. Oh, I got you some chocolate milk.”

“Danny?” Ceepak gestures that it’s time for us to go.

I toss my once-bitten bagel in the trash, follow him to the counter.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” he says to the Coglianese brothers.

“Fuhgeddaboutit,” says Joe, the one in charge of stirring the bobbing bagels in a boiling vat with a giant wooden canoe paddle. “Anybody tries to go upstairs what shouldn’t, they got to get past me and my paddle!”

Ceepak and I head out to the parking lot and hop into my Jeep.

“How come you had so many questions for Marny about the mayor?” I ask when we’re both seatbelted in.

“In examining Mr. O’Malley’s phone records, Denise Diego ID’ed a phone call to Mayor Sinclair’s home phone number at three fifteen yesterday morning.”

“Right after the dog barked?”

“Affirmative. And, using GPS coordinates triangulated from cell towers, we were able to pinpoint the location where Mr. O’Malley made the phone call.”

“Where?” I ask even though I don’t really have to.

“One forty-five Tangerine Street. The house where we found the two suitcases.”

Seven o’clock on the dot, we enter the King Putt pyramid.

Skippy, looking very sleepy, is already on the job and has to undo the lock at the bottom of the front door to let us in. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to wear his chariot skirt and breastplate until the miniature golf course opens around ten.

“Hi, you guys,” he says, sounding kind of glum. “Dad and Kevin are upstairs with the lawyer.”

That would be their oily shyster Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski. I wondered why the floor felt so slippery.

Skippy trudges back behind the counter to buff the shiny heads of a hundred putters and inventory his balls.

There I go again.

“They brought you guys doughnuts,” says Skippy.

“Very considerate,” says Ceepak.

We climb the spiral staircase to the office.

When we hit the top of the steps, I see Mr. O’Malley seated in a plush rolling chair, feet up on his desk a dozen box of “Donut Connection” glazed and sprinkled treats near his shoes.

Bad idea.

Not the donuts, the shoes.

He’s wearing those white bucks again, and I’m thinking he buys Shine Rite Shoe Polish in bottles the size of milk jugs. He sees us come in, pulls down his dogs, sits up straight.

“Officers,” he says. “Good morning.” He gestures toward the open pastry box. “Hungry?”

“Not really,” says Ceepak.

“I ate a late dinner,” I add.

We sit down in the two visitor chairs fronting the desk.

“This is my father’s lawyer,” says Kevin O’Malley, pacing around the back of the desk, pointing to a bald man in a very natty suit leaning against a credenza, both arms crossed over his barrel chest. “Louis Rambowski.”

The lawyer looks like he has his bald head buffed on a regular basis. Maybe Skippy lent him a putter rag. Or maybe Mr. O’Malley has one of those stand-up shoe polishers for his white bucks and Rambowski bent over to use it this morning.

Now he stands up from his casual leaning pose. Smoothes out his lapels.

“Officers,” he starts in, using his silky smooth courtroom voice, “let me just say that my client has every intention of cooperating with your investigation.” He smiles. The way crocodiles do. “In fact, it is in Mr. O’Malley’s best interest to help you in any way possible because, when you locate and apprehend the true perpetrator, he will be completely exonerated.”

He gestures that we may proceed.

So Ceepak does.

“Mr. O’Malley, why would the deceased, Ms. Gail Brewer make …” He glances at his notepad. “Fifteen separate phone calls to you in the week prior to her death?”

“Who says she did?” asks barrister Rambowski.

“Verizon,” I say as snottily as I can and still be a cop.

“I’ll answer that,” says Mr. O’Malley, smiling magnanimously. “She needed business advice. Ms. Baker, who was employed as a low-paid waitress at a restaurant called The Rusty Scupper, had bigger ambitions. In fact, she dreamed of opening her own restaurant some day.”

“She came to Dad seeking business advice,” says Kevin.

“And,” says the lawyer, “a business loan.”

All three of them are smiling like first graders in the Christmas pageant who memorized all their lines and recited them without making one single mistake or pooping their pants.

“As you may know,” Rambowski continues, “Mr. O’Malley is quite active with the Junior Achievement Program at the local high school, a program that teaches economics and entrepreneurship and that nurtures the business leaders of tomorrow.”

“That’s where Dad first met Ms. Baker,” says Kevin, who, I have a feeling, is the one who concocted this lame script. “When she was in high school.”

Ceepak does not seem impressed. “Why did Ms. Baker send you a text message just after midnight on the day of her death?”

The lawyer raises a hand to object. “Is that what your phone records indicate?”

Well, duh.

“Twelve-oh-five A.M.,” says Ceepak. “What did she text you about?”

“I don’t recall,” Mr. O’Malley says with just the hint of a smug smile.

“You don’t remember?”

“I don’t recall.”

“Perhaps you should check your phone. Reread her message.”

“Excuse me,” says the lawyer, “do you have a warrant to search my client’s cell phone or just his usage records?”

“The records.”

“Then why are you badgering him about showing you the actual phone?” Louis looks like he knows he’s going to win again.

“I’m sorry,” says Mr. O’Malley. “I get a million texts every day. I can’t recall the content of each and every one.”

“That is why,” says Ceepak, “I’m suggesting that you open your phone and reread the text at this time.”

“When you get a warrant, perhaps he will,” says the lawyer, puffing out his bulldog chest. “Next question.”

Ceepak flips forward in his notebook.

“Why, Mr. O’Malley, did you call Mayor Sinclair at three fifteen A.M. yesterday?”

“What?” Kevin and his dad say it at the same time. Looks like they don’t have a prerecorded answer for this one.

“I’m sorry,” says Ceepak, “perhaps my question was unclear.”

So he repeats it. Using the exact same words.

“I did no such thing!” says Mr. O’Malley.

“The phone company’s records indicate otherwise.”

“Impossible.”

“The same phone that received the text message from Ms. Baker at twelve-oh-five A.M. was also used to call Mayor Hugh Sinclair’s home phone number at three-fifteen A.M. NOW, according to the medical examiner, Ms. Baker was killed at approximately one A.M. That would give you plenty of time to receive her text, arrange a meeting, kill her, dispose of the body, and then call the mayor.”

“Is that an accusation, officer?” asks Rambowski.

“It is, currently, a hypothesis.”

Mr. O’Malley turns to Kevin. “Look into this. The phone thing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ceepak flips forward another page.

“Why did you take Ms. Baker to the house on Tangerine Street?”

“I’m sorry,” says Rambowski with a chuckle. “You’ll need to be more specific.…”

“Number One Tangerine. A home owned by Stromboli Enterprises, a holding company headed, Mr. O’Malley, by your business partner Bruno Mazzilli.”

“Excuse me,” says the lawyer, “do you have any proof that my client was ever present at said location?”

“Yes,” says Ceepak. “We have a witness.”

“Who?” snaps Kevin.

“Someone who was there at the same time as your father and Ms. Baker.”

“Who?”

“We are not at liberty to divulge the witness’s name.”

“That’s it,” says Rambo the lawyer, “we’re done here. Take your donuts and go. This ends our voluntary participation in your witch hunt.”

Up comes Mr. O’Malley’s hand to silence his attorney. “Hang on, Louie. Did you say number One Tangerine, officer?”

Ceepak nods.

“I remember now.”

Kevin’s shaking his head. Looks like Dad is about to go rogue. Cook up his own lies.

“I took Ms. Baker there to meet Bruno, that is, Mr. Mazzilli. She needed financing and Stromboli Enterprises is always looking for interesting new ventures, especially anything involving seasonal eating establishments. I thought the two of them should meet.”

Right. It was a Junior Achievement field trip. To the hot tub.

Ceepak flips forward another page in his book.

“Mr. O’Malley, why did your late wife fly to Buffalo, New York, two years ago?”

“What?”

“Why did she fly to Buffalo, New York?”

“You’re out of bounds officer,” says Rambowski.

“Mr. O’Malley?” says Ceepak, ignoring the lawyer.

“Buffalo is where Jackie’s sister lives. She, I don’t remember … Jackie might’ve gone there two years ago … just to visit. Was it around the holidays?”

Ceepak nods. “November.”

“Okay,” says Mr. O’Malley. “Two years ago. Yeah. She did Thanksgiving at her sister’s place. Took Mary with her. I took the boys to Morgan’s Surf and Turf.”

“How is any of this relevant?” asks the lawyer.

My turn to arch an eyebrow because I don’t know where Ceepak’s going with this.

He turns to me. “Sorry, Danny. I failed to mention this new piece of evidence earlier. I’m afraid I was too intently focused on securing the safety of our star witness.”

I shrug. Whatever. I’m cool.

“What the hell are you trying to pull here?” demands Rambowski. “Surprise evidence? Secret star witnesses? You watch too much TV, Officer.

“Perhaps so,” says Ceepak. “However, be that as it may, earlier this morning, Continental Airlines was able to extrapolate enough information from the luggage tag remnants the State Police Major Crimes Unit removed from the handles of the two rolling suitcases containing Ms. Baker’s dismembered body.”

“And?”

“Those were your late wife’s suitcases, Mr. O’Malley.”