Rolling Thunder

32

“I must’ve grabbed the wrong one when I left the office on Thursday night,” says Mr. O’Malley.

“And how could that happen?” asks Ceepak.

“Easy. We have a half dozen of these things sitting in chargers behind the counter at King Putt. Same make and model. We use them like walkie-talkies as we travel around town, managing our properties. Anyway, I just called Skippy at the golf course. Told him to find out who the hell had my phone Thursday night. Whoever it was, he’s your goddamn killer.”

“Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak, “while I appreciate your being candid about the embarrassing evidence on your cell phone-”

Big Paddy slides the phone down the table like he and Ceepak are playing air hockey. “Here. Take it. Maybe you can un-erase the text message whoever did this thing sent back to Gail.”

Ceepak blocks the shot. Moves the cell sideways. “Rest assured, Mr. O’Malley we will attempt to do just that. However, so far, all we have is your word that you were not in possession of this phone Thursday night into Friday morning.”

Mr. O’Malley gestures toward the sister-in-law. “That’s why Frances is here.”

The big woman crosses both arms over her chest. Her Irish, as they say, is up. She looks like she might explode.

“Frances?” says Mr. O’Malley.

“What?”

“You said you’d tell them.”

“That I did, Patrick. However, that was before I heard how you poisoned Jackie.”

“Frances, I did not kill your sister.”

“Then what’re you doing with this heart attack drug these gentlemen are talking about?” she says, flicking a hand in our general direction.

“Ms. Ryan,” says Rambowski, “as I told the police, there is no link between the potassium chloride they found in some house on-”

“Bullshit, you fucking goddamn liar!”

As my mother used to say, she has a mouth on her.

“What? You needed the damn insurance money to pay back the shylocks you borrowed from to build that monstrosity on the boardwalk? Mark my words, first nor’easter blows through town, that thing is toppling over like a house of cards made out of matchsticks!”

“Frances, I swear on my children,” says Big Paddy, “I did not kill Jackie!”

“Sure you did. You knew she was overweight and smoked and had a history of heart problems so you just nudged things along a little is what you did.”

“Ms. Ryan, if I may,” says Ceepak. “As Mr. Rambowski has pointed out numerous times, there is currently no link between Mr. O’Malley and the potassium chloride. In fact, I suspect someone may be attempting to frame your brother-in-law. To spoon feed us enough clues that we will rush to judgment and recklessly lock him away for life.”

“Who?” demands Big Paddy. “Who’s trying to set me up?”

Ceepak’s got a good poker face. Doesn’t glance over at Kevin. I would’ve.

“We can’t say for certain, sir. Not yet.” He turns to Ms. Ryan. “But tell me, Ms. Ryan, why did you come here this morning?”

“Because I’m too goddamn Catholic,” she says. “I can’t lie. Even when I want to.”

Ceepak nods. At least that part of their religious beliefs overlaps.

“I called Frances late Thursday night,” says Mr. O’Malley.

Ms. Ryan nods. “Right before midnight.”

“Then I went over to where she was staying.”

“Place called the Mussel Beach Motel.”

The two bitter enemies are completing each other’s sentences like an old married couple.

“Here is the record of that call,” says barrister Rambowski, pushing a sheet of paper across the table toward Ceepak.

“It’s on one of the other lines attached to our Verizon account. 609-555-9567.”

Ceepak studies the phone bill.

“He was drunk,” says Ms. Ryan. “Bawling his eyes out. Said he had to come see me.”

“So I drove over to the motel,” says Mr. O’Malley. “Brought a bottle of whisky.”

“We split it. Down by the pool. I called Paddy a goddamn sonofabitch for the way he treated my sister. Whoring around all over town. Jacqueline knew what Patrick was doing all those nights he didn’t come home-and it wasn’t working at the office, not in the middle of February when no one plays putt-putt, that’s for damn sure. In fact, Jackie had known about his chippies for years.”

“That’s what the trip to Buffalo was all about,” Mr. O’Malley confesses, looking down at his hands.

Frances Ryan laughs. “That night before the funeral, oh I reamed Big Paddy but good. Screamed like a banshee at him. We got so loud, we woke up the motel management. Lovely young lady named Rebecca came out in her bathrobe, told me to, and I quote, ‘shut my trap.’ Said I’d wake the dead, not to mention all their paying guests.”

“The motel manager is a friend of ours,” I say. “We’ll ask her to corroborate your story.”

“Oh, she’ll corroborate it all right,” says Frances. “I don’t think Ms. Rebecca will soon forget Paddy O’Malley and me.”

“I drove home around four in the morning,” says Big Paddy.

“After I made him a pot of coffee in my motel room. He was drunker than a skunk in a barrel of rum.”

“And why,” asks Ceepak, “did you wait until now to tell us all this?”

“Because,” says Mr. O’Malley, “my learnèd counsel advised me not to say anything to the police about any telephone calls I might’ve made on the night of Miss Baker’s murder, no matter how innocent they may have seemed. He also suggested that you gentlemen would have difficulty with my admission of drinking and driving, something, I swear, I very rarely do.”

The sister-in-law snorts out a “Ha!”

Guess she won’t lie about that, either.

“So,” says Kevin, “can we go home now? You know where dad was when Ms. Baker was murdered.”

“Please wait here,” says Ceepak standing up from the table. “My partner and I need to confer with our chief.” He turns to Big Paddy. “We will also need to call the management of the Mussel Beach Motel to confirm your whereabouts for late Thursday into Friday morning. After that, you, sir, are free to leave.”

“Thank you.”

“Awesome,” adds Kevin because I don’t think he caught the point Ceepak just made: The father may be going home, but the son who tried to set him up will probably be spending the night in jail.

“This shouldn’t take long. Danny?”

We head out the door, hit the hall.

“You buy it?” I ask when we’re out of earshot of everybody in the interview room.

“Yes. For some time now, I have sensed that Mr. O’Malley had nothing to do with either death.”

“Because so much evidence said he did?”

“So much overwhelmingly obvious evidence, Danny. It’s usually rather easy to spot a cheater. They try too hard to convince you that they’re playing fair. The business card in the shopping bag was, for me, the last straw.”

Yeah. That was definitely a lame move. If you’re trying to frame somebody, you can’t turn the framee into a complete imbecile.

“So, we’re holding Kevin for further questioning?”

Ceepak’s cell phone chirps. The personal line.

“Perhaps so,” he says, ignoring the phone burping on his belt.

“I’ll call Becca, check out the Mussel Beach story.”

“That’ll work,” says Ceepak as I whip out my cell phone.

Then I give him the pursed lips and head bob that he gave me earlier when Samantha Starky called: It’s okay for him to answer his personal phone on duty “just this one time.”

So he does.

“Hello, dear. Yes. Good. And they’re having fun?”

He steps away to get an update on T.J.’s big farewell bash.

I speed-dial Becca.

She definitely remembers Frances Ryan and Big Paddy O’Malley.

“They were boozing it up and screaming at each other until I finally went out there and threatened to call the cops. The fat one, the woman with that rat nest of carrot-colored hair, which, by the way, is a total dye job, she said, ‘May heartache and vultures gouge out your eyes.’ I think it’s an Irish curse. They were drinking Old Busmill’s and Jameson whisky-so at least their blood alcohol level was Irish.”

She confirms the alibi.

I promise to bring back the towel I borrowed. Tomorrow.

When I hang up, Ceepak is finishing with Rita.

“Right. How’s Ms. Minsky? Good to hear. Right. I’ll be in touch. Same here, dear.” He closes up the phone.

“Everything okay?”

He nods. “T.J. and friends are at the miniature golf course. Ms. Minsky is napping. Apparently, Gizmo is curled up on the bed beside her.”

And as soon as he says that, his face freezes into a solid block of focused thought.

I’ve seen the look before: Ceepak just figured everything out.