Rolling Thunder

34

We barge back into the interview room.

“Mr. O’Malley?” says Ceepak. “We need your permission to search your miniature golf establishment. Immediately.”

“What?” fumes the lawyer just because he’s a lawyer and we’re cops who asked for something. “Why?”

“We have reason to suspect that your son may be involved in the murder of Gail Baker.”

“Now wait a goddamn minute,” sputters Kevin, the only son currently in the room.

“Sorry,” says Ceepak. “I should have been more specific. Your son Skippy.”

Mr. O’Malley actually laughs. “Skippy? A murderer? Impossible. The boy’s too soft. It’s why he washed out with you guys.” He flaps a hand to take in the entirety of the Sea Haven Police Department.

Ceepak presses on: “Do we have your permission to search the King Putt premises?”

“You’re wasting your time, but sure-go ahead.”

“Be careful,” says Kevin. “Skippy’s there right now.”

Mr. O’Malley laughs. “Careful? Dealing with Skippy? Kevin-the boy’s a wuss. A washout.”

“He has guns, dad.”

“Since when?”

“Since they kicked him out of that police academy.”

Because he cheated on an exam. Skippy. Always looking for a shortcut. For somebody else to do his dirty work. Probably why he stuffed that business card in the bag with the drug bottles. Thought we’d appreciate a big hint on the final exam, too.

“Are they legal?” Big Paddy asks Kevin, as if proper gun permits are Skippy’s biggest problem right now.

“Yeah.”

“Mr. O’Malley?” Ceepak says to Kevin. “Do you know the number and type of weapons your brother may possess?”

“I know he has a couple of shotguns. Something he called FN SLPs. And a semiautomatic pistol. A Beretta.”

“What the hell is an FN SLP?” asks Mr. O’Malley.

“FN is a manufacturer and distributor of firearms including the Winchester and Browning brands,” says Ceepak while unclipping the radio unit from his belt. “SLP means self-loading police.”

“It’s the shotgun SWAT teams use,” I add, because I got to fire one the last time I was on the range.

“This is Ceepak for Detective Botzong,” he says into his handheld radio.

We wait for Botzong to respond.

“Give me the goddamn phone,” Mr. O’Malley snarls at the lawyer. “I’m going to tear that boy a new asshole.”

Ceepak holds up a hand. “No phone calls, sir.”

The lawyer actually nods. Wow. He’s on our side?

“You don’t want to tip him off, Patrick,” Rambowski mumbles. “Let these gentlemen take care of it.”

“He tried to make it look like I killed that girl and my wife!”

“Let them handle it.”

There’s a burst of static out of the radio. “This is Botzong.”

“John Ceepak.”

“What’s up?”

“We require further forensic assistance at a new location.”

“Where?”

“Ocean Avenue at Oyster Street. Miniature golf course called King Putt. We’re on our way there to apprehend a prime suspect in the murder of Ms. Gail Baker.”

“Who?”

“Mr. O’Malley’s son Skippy.”

“When do you need us there?”

“As soon as we secure the location.”

“Okay. We’ll stand by.”

“Quick question: Would the signature of the rake used to cover up the footprints near the garbage cans where the two suitcases were discovered correspond to the tines on a sand trap rake?”

“Probably. We know it wasn’t a leaf rake. Teeth were too far apart. I’ll check with Carolyn Miller. She’ll be on the go team to the golf course.”

“That’ll work. Hang tight. We hope to be back to you in five minutes.”

“Ceepak?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“Roger that.” He clips the radio back to his belt. Sticks his head out the door. “Forbus? Bonanni?”

Officers Jen and Nikki, gun belts jangling, hustle into the room.

“Sir?” says Jen Forbus.

“Stay with these gentlemen. They are not to make any phone calls or leave this room until we confirm that we have our suspect in custody.”

“We’re gonna make the collar?” I ask.

“We’ll call for all available units, but I’d like to be the first unit on the scene, Danny.”

Right.

The golf course. King Putt.

The place where T.J. and his buddies went for that Farewell to Sea Haven party.