Tilt-a-Whirl

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ifigure Ceepak is totally pissed at me.

We're sitting in the car in the driveway with the engine shut off, so that means the AC is off too and the temperature is 110 inside the Explorer thanks to the sun everybody comes down here to worship.

Ceepak's not saying anything. Not telling me where to drive next. He's just sitting there, staring out the windshield at those ugly pompon poodle bushes.

“Tell me what you saw,” he says after what feels like four hours of slow roasting in the Ford E-Z Bake Oven.

“Inside? With them?”

“At the fence.”

“You mean the hole?”

“This lid. This plywood lid you say you saw.”

“Oh. Okay. Sure. It was, you know, a square. Probably two feet by two feet. It was covered with sand, from where the sweeper raked over it….”

“What was the condition of said tunnel?”

“It was only like three feet long. Enough to scoot under the fence.”

“How deep?”

“Foot or two.”

“And the bottom?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it loose? Packed down?”

“Packed down.”

“Like people had been crawling in and out every day?”

“Yeah.”

Ceepak nods.

“You see why this should be considered important?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry.”

Ceepak nods again. I don't think he ever loses his temper. I wish he would. This quiet routine gives me too much time to realize just how royally I screwed up.

“Notice anything else that might be important?”

“At the beach?”

“Or anywhere. Take your time.”

Okay. Now I'm actually kind of pissed at him for staying so calm, cool and collected. At least when my dad's mad he screams at me and I get a pretty colorful and complete description of what I did wrong. Not with Ceepak. Maybe he wants me to stew in my own juices, go to my room and think about it, all that kind of crap. Well, screw him.

Did I notice anything else that might be important?

I suddenly recall the rust marks I saw on the wall in the men's room at The Pancake Palace, maybe because Ashley said the crazy guy with the gun smelled like pee-pee and maybe my astute observation could also be considered urine-related.

Then I remember the perfume.

“The lawyer? Cynthia Stone?”

“Yes?”

“She smelled like that perfume. The Victoria's Secret stuff.”

“Interesting.”

“You think she was there? At the Tilt-A-Whirl?”

“It's a possibility.”

I do the head-bob nod this time, like I've figured something out.

“But,” Ceepak says, “the more likely scenario is that the odor emanated from Mr. Hart's own clothing, suggesting he had contact with Ms. Stone earlier in the morning or late last night. Perhaps they were romantically involved. Good work, Danny.”

I can tell he means it, too.

“Thanks.”

He flips through his notes.

“Possibly our ‘crazy man’ was a tenant at some point in one of Mr. Hart's buildings … or knows someone who was.”

“On account of what he said to Ashley about her father being a slumlord.”

“Presents us with a long list of names to check….”

“Thousands.”

“We can also conjecture that the perpetrator used a semi-automatic weapon.”

“Because he had to keep squeezing the trigger?”

“Exactly.”

That one was pretty easy, but I smile anyhow. I'm starting to feel better.

Ceepak looks at his watch. It's 2:45 P.M. My shift is supposed to end at three but I'm willing to work overtime if it will help dig me out of the hole I think I dug for myself when I forgot to tell Ceepak about the lid over that other hole.

“I want to see Officer Kiger. The officer on beach patrol this A.M. …”

“Sure. No problem. I'm cool with pulling some O.T., won't even put in for it….”

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“You're not in trouble. You made an honest mistake. You should have told me about the trapdoor, but you did not. Now, however, you have, so we move forward. I harbor no resentments. We all make mistakes. That's why my pencil has an eraser. I make mistakes too.”

“Yeah. Okay. Cool.”

“Now then, do you know where Officer Kiger lives?”

“Adam? Sure.”

Ceepak checks his watch again.

“I suppose this is when he typically sleeps.”

“Too bad,” I say, feeling juiced. “Let's go wake him up.”

“Roger that.”

I crank the ignition and blast on the air conditioner.

Ceepak is staring out the window, mumbling. I can barely hear him over the fan blowing cold air into my face.

“‘The greasers they tramp the streets or get busted for trying to sleep on the beach all night….’”

He's quoting Springsteen again. Now I know why he wants to see Kiger.

If Adam drives up and down the beach in his ATV every morning looking for vagrants, chances are he's met the greasers who frequent the Tilt-A-Whirl. He's busted a few tramps “trying to sleep on the beach all night.”

Maybe even the ones in charge of under-the-fence-tunnel maintenance.

On the ride over to Kiger's place, the chief radios to let us know that the State CSI team is at Betty Bell's beach bungalow retrieving Reginald Hart's computer and briefcase.

“You'll be happy to hear Lieutenant Slominsky is no longer with them,” the chief says. “He went home a little early….”

“How's that?”

“We got lucky, I guess.”

“Did you make a few calls?”

“Maybe one or two.”

“Roger that. Do we know where Ms. Stone is staying? Hart's lawyer?”

“Chesterfields-a hoity-toity place in town. Don't worry. We'll keep her on a short leash.”

“Check. We're heading over to talk to Kiger. See if he's ever bumped into our suspect.”

“Give Adam my best when you wake him up.”

“Roger that.”

“Squeegee,” Adam Kiger says when he looks at the sketch of our suspect.

We did, indeed, wake him up. But we stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts on the way over and the black coffee was, as advertised, “just the thing.” Especially since we also grabbed Adam a couple of those cakey chocolate doughnuts I know he loves.

“Yeah. That's Squeegee. I mean it sure looks like him.”

Adam wolfs down a hunk of doughnut.

“You've rousted him before?” Ceepak asks, folding up his copy of the sketch.

“A few times. He likes to crawl under the fence there at the Tilt-A-Whirl. A lot of our local druggies do the same thing. That's why I never took away their trapdoor or filled in the tunnel. Makes it easy to find ’em.”

“Check,” Ceepak says.

“One-stop shopping.” Adam chomps off some more doughnut. “Like a big roach motel.”

Adam Kiger is a little older than me, younger than Ceepak. He's been full time with the Sea Haven police for three or four years. He has the short, shaved-head haircut. The muscles. He and Ceepak look like cops.

“They the only ones who sneak in there? The users?”

“In the morning. Late nights, you get your high school and college kids looking for a dark place to make out. They crawl under the fence, too. But that's more a night-shift problem. Some guys catch all the luck. They get lovers’ lane, I get the pharmaceuticals convention.”

“So why do you call him Squeegee?”

“He used to work at the car wash sometimes. You know the place-just off Ocean Avenue?”

“Cap'n Scrubby's?” I say.

Ceepak rolls his eyes. I don't think he'll ever get used to the cutesy-poo nautical names in Sea Haven.

“Yeah,” Adam says. “Scrubby's. Squeegee used to be one of the towel guys at the end of the line working for tips. He'd rub down the inside of your vehicle, swipe his towel around your seat cushions, wipe the water off your windows….”

“Like a squeegee.” Ceepak gets it.

“Right. And he was so skinny, the name kind of stuck. He looks like a long, skinny pole….”

“Have you seen him lately?”

“About a week ago I did a swing by the Tilt-A-Whirl, gave him a wake-up call. It was raining, so he and a few of his buddies were up in the turtles. They use the ride for a shooting gallery because all the cars have those roof deals up top. You know, where the turtle necks stick out? Makes an excellent crash pad. Roof keeps ’em dry.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

“Up and down the beach. No known address. We don't even know his real name.”

“Check. So what happened this morning?”

“Approximately 0630, I get called off the beach. Had to go deal with that stupid tricycle theft up on Rosewood.”

“Right.”

“Missed all the fireworks.”

“Have you ever seen your friend Squeegee carrying a weapon?”

“What? A gun? Knife?”

“Perhaps a semi-automatic pistol? Maybe nine-millimeter?”

“Not that I ever saw. But I wouldn't put it past him. For a longhaired hippie, Squeegee's sort of short on ‘peace, love, and understanding.’ He is one angry old dude. Extremely confrontational. Paranoid. Thinks everything is a Republican plot against him. Always gives me grief when I wake him up.”

“How so?”

“He's just a nasty hunk of humanity. Called me a ‘lackey tool of the capitalist pigs.’ Got up in my face real close, made me smell the sour booze on his breath. Liked to hiss stuff at me, like he was some kind of snake.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“‘Stupid slumlord stooge.’ Stuff like that.”

Slumlord. We're hearing that word a lot today.