Tilt-a-Whirl

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I think every vehicle in the county with any kind of flashing light bar on its roof is parked in a circle around the train depot.

Ashley is covered with a thick wool blanket and sitting in the back of an open ambulance while a doctor and nurse check her out. Her mom is with her on the little bed, hugging her. The kid was in pretty good shape when we kicked down the door and rescued her: She was sitting on an old steamer trunk with her hands tied behind her back and her ankles handcuffed together so she couldn't run. Fortunately, Squeegee didn't tie the knots too tight, so Ashley didn't have rope burn on her wrists. The handcuffs securing her legs were pretty loose, too. They didn't pinch into her ankles at all.

Ashley was, however, still wearing the skimpy outfit she'd been forced to put on for the Polaroid. It's why she's wrapped up in the blanket now.

The chief had some of the guys set up a perimeter so the reporters who raced up here behind all the police cars and fire trucks could be held at bay. The TV klieg lights are making it feel like high noon, even though it's closer to midnight.

I see Ceepak over near a black sedan, talking to Morgan. They're nodding at each other. I guess the FBI agent understands-sometimes you have to shoot a guy in order to stop him from molesting more kids.

The chief looks happier than I've ever seen him. Completely free of acid indigestion. He's bouncing around, shaking hands with everybody he bumps into. He struts over to the reporters and TV cameras to make a statement, looking like the football coach who just won the big game. Mayor Sinclair is beside him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the chief says, “I am pleased to report that, thanks to the diligent efforts of some very brave Sea Haven police officers and the FBI's Critical Incident Response Group, Ashley Hart is going home. She's safe. Unharmed. She's doing great.”

“Do you have the kidnapper?

“Did he shoot Ashley's father?”

“Did he confess? To the murder of Reginald Hart?”

The chief holds up his beefy right paw to calm the crowd.

“We do not have all the answers. Unfortunately, the kidnapper died in tonight's fire and explosion at the old Palace Hotel….”

“How'd the fire start?”

“We're not certain, but we suspect arson,” the chief says.

“Are the crimes related? The arson, the kidnapping, the murder?”

“I really can't speculate about that at this time….”

“Was it just a coincidence? That the kidnapper happened to be in the hotel when an arsonist burned it down?”

“As I said, I am not in a position to speculate on those matters at this time. An investigation is ongoing. The fire department is on the scene, working the hotel. State arson investigators are on their way as well. We hope to have more answers for you folks ASAP. But right now-well, I'm just damn glad we got Ashley! She's safe, folks! She's going home!”

“And,” the mayor steps up to the microphones, “tomorrow is Monday! A sunderful new week begins here in Sea Haven. We're thinking of throwing a big beach party to celebrate Ashley's homecoming! Free refreshments….”

The reporters ignore him.

“Chief? When can we see Ashley? Can we talk to her? How's her mother holding up?”

“Guys? Come on. Give the kid a break….”

“There she goes!”

One reporter points and all the cameras swing to see what he's pointing at.

Ashley, covered in the blanket, walks with her mother to their Mercedes sedan, surrounded by a crowd of state and local police. Looks like they'll be traveling home in their very own motorcade.

Ashley's in such good shape, I guess she doesn't need to go to the hospital.

She just needs to go home.

I walk over to where somebody has set up a folding table with food and drinks.

Hey, what's a successful end to a manhunt without a few snacks and cold beverages?

Unfortunately, there's no beer in the Igloo cooler, just Pepsi. I looked.

“Boyle?”

It's the chief.

“Yes, sir?”

“Good work.”

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong, son?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You look like somebody just shot your dog.”

Nope. No dogs were harmed in this evening's activities. Just this one homeless guy. Jerry, a.k.a. Squeegee. A guy who gave his girlfriend his favorite shirt because she was cold.

“Listen, son-Ceepak did what he had to do. He did what needed to be done.”

“Do you know what he did, sir?”

“No. And I don't need to know any details. The end justifies whatever means he deemed necessary, understand?”

No. Not really.

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“You want to be a cop, you have to come to peace with this sort of thing. The greater good, Boyle. The greater good.” He's actually wagging his finger at me. “The Greater Good.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How's Ceepak holding up?”

“Okay, I guess. Considering.”

“Yeah,” the chief sucks in a chestful of night air. “Rough duty whenever you bring a man down. There will be an investigation. They'll want to ask you a bunch of questions. How did the fire get started? What happened to your suspect? Why didn't you apprehend him prior to the conflagration? That sort of thing. They might even recover the bullet … provided they find the body.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think you can handle it, son?”

“I hope so.”

“You just need to give the right answers. It's actually pretty easy to do. Tell you what, when you're ready to go over your story, work up the details of what you remember, come see me, okay?”

“Thank you, sir.”

Great. I never had a Code or anything but, on the other hand, I've never intentionally lied about something this big before, either.

Now, it seems like lying is going to become part of my job.

I go looking for Ceepak.

Hey, I'm still on the company dime and it's my job to drive the guy home.

Tomorrow?

I'll probably start the sunny, funderful new week by quitting. Or at least asking for a new assignment. I've decided I don't want to be the hitman's chauffeur any longer. And I hope the department can whitewash their internal investigation without me, because if they ask me any questions, I will tell them no lies.

“You seen Ceepak?” I ask this state cop standing guard outside the baggage hut.

“Inside.”

I walk in and find him on his hands and knees studying the floorboards.

“You ready to head home?”

“In a second.”

“Still looking for evidence?”

“Roger that.”

“I thought the case was closed.”

Ceepak doesn't respond.

“Was he wearing boots?”

“Excuse me?”

“Squeegee. Was he wearing boots?”

“Of course. Timberlands.”

“Unh-hunh. Find anything interesting in here?”

Ceepak stands up and walks to a dark corner.

“Ice chest.”

He squeaks off the styrofoam lid.

“Filled with Milky Ways, water bottles, a turkey-and-brie sandwich….”

“Squeegee treated her pretty good.”

“Danny, your friend Joey T.? The guy who sweeps the beach. Do you know where we might find him?”

“Tonight?”

“Is that doable?”

“He's probably sleeping. His shift starts at like five or six in the morning.”

“I see. Did he work today?”

“No. They usually get Sundays off.”

“Come again?”

“They usually get Sundays off.”

“They don't rake the sand on Sundays?”

How many times are we both going to say the same damn thing?

“They used to. Then there were these budget cuts. Joey does a major sweep on Saturday, gets Sundays off, hits the beach again first thing Monday morning….”

“Awesome! Do you know when he empties the hopper?”

“The what?”

“The bin where the surf-rake stows its trash. When does he typically empty it? Pre-sweep or post-shift?”

“How the hell would I know that?”

“Right. I just thought….”

“Do you want to go wake up Joey T.? Ask him when he dumps his load?”

“No. I'll catch him at 0500. Does he park his gear at the municipal garage?”

“Yeah.”

“Terrific. You up for some O.T., Danny? I'd like to check in with your friend before first light … before he sweeps the beach again.”

“I'm feeling kind of bummed, you know what I mean?”

“Sure.”

“I've never actually been that close to an actual execution. Never been in the building when a man was gunned down by the firing squad. So tonight? I think I need to get shit-faced. I think I need to stay up drinking ’til three or four in the morning and get drunker than I've ever been before. Who knows? Maybe I'll even go home and slap some snot-nosed brats around in the basement or something.”

I hope it sounds as nasty as I mean it to.

Ceepak's eyes show that hurt again.

Good.

“We'll touch base tomorrow,” he says.

“Whatever. You want me to drop you at the house?”

“That'd be great. Thanks, Danny.”

We leave the baggage room, walk back across the ancient railbed, and climb into the Explorer.

“Seat belts,” Ceepak says.

I refuse to put mine on. I just start up the car.

“Chief talk to you yet?” Ceepak asks.

“He sure as shit did.”

“Good. You tell him what happened?”

“I confirmed what he already knew. How the ends justify the means. The greater good. That kind of shit….”

“Good.”

Ceepak keeps nodding, like everything is hunky-dory and peachy-keen.

If he says “It's all good,” like he says about five hundred times every day, I might have to shoot him-even if I don't have a gun. I'll borrow one of his.

“We'll regroup tomorrow. 0730? Pancake Palace?”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

He turns to look at me but I won't look at him.

“It's going to be okay, Danny,” Ceepak whispers.

“What?”

“I give you my word.”