Tilt-a-Whirl

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

You ever polish off a six-pack in under an hour? Me neither.

Until last night.

This morning, I'm still wearing the same clothes I had on when I fell asleep in my lumpy TV chair.

Must be why no one wants to sit near me at The Pancake Palace.

The waitress brings me a mug of coffee and a plastic carafe so I can continue to pour my own and self-medicate. I rip open a little plastic packet of Tylenol I picked up at the 7-Eleven. It's my second pack of the morning and I chew the tablets like they're Flintstones vitamins. Sure the stuff is bitter, but hell-so am I.

It's 7:40. My partner's late. Highly un-Ceepakesque behavior. There are no syrup-stained rugrats stealing tips this morning. In fact, The Palace is even emptier than it was on Saturday. I guess things will pick up tomorrow-when the world celebrates the safe return of Ashley Hart with a mad dash back to the beach. I'll bet you the Tilt-A-Whirl, the train depot, the burnt-down hotel-they'll all become brand-new tourist traps. “This is where they shot him! This is where they found her!”

I'm thinking I could come up with a catchy, kidnap-themed T-shirt or sell “write-your-own-ransom-note” refrigerator magnets, make a million bucks and retire.

I need more coffee.

I pour another cup and try to read the newspaper. The headlines are all kind of blurry, but I think it's my eyes that are fuzzy, not the ink. Pictures of Ashley and her mother cover the front page. The chief, too. Everybody looks all huggy and happy. I find my name buried in the continuation of the front-page story on the sixth page.Officer John Ceepak and his partner Daniel Boyle were the first to find the kidnapped little girl inside the abandoned railroad terminus.

What's a terminus? Sounds like the train had a bad disease.

Anyhow, I'm an official hero. The newspaper has declared it so.

Here comes Ceepak.

He takes off his cap and smiles at the ancient cashier who's smiling at him, her hero. His eyes sweep the restaurant to make sure I'm in the window seat where we always sit. He smiles again when he sees I'm where I'm supposed to be.

“Morning, Danny.”

I grunt.

“You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I'm famished.” He waves to the waitress.

“Good morning,” she says, probably hoping for another huge tip like the one he came back to give her on Saturday. “Hey-congratulations. Thanks for finding the little girl!”

“Just doing our job.”

“All set?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Fruit and cereal?”

“No. This morning I'd like to try your Lumberjack Special.”

“Really?”

“Yes, ma'am. I figure it's time I ventured over to the second page of your marvelous menu.”

Damn, he's chipper.

“All righty. How would you like those eggs?”

“Sunnyside up, of course.” Ceepak winks at her.

The waitress writes up the order and walks away with a cute little bounce in her step. Damn. Everybody's got their sunny side up this morning. Everybody except me.

“Your buddy Joey T. is quite disciplined,” Ceepak says while he mindlessly shuffles the sugar and Sweet ’n’ Low and Equal packages into orderly, color-coded stacks in the table tray.

“Really?”

“It's not every young man who's willing to start work at five in the morning.”

I slurp my coffee to let him know he's absolutely right on that one.

“I believe Mr. Thalken is a Virgo. He possesses tremendous organizational skills and, as I said, self-discipline.”

“Right.”

“Seems he cleans out the hopper each morning prior to sweeping the beach. He says he is better able to concentrate on the task at hand if he's not pre-occupied with racing back to the municipal yard to unload at the end of his shift.”

“I see. So?”

“Saturday's sweep? The debris was still in the hopper. You see, to achieve a well-manicured beach, the Surf Rake's moldboard levels uneven areas while stainless steel tines on a moving conveyor belt rake debris toward an adjustable deflector plate….”

Jesus.

Sounds like Joey T. and Ceepak really hit it off. They discussed this crap before the sun was even up.

Ceepak keeps going.

“The non-sand objects are then transported to a hopper which can be hydraulically dumped.”

“Wow. Great. What'd you do? Climb in and go on a treasure hunt?”

“In fact, that is correct.”

“Find anything interesting?”

The waitress brings a platter loaded down with eggs, pancakes, sausage, bacon, and butter tubs.

“This'll work,” Ceepak says. He rubs his knife against his fork tines and looks over to me. “You sure you're not hungry?”

“No, thanks.”

In fact, the smell is causing the remains of the six beers in my belly to slide down to my intestines where they can make loud, rumbling noises.

Ceepak checks his watch.

We must be on a schedule, even though I figure our big case closed around midnight last night.

He digs in, letting the egg yolk ooze across the pancakes with the melting butter and warm syrup.

I think he's purposely trying to make me hurl.

And he never says whether he found anything-because it's not polite to talk with a mouth full of eggs.

Ceepak devours his Lumberjack Special and downs several quick cups of coffee. He hasn't actually been to bed since I dropped him off at the police station last night.

He says he was “working on a few things” while I was home drinking and passing out. Now he's raring to go.

We walk to the car.

“Standard patrol, sir?”

“No, Danny. Let's swing down to Beach Crest Heights. I'd like to talk to Betty Bell.”

“Why? The case is closed.”

“Loose ends.” Ceepak says. Then he starts humming because, of course, Springsteen has this whole song called “Loose Ends” and Ceepak can't resist.

“They have returned to the city,” the butler says.

“Do you work for Miss Bell?” Ceepak asks.

“I am attached to the house in a management capacity.”

I think that means he's like a live-in maid with attitude.

“I see,” Ceepak says. “So you also worked for Mr. Hart? Whenever he came out here?”

“Certainly. However, he was rarely in residence.”

“Mind if we come in?”

The butler does a sniff that lets us know he does mind but he steps to the side and gestures for us to come in if we must.

I have no idea what the hell we're doing here, but we walk into the sunroom.

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Me?” The butler does a good shocked. He even flutters his hand near his heart like he might faint. “I thought the unfortunate situation had been resolved.”

“Indeed. The kidnapping? That's done. When did Ashley and her mother head back to the city?”

“Before dawn.”

“Well, we're just tying up some loose ends. Investigating the arson up at The Palace Hotel.”

We are? Why?

The butler scrunches his face. “Nasty business, that. I understand the kidnapper, this Squeegee fellow, I understand he perished in the blaze?”

“So it seems,” Ceepak says. “Did you know that Mr. Hart owned that hotel?”

“No. I am not often privy to the details of Mr. Hart's real-estate holdings.”

“Of course not. Ms. Stone, however, was?”

“I wouldn't know.”

“When she stayed here with him, was it all business?”

“How do you mean?”

“Was there anything romantic? Between Ms. Stone and Mr. Hart?”

“However would I know? I was not their confidante.”

“They didn't sleep together?” Ceepak presses him.

“Of course not. Ms. Stone stayed in the guest cottage. Out beyond the pool.”

“Is that where she spent Thursday and Friday night?”

“Yes.”

“Are you certain?”

“It's where all her things were. When Ms. Bell told me to remove Ms. Stone's luggage, I went into the cottage to retrieve it. I had to pick up a few loose articles of clothing off the floor. I suppose Ms. Stone assumed she would be returning here on Saturday.”

“Was there a great deal of lingerie?”

“No. None. I believe she slept in very long T-shirts.”

“Really?”

The butler blushes, realizing that maybe he knows a little too much about Ms. Stone's sleeping attire.

“I found one such nightshirt hanging on a hook in the bathroom. It featured a large canary on the front.”

“Tweety?” I say.

“Perhaps.” The butler doesn't know from Tweety Bird.

“Tell me,” Ceepak says, “in your opinion, were your employer and her daughter close?”

“Oh, yes. Extremely so. Inseparable, I'd say. Certainly, Mrs. Hart could be a stern disciplinarian, something of a perfectionist, but she and Ashley were, as you say, quite close. Quite close indeed.”

“Glad to hear it,” Ceepak says. “Not always the case with teenage girls and their mothers.”

“Yes.”

“Especially when the child has so much money.”

“Pardon?”

“Ashley now owns everything Mr. Hart used to own. His houses. His corporation. His casinos. She inherited it all. She's probably one of the wealthiest little girls in the whole world.”

The butler actually smiles. Maybe he thinks Ashley's a soft touch. Maybe he thinks he's overdue for a raise. Maybe a promotion. Maybe he always wanted to be a casino manager when he grew up.

“Oh, drat,” Ceepak says.

“Problem?”

“Well, I wanted to call Ashley … talk to her about all this … but I don't have her cell phone number.”

“Allow me….”

I guess the butler figures Ceepak is going to put in a good word for him. Tell Ashley how helpful the guy's been. He writes down a cell phone number on the back of a cream-colored note card and hands it to Ceepak.

“That is the number.”

“Thanks.” Ceepak tucks the card into his shirt pocket. “Hey, Danny? You got a cigarette?”

I look at Ceepak like he's nuts. I don't smoke. Neither does he.

“Sorry,” I say with a shrug. “Fresh out.”

Ceepak eyes the sandstone box on the glass coffee table.

“Do you mind?”

“Please,” the butler says. “Help yourself.”

Ceepak lifts the lid and grabs a cigarette.

The butler reaches for the clunky lighter but Ceepak waves him off.

“I'll save it. For later.”

He sniffs the cigarette.

“Clove?”

“Yes. Actually, they're called kretek. Djarum Black. Imported from Jakarta. Indonesia? Very hard to find. I have to special-order them over the Internet.”

“Wow. You don't see many cigarettes wrapped in black paper like this, do you? I guess you can't just run down to the 7-Eleven for a pack?”

“Hardly.”

“You sure you don't mind me taking one?”

“Not at all. Enjoy.”

“Thanks. Well, we need to be going. Thank you again for your time and assistance.”

“My pleasure. Have a pleasant day, gentlemen.” The butler ushers us to the front door. “Give my best to young Miss Ashley.”

“Will do.”

When we're back inside the Ford, Ceepak pulls out one of his evidence bags and places the fresh cigarette carefully inside it.

“I suspect it will match,” he says.

“Match what?”

Ceepak unsnaps a pants pocket and pulls out a rolled-up bag. He opens the top so I can see the evidence inside.

A stubbed-out black cigarette butt covered with gray, gritty sand. There's a thin gold band wrapping around the filter, just like on the one he snagged off the coffee table.

When the bag is under my nose, I get a good whiff.

Burnt clove.

He smiles.

“Don't you just hate it when smokers treat the beach like it's their ashtray?”