Tilt-a-Whirl

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“Jesus! What the hell did you guys freaking do?”

Gus Davis greets us from the desk as we enter headquarters. Santucci and Malloy are flanking us as they escort us into the building like we're on a perp walk.

If our theories are correct, if the chief is capable of helping his girlfriend bump off her ex-husband and then masterminding a kidnapping hoax with cold-hearted, military precision, I'm sure he's worked out some clever way of taking care of Ceepak and anybody else who might stand in his way on the road to riches. People like me.

“Ceepak? Boyle? Get your asses in here.”

The chief stands behind his desk. His face is flushed, redder than raw meat.

“Move it! Now! Move!”

I pick up my pace.

Ceepak takes his time.

“You need us, boss?” Santucci asks.

“Wait outside.”

“Yes, sir.” Santucci and Malloy leave.

“Would you like me to close the door?” Ceepak asks pleasantly.

“Yes! Close the goddamn door! Now!”

When Ceepak pushes the door shut, I see Gladys, the bag lady from the hotel.

Ceepak sees her too.

“Good to see you again. I take it you safely evacuated the hotel?”

“Fuck you, fuzz!”

Gladys has not mellowed much in the hours since last we met. She hasn't bathed either. I can still see those white streaks on her cheeks where the tears trickled down.

“What am I going to do with you, John?” the chief says.

“Sir?”

“I gave you this job to help you recover from what you've been through. To take you away from the horrors of war. The senseless loss of lives….”

“You’re a war criminal,” Gladys shouts. “A baby killer! I heard what you did! How you gunned down that taxi driver's family! Baby killer!”

Guess the chief shared some stuff with Gladys he might've kept confidential if he lived by a different kind of Code.

“I thought I could bring you home,” the chief says, all hushed and earnest. “Thought I could give you a chance to put it all behind you. Instead, you go all gung-ho? Become some sort of vigilante? You hunted down and killed your suspect?”

I'm going to keep my mouth shut.

Not because I'm afraid, even though I totally am, but because I have a hunch Ceepak doesn't want me saving his butt by blurting out the truth about Squeegee. Otherwise, he wouldn't have hidden it from me last night at the hotel.

“Goddammit, John.” The chief shakes his head in disbelief. “You took a sniper rifle upstairs to execute Squeegee?”

“His name is Jerry!” Gladys screeches. “Jerry Fucking Shapiro!”

The chief raises his hand, cueing the radical socialist bag lady to put a lid on it.

“You shot him like a dog?”

“He did!” She's spitting with rage. “I was there when it went down, man. I'll fucking tell the world what you fucking did, you fucking motherfucker!”

“I'm sorry, sir,” Ceepak says. “What is it I'm supposed to have done?”

“You fucker!”

“Miss? I'll handle this.” The chief rivets his gaze on Ceepak.

Ceepak doesn't flinch. In fact, he smiles and raises his eyebrows as if he's eager to hear what the chief has to say.

“Last night, you tracked down your suspect, this woman's fiancé….”

They're engaged? I'll have to find out where they're registered.

The chief checks his legal pad.

“Mr. Gerald Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee. You tracked him down and proceeded into the old Palace Hotel with an M-24 sniper rifle….”

“Awesome weapon system, sir. But, of course, you already know that. You're the one who gave it to me.”

The chief ignores that shot across his bow.

“You then went upstairs and, instead of apprehending the suspect for further questioning, you shot him….”

“Negative. I did not shoot Mr. Shapiro.”

“John, John, John.” The chief kind of chuckles, one for each John. “I will not lie nor tolerate those who do. Remember our Code? You shot this man because you suspected him of being a child molester. You took the law into your own hands.”

“No, sir. I did not. However, I'm certain that was your intention.”

“Come again?”

“Was this the final phase of your plan? To dispose of me via these false accusations?”

The chief puts down his notepad.

“What plan?”

“You brought me here to Sea Haven, sir, not, as you claim, for rest and relaxation, but to kill whomever you and Miss Bell decided to blame for your own nefarious actions.”

“What's he talking about?” Gladys asks. I think the word “nefarious” got her attention.

Ceepak turns to her.

“I did not complete my mission as envisioned by Chief Cosgrove here. Your fiancé? He's safe.”

“What?” The chief is even redder.

“In fact-if you walk to the top of the Ship John Lighthouse, I believe you will find Mr. Jerry Shapiro up there enjoying the view, perhaps taking a well-earned nap. I did ask him to not indulge in hallucinogenic drugs while sequestered there. It wouldn't be prudent. The steps inside are quite steep.”

“Jerry's alive?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You didn't kill him?” the chief looks like he was just sucker-punched.

“No, sir. I know you wanted me to. In fact, I know gunning Squeegee down was the sole reason you invited me to join your police force. Why you said ‘you don't even have to drive….’”

“You’re nuts, Ceepak. You know that?”

“Can I go now?” Gladys has forgotten her righteous wrath. A reunion is what's on her mind, and she's in a hurry.

“Get the hell out of here!” the chief screams at her.

“Fuck you.” Gladys bolts.

When she swings open the door, I notice we've attracted quite a crowd in the hallway.

“Go back to work!” the chief yells. “All of you!”

Nobody moves.

I suspect folks have been eavesdropping.

“Now! Move! Go! Boyle? The door?”

“Yes, sir.” I swing the door shut. When he does that coach-yell at me? I do as I'm told. Reflexes.

“You two? You're fired. Both of you.”

“Earlier today, I did some research,” Ceepak says, moving closer to his old friend's desk. “Asked Gus. Adam Kiger. Even your pals Santucci and Malloy. Nobody has ever heard of one Jennifer D'Angelo, the young victim of a rape perpetrated by a homeless man underneath the boardwalk….”

“We kept it quiet!”

“No, sir. You made it up.”

“Bullshit.”

“It was really quite clever.”

Oh, boy. Ceepak's addressing me. Like I'm the jury box or something.

“You see, Danny-because of our past friendship, our time spent together in Germany, the personal and sometimes painful stories we told each other over a few beers….”

Of course. The chief knows about Ceepak's drunk father. His brother. The dead kids in Iraq.

“… because the chief thought he knew me, he orchestrated what he thought would be the perfect scenario to turn me into his personal killing machine. Why do you think Ashley was instructed to lure her father to the Tilt-A-Whirl Saturday morning? Because the chief knew we would be in The Pancake Palace at precisely 0730. That, being a creature of habit, I would be sitting up front … in the window seat. They staged the whole scene to draw me in.”

I hear the chief's chair squeak. He's leaning back.

“You get any sleep the last couple days, Ceepak? I gotta tell you-you're sounding kind of goofy. Squeegee lend you some of his wacky tobacky?”

“You had a good plan, chief. Thought of every angle. Hart was killed when you knew Dr. McDaniels would be out of town and Slominsky would catch the call.”

“How much you been drinking? I heard you were down at The Frosty Mug the other night bending your elbow. Some buddies of mine said you were soused, all tears-in-your-beers about Iraq. Hell, maybe you can't hold it … maybe being a lousy drunk runs in your family….”

“Remember those evidence gloves I brought in?”

“How could anybody forget? We all laughed about them for weeks.”

“The box is empty. You took them all.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, sir. I have a witness who saw Miss Bell wearing a pair. Oh, she had Gus's gun, too.”

“Who told you this crap? That junkie?”

“Yes, sir. Did you know Mr. Shapiro is a former member of Mensa? He has something of a photographic memory….”

“No one would believe him. His word against Betty's? Besides- Betty was at the bank when Hart was murdered, so you have diddly.”

“Don't do it, sir.”

“Do what?”

“Make me shoot you. You know I will. I'm a lean, mean killing machine. Remember?”

Ceepak suddenly has his pistol pointed at the chief's forehead.

“Kindly place your hands on top of your desk.”

I move a half step to my left.

Oh, Jesus.

I see what Ceepak must've heard. The chief's hand is on the handle of his top desk drawer. He's slid it an inch open.

Must be where he keeps one of his other guns.

“Get out. We're done here. You're fired. Santucci?”

He yells at the door.

“Santucci? Malloy? Get your asses in here! Now!”

The door opens.

It's not Santucci or Malloy. It's Christopher Morgan from the FBI. He's wearing evidence gloves and carrying a pair of Timberland boots.

“They were in your Expedition, chief,” he says. He reaches into his suitcoat and pulls out a document. “Oh, by the way-here's the search warrant.”

“You sons of bitches….”

The chief must be sending some blue blood up to his red face because it's turning purple.

“Oh,” Morgan says, “almost forgot. Ran that cell phone number by Verizon.” He pulls another sheaf of papers out of his pocket.

“Find anything interesting?”

Ceepak and Morgan are acting like the chief isn't even in the room-except, of course, for Ceepak aiming his gun at the chief's head. That's still going on.

“After she was kidnapped? Ashley called her mom.”

“That was thoughtful,” Ceepak says.

“Oh, yeah,” Morgan cracks. “Very considerate. Then, this one.” He sort of shoves the paper in the chief's face. “That's your number, right? That incoming call there? Sunday night? Guess you had to let Ashley know Ceepak was on his way. Give her time to handcuff her ankles and slip the rope back over her wrists.”

“Danny and I almost interrupted your conversation,” Ceepak says. “I had to wait for her to hide her phone.”

“Which,” Morgan says, “we found underneath the floorboards, just like you said.”

“You guys think you're so fucking clever,” the chief manages to snarl. “You don't know jack shit.”

Ceepak lowers his weapon and strolls to the door.

“Gus? Can you join us in here?”

“Now what?” the chief is shaking his head in disbelief. I'm keeping my eyes on that top desk drawer and his hands. So is Morgan, thank God, because I still don't have a gun. Everybody else seems to have at least two.

“What's Gus got to do with any of this?” The chief clasps his meaty paws behind his head.

Gus toddles into the room.

“Yes, sir?” he says it to the chief.

“Gus?”

“Oh, hey, Ceepak. Heard all about … you know. Sorry it went down that way, but I'm glad you did what needed to be done, you know what I'm saying?”

“Gus, please escort the chief to a holding cell.”

“What?”

“Arrest him.”

“You can't arrest me!”

Morgan pulls out another sheet of paper. The guy must have pockets in that suit coat like Ceepak has pockets in his pants.

“I, however, can,” he says. “Federal bench warrant. For the kidnapping of Harriet Ashley Hart. Which, as you know, is a federal offense-”

“Bullshit!”

“He kidnapped the little girl?”

“He also stole your gun,” Ceepak says.

“He did what?” Gus starts to steam pink like boiled shrimp.

“That day in March when you said you lost it? The chief took it. He saw you were without a weapon when he first bumped into you at the Surf City Shopping Center, but he didn't mention it,” Ceepak explains. “Instead, he told you to go get your muddy car washed, to make it plausible that Squeegee stole your weapon. You then ran into the chief a second time … outside the florist shop….”

“Yeah.”

“That's when he boosted your gun. While you were inside buying flowers. He'd been tailing you all day.”

“Bullshit!” the chief says. “Ceepak's a liar.”

Gus looks at Ceepak. Looks at the chief.

“No, chief. Ceepak never lies. He's a freaking Boy Scout, remember?”

The chief rolls his eyes.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Gus says.

“Ceepak, you don't know shit!”

“Shut up!” Gus yells. “Remain freaking silent and give me your goddamn gun.”

I can see the folks in the hall staring. Gus neglected to close the door when he came in.

“You just wait, Ceepak. You ever find out the real truth? You'll do like your faggot brother. You'll blow your fucking brains out.”

Morgan's cell phone rings.

“Morgan.” He covers the mouthpiece. “It's McDaniels.”

The call Ceepak's been waiting for.

“What you got? Excellent. I'll tell Ceepak. She's tightened up the time of death.”

We wait some more, but not long.

“Yeah. She says death took place sometime between 6:57 A.M. and 7:02.”

“Not 7:20? 7:25?”

“No.”

“She's certain?”

“As certain as she can be.”

“See?” the chief gloats. “You boys don't know shit.”