Whack A Mole

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Santucci, Malloy, and the chief take off.

They're heading back to headquarters to work up anything they can on the redhead. See if she's on file in Atlantic City. Check with the State Police over in Trenton. See if Stacey is a “person of interest” to them, as Malloy so eloquently assumed when he called her a hooker. At the same time, they need to call in every off-duty cop on the SHPD roster and start a hard target search-the beach, the boardwalk, the motels, the works.

I'm left wondering if Stacey is her real name. Maybe that's just what she tells suckers like me who can't stop staring at her cleavage when she climbs into their cars.

“I'll drive,” says Ceepak.

I have a feeling we're going to fly down to The Sonny Days Inn for our second interrogation of Reverend Billy, like avenging angels flapping wings at warp speed. Ceepak clutches the steering wheel with one hand, works the radio mike with the other.

“Helen?” he says to the dispatcher. “Please ask Officer Bright to go into the evidence room and examine the guest book from The Howland House Whaling Museum. Tell her we're looking for the following male names on the guest list: Billy Trumble. Ralph….”

He looks at me.

“Uh….”

I realize I don't know Ralph the bartender's last name. He's always just been “Hey, Ralph” or “Catch you later, Ralph,” so the only answer I can give is a shoulder shrug.

“Any and all Ralphs,” Ceepak says. “The one we're interested in works as a bartender at The Sand Bar….”

“Ralph. Bartender. Got it,” says Helen. “Who else?”

Ceepak lets go of the button, slides us into the center lane so we can do ninety instead of just eighty.

“Danny? That surgeon. Do you recall his name?”

I rattle around some brain cells. Knock some useless stuff, like the meaning of the “33” on a Rolling Rock beer bottle, off my mental shelf. Strain to remember. Oh, right. He gave me a business card!

“Teddy. Teddy Winston.”

Ceepak depresses the red button again. “Dr. Theodore Winston.”

“Theodore Winston. Got it. Keep going.”

“10-4. Gus Davis.”

“Gus?”

“Right.”

“Our Gus?”

“Yes, Helen.”

“He likes whales?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, I know he likes to fish … never knew he was into whales.”

“Helen?”

“Yes?”

“Tell Jane we need this information, stat.”

“Will do. But the chief has her running through mug shots right now, trying to match them to some picture Sergeant Santucci found.”

“Understood.”

Ceepak can't overrule the chief's commands or reset the boss's priorities. We'll have to wait a little longer to see if any of our suspects were cocky enough to sign the museum guest book.

I decide it's time.

Time to turn the front seat of the Ford into a rolling confessional booth.

Forgive me, Ceepak, for I have sinned. It's been at least eleven months since my last confession….

“Ceepak?” I say.

“Yes?” He's only half-listening. He's also half-driving like a maniac, racing around this cute little Honda with a surfboard sticking out its open hatchback. Any other day, Miss Honda would have earned herself a ticket or at least a stern lecture about the dangers of unsecured objects in automobiles becoming unguided missiles in rapid braking situations.

“That girl?” I say. “In the picture?”

“Yes?” Now we weave past a pickup truck with a whole row of burlap-balled hedges bouncing around in its bed. Louie the Landscaper, taking his foliage out for a ride.

“I met her.”

“Come again?”

“I picked her up. Hitchhiking. She was wearing the exact same clothes she had on in the picture.”

“When?”

“Sunday.”

“Two days ago?”

“Yeah. I was on my way home after dropping you off to meet Rita at the animal shelter and I saw her thumbing near the causeway. Just like in the picture.”

Ceepak cuts a sharp left turn. We tilt sideways, like we're riding a corkscrewing roller coaster, the kind that sends you upside down into a spinning barrel roll. We swerve into a rubber-squealing, tail-skidding U-turn.

“We need to re-examine the area surrounding Santucci's final hole.”

“Okay.” I'm confused. Plus, my stomach has been involuntarily relocated to my rib cage.

“It's possible Ezekiel only recently selected his next victim. If the photograph shows her as you saw her two days ago….”

“He probably just buried the picture yesterday or maybe today!”

“Affirmative. We may find trace evidence at the scene. Some clue as to who he is. Good work, Danny!”

I decide to get it all off my chest.

“She was also at Reverend Billy's.”

“The motel?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

Ceepak's brows pinch together to puzzle over my remark. “Danny, I specifically requested that we both be on the lookout for….”

“She dyed her hair. It was green.”

He turns, shoots me a look.

Shit.

Yes, technically I obeyed The Code. I did not lie, cheat, or steal. This morning, he asked me if I saw a redhead. I did not. I saw a girl with green hair. Therefore, I did not actually tell him a lie-I just totally screwed up.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I should've … you know … said something.”

Ceepak nods. Looks glum. No. Heartbroken. I have so totally let him down.

“I should have….”

He presses his foot down hard on the accelerator. I can see his thigh muscles twitching under the cargo pants. He keeps applying this much pressure, he might break the gas pedal off its post. The engine is rattling, the whole hood rocking. I don't think we've ever asked our friendly Ford to do over 100 before.

“I know I should've said something,” I say-loudly, so Ceepak can hear me over the engine. “I didn't. I'm sorry. I guess I was embarrassed. Didn't want you to think I'm out on the street picking up girls. I should've told you!”

Our speed eases. We're back down in the 90s.

“I'm sorry. I should've known better.”

We dip under 85. When we hit 75, Ceepak finally speaks.

“Danny, don't ‘should’ all over yourself. We are where we are. You had no way of knowing the significance of your omission. We'll deal with it.”

“Okay.”

“However, in the future, I hope you will be more forthcoming with any and all information you may possess. No matter the personal embarrassment it may entail.”

“Sure. No problem.” I let it all come tumbling out. “She was also with the surgeon. I saw them outside The Sand Bar. Saw them head off to Smuggler's Cove together. You think he's already killed her?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

Duh. Of course not. She was alive when I saw her this morning! I should probably engage my brain before I speak.

“Whoever placed the girl's photograph in that final hole is goading us, Danny. First, he revels over his past triumphs by placing his souvenirs on public display. Then, he sends us all on a treasure hunt up and down the island-rubs our nose in the murders he has committed for decades without arousing any suspicion. Now he is daring us to catch him before he strikes again.”

Ceepak presses the pedal to the metal again.

If anybody can catch Ezekiel before he kills another girl, it's John Ceepak.