Everywhere That Tommy Goes (9 page)

“Hello!” Watts shouted. “That puts him at the scene.”

“That it does.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No. That’s the end of the file.” Stone fingered the keyboard and opened more documents and found nothing of interest. “Dead end with the rest of the files. Sullivan is clearly not a wordsmith.”

“Don’t sweat it. Now we have evidence tying him directly to Club Radical. Why don’t you check the Browser. See what he is into.”

“You read my mind.” Stone double-clicked the Explorer icon and opened the search history. She drew in a breath and held it as she scrolled down.

“What? What is it? You know I can’t read anything without my glasses.”

“You’re not going to believe this, but most of his latest searches are about Gilgo Beach and the unsolved murder.”

Watts gasped as his mind flooded with thoughts about the infamous case. “Holy crap! This can’t just be a coincidence.”

“Another missing girl, another connection to Gilgo Beach, I’d say we just stumbled onto something big.”

“That’s putting it mildly. Let’s get a team over there right away.”

“And we need to pick up Sullivan. Now we’ve got more than enough for a warrant.”

“I’m on it,” Watts said, pulling out his cell. “Ross, its Watts. You need to move in on Sullivan now and arrest him.”

Ross hesitated before he spoke. “Uh, Detective—I—uh, I lost him and haven’t been able to track him down.”

“You
what?
How in the world could you lose him?”

“He just slipped away. I’m sorry.”

“Well, then why don’t you GPS him with his cell phone?”

“I tried that already. He must have wised up and turned it off.”

“Great—just great. Look, Ross, this is a serious screw-up. You’ve got to find him . . . and fast.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I’ll do what it takes and get back to you.”

“Okay, just get him!” Watts turned to Stone. “Can you believe that? He let Sullivan slip away.”

CHAPTER 15

Sergeant Monty Tanner of the Seaview police force was reexamining the murder scene at the Waterside. The area was still roped-off, but Tanner deftly maneuvered his slender frame and stepped over the police tape. At six-foot-five and weighing less than two hundred pounds, he looked gaunt and ill-equipped to handle the rigors and physical demands of a job that required intimidation to achieve results. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for in diligence.

Tanner stood by the bathroom door and scanned inside. The body had been removed from the tub, but the area was still covered in blood. He turned as his deputy, Samuel Sung, approached.

“Have you ever seen so much horror in one spot, boss?” Sung asked, in a Chinese affect.

“Can’t say as I have, Deputy. This is by far the worst I’ve seen. Before my time, about eight years ago, there was another one that was pretty awful, too, but not as bad as this. Anyway, we’re running down a new lead, and I need you to come with me to question the witness.”

“Witness, boss? I thought no one saw what happened?”

“Not here, but Johnny, the old bartender at the Tides Inn, he may have some relevant info for us. I just wanted to take one more look before they clean this place up.”

A half hour later, Tanner and Sung arrived at the Tides Inn. Johnny Mulligan was a fixture behind the bar, wiping an imaginary stain from a spot in front of the beer pulls. For fifteen years, Mulligan had been wearing out the wood floors behind the counter, pacing back and forth, serving customers at an often feverish pace, and at other times at a pace so slow you’d
wonder if perhaps the entire town was on the wagon. It was the end of a crazy week, with the Battle of the Bands coming to a close in only one day.

“Afternoon, Monty,” Mulligan said, as he looked up.

“Howdy, Johnny. How ya been?”

“A bit tired, Sarge. The Battle’s been a killer this week.”

“Not funny, Johnny.”

“Sorry—I didn’t mean it that way. It’s been so busy this is the first real chance I’ve had to clean up.”

“Place looks fine to me. Why don’t you take a break and tell me about the loner that came in here Monday.”

“Sure thing,” he said, as he began wiping the imaginary stain again. “It’s like this: Midday Monday this guy comes in—turns out his car broke down and he’s stuck—so I give him Chunky’s number at the Mobil down the road. Chunky comes by and picks up the car and the guy has to stay overnight because Chunky needs to get some parts to fix it. I’m pretty sure he stayed at the Waterside that night, so I figured I’d call you. The kid seemed harmless and all, but I’ve never seen him here before. Anyway, then it got all crowded with kids and Battle week, so I just forgot all about it, until I started thinking about the murder.”

“So, Chunky worked on this guy’s car?”

“Yup.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“Nope.”

“All right, then, time to go see Chunky and find out what he knows.”

Ten minutes later, Tanner and Sung pulled into the Mobil station. They found Chunky in the back, snacking on a pair of chili dogs, a basket of fries, and a jumbo frosty shake—standard pre-dinner dietary supplement. Chili sauce dripped from his chin. He pulled a greasy hand towel from the pocket of his overalls and wiped his face.

“Hey, guys,” Chunky said between chews. “Johnny called and tol’ me you were on yer way. What can I do to help?”

“You fix some kid’s car Monday?” Tanner asked.

“Yeah, there was this kid from outta town stuck over at the Tides. I hadda tow him and keep his car overnight for some parts. I tol’ him to go to the Waterside for the night.”

“What can you tell me about the kid?”

“Aww, he was a punk-ass wise guy. Seemed in a rush to get outta here and all pissed off his car couldn’t be fixed right away.”

“What kind of car?”

“2002 Honda Accord. Silver. New York plates. Got some info inside,” Chunky stuffed the last of his first chili dog down his throat and chewed. “Punk said he was just passing through. Could be a killer, though. He looked the part.”

“And what does a killer look like, Chunk?”

“Oh, I dunno—shifty eyes, punk-ass attitude, dirty, whatever.”

“So what did this kid look like, then?”

“Slim, blond hair, girly features, something in his eyes that looked nasty. A real punk, if ya ask me.”

“When did he pick up his car?” asked Sung.

“First thing Tuesday morning. Maybe around ten.”

“What else can you tell me about him?” Tanner asked.

“Well, he didn’t talk much, but he did sneak up on me while I was working under the hood. Practically scared the crap outta me.”

“Then what?” Tanner asked.

“I tol’ him I’d be done soon and to wait. So he sat on the bench and waited. I hit him up for some extra dough ’cause I didn’t like the way he snuck up on me, but he paid cash and took the car. That was it.”

“Anything else?” Sung asked.

“Nah—why? Do you really think this kid coulda done that girl at the Waterside?”

“We’re just running down the evidence,” Tanner said. “No suspects yet. Just keep it quiet, and if you can think of anything else, let us know.”

“Will do,” Chunky said, as he lifted the lid off the frosty shake and guzzled.

“One more thing,” Tanner said. “You get a license plate?”

“Yeah, ’course. It’s on the receipt.”

“Great. Can you get that for me?”

“Sure thing.” Chunky grabbed a handful of fries, stuffed them in his mouth, and headed toward the office. The two detectives followed behind.

A small stack of repair invoices littered a faded wooden desk. Chunky rifled through it.

“I got it right here,” Chunky declared, triumphantly raising a piece of paper above his head.

“Great, Chunk,” Tanner said. “Give it to me.”

“Do I get some kinda reward?”

“I’ll buy you lunch tomorrow.”

Deputy Sung was already on the phone and reading off the plate number. He covered the phone and looked up at Tanner. “I’ve got New York DMV on the line. They’ll have a name and address shortly.”

Tanner nodded as Sung pulled out his pad and pen and began to write.

“Okay, boss, the car is registered to a Thomas Sullivan. I’ve got an address in Bellerose, New York.”

“Looks like we’re headed to Bellerose, wherever the hell that is,” Tanner said, as he turned and walked to the cruiser.

“You really think this guy could be our perp, boss?” Sung asked, following at his heel.

“No idea, Deputy, but it’s our first real lead, so we’ve got to follow it up. In the meantime, get on the computer and see if this guy’s got any priors.”

“Will do, boss,” Sung answered. Sung was a follower, not a leader. He took orders well enough and did what he was told, but beyond that, he was neither an asset nor a liability. When he was first hired, the force had needed to meet some imaginary quota of non-white employees, and Samuel Sung had come along at just the right time. He was hired not for his skills but for his heritage. No other force in central Jersey employed a Chinese, so when the opportunity arose, Seaview jumped on it, with the expectation that it would result in kudos and more state aid. Ultimately, it did neither, but Sung became a fixture on the force and did his level best to prove himself worthy. In Seaview, that wasn’t too difficult. DWIs, shoplifting, and domestic disputes
were the routine in this jurisdiction. There had been only one other murder in the last eight years—until now.

Sung vacillated between excitement and fear, not knowing if he was possessed of the wherewithal to help solve the crime but thankful for the opportunity to escape the mundane. He took his place on the passenger side of the police cruiser, pulled open the laptop, and punched in a password to access the online database. Tanner took the wheel, and they began the three-hour drive to Bellerose.

“Okay, boss—here it is. Sullivan appears relatively clean. He received a speeding ticket a few years back, but other than that, nothing.”

“Does that tell you if he’s ever been fingerprinted?”

“Not this record, but I can check elsewhere.”

“Good—let me know. And while you’re at it, get me directions to Bellerose. I know how to get to the Verrazano Bridge, but after that, I’m lost.”

“I’m on it, boss.”

That afternoon, Tanner and Sung arrived at the Sullivan home and pulled in the driveway behind an old, blue Nissan Sentra. The door was wide open in the detached garage out back.

Tanner called out, “Hello? Is anyone home?”

There was no answer.

“Mr. Sullivan, are you out here?” Sung yelled loudly.

Still nothing.

“Okay Sammy,” Tanner said, pulling his gun and pointing, “you head around back the other way, and I’ll move in from here.”

Sung nodded, took out his gun, and clicked off the safety. Tanner took a low crouch, moved quickly up to the house, and leaned his back against the brick wall. Inching his way forward, his eyes darting back and forth, Tanner slowly made his way to the garage.

Sung took the other direction, circled the house, and approached from the far side.

Again, Tanner called out, “This is the police! Is anyone out there?”

No answer.

Tanner reached the garage and entered pointing his gun. Sung watched from the far corner of the house. As Tanner disappeared inside, Sung moved closer.

“Sammy, get over here—fast!” Tanner yelled, as he holstered his gun and ran to the back of the garage.

“What is it, boss?”

Sung found Tanner crouched over a body laid out behind a small workbench.

“Is he dead, boss?”

Tanner felt the man’s neck. “No, he’s got a pulse, and he’s still breathing. He also reeks of alcohol.”

Sung pointed to the shelf behind Tanner. “Whiskey bottle, almost empty—you see it?”

“Yeah, the old man is piss-drunk. Better call nine-one-one. Let’s get an ambulance here.”

Tanner found some old rags and bunched them up beneath the man’s head while they waited. “This must be the kid’s father. Too bad—now we’re gonna have to wait to question him.”

“Should I check out the house while we’re here?” Sung asked.

“We have no warrant. If we find anything, it may screw up the case. I think we better wait until we can do this right. The old man certainly isn’t going to be able to hide anything at this point, so whatever is in the house isn’t going anywhere. We’re also out of our jurisdiction across state lines. I’m not familiar with the procedure, but I think we have to bring in the FBI or at least the local cops.”

CHAPTER 16

Ten police officers and three dogs gathered at Gilgo Beach, just off Ocean Parkway, to begin the search for Jamie Houston. Detectives Stone and Watts took the lead.

“Okay, people,” Stone called out, holding up a stack of papers. “Each one of you, take a map. You’re to break up into groups of two and cover the assigned areas that I’ve designated on each of the maps. Focus on your particular grid and look for signs of drag marks, clothing, blood—anything that looks like it doesn’t belong. You all know the drill. And those of you who are using the dogs, I have a pillowcase from the girl’s bed. Let’s see if the dogs can pick up a scent.”

The teams set off in varying directions searching for the young bartender. Curious onlookers began to gather, and the police presence was insufficient to control the growing crowd. Before long, local news reporters also showed up.

Watts pulled Stone aside. “We have to contain this. It’s too soon for the media.”

“Leave that to me,” Stone said as she walked toward the crowd of onlookers standing behind the police tape.

As she reached the edge of the roadway, Stone called out, “Attention: all non-police personnel are directed to leave the area immediately. Anyone without proper credentials will be detained for questioning in five minutes. Any media personnel with proper proof of their status may remain for a very brief press conference.”

After the crowd dispersed, Stone addressed the media. “Ladies and gentlemen, please give me your attention and cooperation. I know you’re all anxious to find out what we are doing
here, but right now I need a little latitude and some discretion from you. All I can say is that we have an unverified lead that we are investigating—nothing more. This is all very premature, and you are wasting your time. Please just give us the time we need to do our jobs, and if there are any developments, we will be sure to transmit the information to you. I will not be fielding any questions right now. Thank you.”