Hell Hole (20 page)

Authors: Chris Grabenstein

BOOK: Hell Hole

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We're getting
closer all the time
?

Geeze-o, man!

Maybe Ceepak actually did inhale some of that wacky tobacky smoldering back at the Hell Hole. It would explain his warped world-view. How can we be getting closer when he just expanded our suspect list to include all the guys at the party house, Senator Woodrow Worthington, his bodyguards, the entire Department of Defenseânot to mention the whole military-industrial complex, which is this thing I heard Gladys rant about one time when I was at Veggin' on the Beach because this girl I was dating was way into energy booster drinks. (PSâwe broke up. The girl never wanted to go to bed. Not with me, not with anybody. She basically never slept. I think that booster shot powder they scoop out behind the juice bar is really a tub of pulverized No-Doz tablets.)

So now we're traveling across the causeway, headed back to the island, all set to police our small town and live our insignificant lives so we can dutifully pay our federal income taxes and finance the salaries of the great men doing important things down in Washington.

“Where to next?” I ask Ceepak. I'm driving. He's staring out the window watching seagulls swoop over the bay, maybe wishing he could swap places with them. “You want to head over to Kipper Street? Talk to Sergeant Dixon, ask why he lied about Worthington's war wound? Or maybe we should go up to Feenyville. Talk to the pirates. We never did interrogate that janitor, Osvaldo Vargas.”

“I'd like to hit the house first,” says Ceepak. “Reexamine those exterior surveillance camera tapes.”

“Okay. Sure. What'll we be looking for?”

“A certain black GMC Denali.”

“The senator's security detail?”

“I'm thinking someone might've followed Lieutenant Worthington to his rendezvous with Smith. If so, their vehicle might be evident on the tape.”

“But, we looked pretty closely,” I say. “All we saw was Worthington's car. He greets Smith, the two of them chat, then they head in to the building. Four minutes later, the camera cable gets snipped, probably by our car thieves, or maybe Osvaldo the janitor, working for the crew he knows will be showing up later, and the screen goes black.”

“And so, Danny, we look again,” says Ceepak. “We look closer. We also pay more attention to the other three cameras.”

True. We were more or less focused on the upper right quadrant because that showed where Shareef Smith's car was parked.

“Do you think Senator Worthington set up a Special Forcesâtype hit on Smith, because Smith knew about his son's drug trouble and, if it came out, it could ruin his chances of being elected to anything except superintendent of sewers?” I ask.

“I think I want to relook at those tapes.”

One step at a time. That's Ceepak. Me? I'm forever jumping to conclusions. It's how I wind up flat on my ass so often.

The radio mounted on the dash crackles.

“Unit twelve?”

Ceepak grabs the mike. “This is twelve. Go ahead.”

“We need you over at the Acme Supermarket. Ten-thirty-five.”

They want us to check out a suspicious person at the grocery store. I wonder what the guy didâfondle too many chicken breasts?

“Sergeant Pender?” says Ceepak. “We are not currently operating in a patrol mode. In fact, as I'm sure the chief has informed you, we are presently involved in an increasingly complicated investigation ofâ

“It's your father, Ceepak.”

“Come again?”

“The individual misbehaving at the Acme is a Mr. Joseph Ceepak. He told Malloy and Kiger that he's your dad. I just thought, you know â¦”

“Thank you, Sergeant Pender.” He slips the mike back into its bracket. “Danny?”

We hit Ocean Avenue and I hang a left. We're on our way to the grocery store with a very short shopping list: deal with Ceepak's old man.

“It's five o'clock somewhere! Hell, son, look at your watch! It's five o'clock right here in New Jersey!”

Mr. Ceepak is standing in the middle of the beer and chips aisle. Judging by the pile of empties near his feet, he is currently on his fourth can of warm suds. Personally, I would've headed one aisle overâto the cold case. Guess Mr. Ceepak has been an alkie so long, he doesn't care if half of what he's drinking is tepid foam.

“You want some chips, Johnny? Salsa?” Now he starts grabbing jumbo bags of Doritos and jars of Chi-Chi's. He tears into the bags with his teeth. Holds out a salsa jar then drops it on the floor where it explodes and splatters out a pattern resembling a squished octopus. Looks like Mr. Ceepak's been doing the salsa-bomb drops for a while now. The linoleum up and down the aisle is blotted with tomato and jalapeÃ±o chunks. We definitely need a mop in aisle six.

“Guys?” Ceepak calls to the first officers on the scene: Mark Malloy and Adam Kiger. They're at the far end of the aisle, blocking Mr. Ceepak's retreat. We're at the front end, near the five-gallon buckets of pretzels. “Clear out those civilians behind you. Move them toward the deli counter.”

“Ten-four,” says Kiger. He heads off to manage crowd control. Malloy stays in position to block the elder Mr. Ceepak's potential escape route.

“What?” laughs Mr. Ceepak. “You gotta move folks out of harm's way, boy? Why? You gonna gun me down?”

“Only if I have to.”

“Bullshit! You don't have the balls!”

I hear Velcro rip back. Ceepak's unfastening the flap that secures his Glock inside its holster. I do the same.

“You want a beer, Johnny?” The crazy old bastard tears open another cardboard suitcase of Budweiser.

“No. I want you to kneel on the floor and put your hands behind your back.”

“Kneel? You think I'm some kind of altar boy like your faggot brother Billy? Forget it! I'm not kneeling down in front of you, Johnny! No way in hell am I doing that!”

“Do it! Now!”

“Fuck you, Johnny. Okay? Fuck you! Hey, Malloy?” he shouts over his shoulder. “Johnny ever tell you how he bent up the fuclcing frame on his first bike? One car in the whole goddamn parking lot and he rams right into it. He any better at pistols than he was with bikes? You know what, Malloy? If I were you, I'd get the hell out of Dodgeâ”

“Kneel on the floor! Do it!”

“Fuck you!” Mr. Ceepak flings the torn cardboard suitcase full of twelve-ounce cans to his left. Some fly free and smash into the lowest shelf, tearing it off its bracket. Snacks get crushed. Nothing serious. Peanut butter cheese crackers, mostly.

“Where the fuck is she, Johnny? Where the hell did you hide my wife?”

Man, are we drawing a crowd. The grocery store is always jammed at 5:00 because everybody's done with the beach for the day and now they're trying to figure out what they're going to eat for supper. So Mr. Ceepak isn't the only one interested in what's on sale in the beer and chips aisle. These people are on vacation. Beer and chips? Down the shore, they're like beef: it's what's for dinner.

“Where the fuck did you hide your goddamn mother?”

“Okay,” I say, because, basically, I've had enough. “You heard Officer Ceepak.” I walk past my partner. Move down the aisle, march at old man Ceepak. First off, I think the grizzled drunk might actually obey a police officer who isn't his son. Second, he's so tanked, I don't think he can hurt me, even if he takes a swing with another suitcase full of beer cans. I'm guessing if he tries, it'll be high and wide and slow. “Please kneel down on the floor, sir.”

“Fuck you, kid.”

“Not here. Too many spectators.”

“Whaa?” He's blitzed and befuddled.

I place a hand gently yet firmly on his shoulder. “Turn around, sir.”

“I thought you wanted me to kneel on the floor?”

“Nah. I changed my mind. Made what we call a situational adjustmeant.”

“Whaat?” I think I'm confusing him. Good. All part of the plan. To tell the truth, I don't expect much resistance. He's totally smashed. Been drinking all day. Probably ready to sleep some of it off. It's how I used to feel after an all-day-and-nighter with my beach buddies. I also think getting arrested is what he wants or he wouldn't have told Kiger and Malloy that he was Ceepak's dad. I think he wants to bunk down in the jail back at police headquarters so he can bug my partner 24-7.

“Just put your hands behind your back and we'll call it a day, okay? You think you can manage that? The turning around bit?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles and stumbles into a turn. “Like this?”

“Excellent. Nicely done, sir.” I slip a pair of FlexiCuffs over his wrists. “You, of course, have the right to remain silent.”

He belchesâpassing on that particular constitutional privilege.

“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law,” I continue. “You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand these rights as I've recited them to you?”

“Yeah. You did it good. Just like on TV.”

“Thank you, sir. Let's go book you a bed.” I indicate with a light
shoulder tap that he should try to start walking forward. He does. It's more of a shuffle, but we're moving in the right direction.

“Can I grab a couple beers for the road?”

“Sorry. No can do.”

“Hell, it's cocktail hour.”

“I know what you mean,” I say as I help him maneuver up the aisle toward his son. “Like you say, it's always five o'clock somewhere.”

“You're okay, kid.”

“If you say so, sir. Come on. Let's go.”

“Is Johnny coming with us?”

“Yeah,” I say. “It's his turn to drive.”

“Careful, kid. He might wreck the car like he wrecked that damn bike.”

“Sounds like good times, sir. Good times.”

He looks at me. Dazed now. His few functional brain cells scrambled like scalded eggs in a skillet.

Sometimes I have that effect on people. Even sober people.

We lock
up Mr. Ceepak in our holding cell, where he'll spend the night on a drunk and disorderly.

“You handled that well, Danny,” says Ceepak.

“I speak âDrunk.' Besides, if it was my old man, you would've done the same thing.”

“Does your father frequently steal warm beer and drink it in the middle of a crowded grocery store while simultaneously destroying snack food items?”

“No. But this one timeâI swear I saw him pluck a grape in the produce section and plop it in his mouth.”

Ceepak smiles. “Fine. The next time your dad's in town, it'll be my pleasure to arrest him.”

“Cool. So let's go look at that tape again.”

“Roger that.”

He heads up the hall toward the front desk.

All the other cops milling around in the lobby are trying real hard to not make eye contact with Ceepak. Face it, it's pretty embarrassing,
having to haul your old man into the slammer so he can sleep off a drunk. Sons are supposed to be the ones out on the street raising hell. Not fathers.

“Excuse me? Sirs? I am so glad I found you!”

It's Samantha Starky, bounding through the front door and swinging open the little gate that separates the public from the police.

“The Smith sisters are fine, Rita's looking after them, so I took my mother an iced mocha latte.” She's hyped up on adrenaline, maybe latte fumes. “You know that house on Kipper Street? The one where we had to do that ten-forty-three run Friday night, sir? The house that guy Sergeant Dixon said belonged to his uncle?”

“Yeah. Sure.” I remember all this but I'm not half as wound up about it as Starky.

“Well, sirs, he was lying!”

Naturally, Ceepak's ears perk up. “How so?”

“My mom? She's a Realtor down at All-A-Shore Realty?”

When Starky's excited, everything comes out sounding like a question.

“They've had one heck of a time renting it this summer.”

She hands us each a real estate flyer for 22 Kipper Street. Five bedrooms, three baths, six beach badges, all utilities included. The weekly rental price has, according to the screaming type in an exploding sunburst, been “$eriously Slashed.” Guess that's why there's still a For Rent sign stuck in the front yard: nobody was biting for the old “$eriously Expen$ive” price.

“My mom says the family that usually rents that house every July for like twenty years all of a sudden at the last minute decided to go to Europe or Disney World.”

Maybe they'll just hit Epcot Center and see'em both.

“You say the owner isn't Sergeant Dixon's uncle?” asks Ceepak.

“No, sir. Mr. Ryan O'Malley owns it. Skip's dad.”

Apparently, the O'Malley family took some of their hard-earned King Putt profits and plowed them into real estate ventures.

“And you know what else?” says Starky. “Sergeant Dixon isn't even
the one who rented it! Somebody down in Washington did. Called in the middle of last week.”

Ceepak's extremely interested now. Me too.

“Is your mother at liberty to divulge the renter's identity?”

Starky shrugs. “I guess so. Even if she isn't, she already told me it was some guy from Senator Worthington's office! I thought that was pretty coolâthe senator personally paying for the house so his son and the other soldiers could come up here for a little R and R.”

Rest and relaxation.

Or, perhaps, rendezvous and rubout.

“Do you think that's why he rented it?” Starky asks Ceepak. “To say âthanks' to his son and the other soldiers?”

“I won't speculate on Senator's Worthington's motives at this juncture,” says Ceepak.

Me? I speculate that the senator rented the house to lure Smith into uncharted waters so his goon squadâthe musclemen with the nice suits, sunglasses, and knockwurst necksâcould eliminate a threat to his ambitions for higher elective office. I'm guessing Special Forces Operatives stage suicides all the time. They probably even have a training manual for it.

“What day did the phone call come in?” asks Ceepak.

“Wednesday.”

Ceepak marches over to the reception desk, picks up a phone, and presses in a number.

While he waits for someone to answer, I try to remember what movie I saw where the presidential candidate and his mother killed anybody who got their way. It was either
The Manchurian Candidate
or
Big Momma's White House
.

“Room three-fourteen,” Ceepak says into the phone.

I figure he's calling that Holiday Inn.

“Tonya? John Ceepak. No, ma'am, but I think we're getting closer. Question: when did Shareef first ask to borrow your car?” Ceepak jots something on a pad of paper. “And he left on Friday?” Another note. “Thank you. No. I think it would be best if you remained at the hotel for
the time being.” He looks at Starky. “I'm sending Samantha Starky back out to join you.”

Starky snaps to attention. Nods an “aye-aye, sir” over to Ceepak. Attempts to make her cute face severely serious. It almost works.

“No,” Ceepak says over the phone to Tonya Smith. “I don't anticipate any trouble. I'd just like to have Officer Starky act as my eyes and ears out there since my wife will soon be vacating the premises. Right. Stay inside your room. Stay safe. Thank you.”

He hangs up.

“I'm on my way, sir,” Starky says to Ceepak.

“Use channel five on your radio if you need to contact us,” he says. “Danny? Go to five.”

I twist the knob on the walkie-talkie anchored on my belt.

“In case of emergency, also contact the house and request backup. I'll keep my portable tuned to the main frequency.”

“Will do, sir.”

“Thank you,” says Ceepak.

“My pleasure.” She turns on her heel, slaps on her sunglasses, and dashes out the door.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Let's go look at the tape.”

“Right.”

We concentrate on the time period between 9:30 and 10:30 because we know that Smith and Worthington meet at 10:09 PM., head into the rest area at 10:16, and the upper right-hand quadrant of the screen goes black at 10:20 when someone snips the surveillance camera cable.

We focus on the upper left-hand frame first, the other camera mounted in the parking lot on the northbound side of the rest area.

We see nothing. A couple SUVs, sure. But no Denalis like the senator's bodyguards tool around in.

“Maybe Worthington pulled in on the other side,” I suggest.

“Good point, Danny. He was coming
down
to exit fifty-two from
Sea Haven, transporting the locally distributed drugs. Therefore, he would have entered the lot on the southbound side.”

“We don't know what kind of car Worthington drives.”

“Inconsequential. We already know he was there. We are most interested in determining if anybody followed him.”

So we focus on the bottom right and bottom left boxes.

“No Denalis,” I announce when the time code rolls past 10:10. If they were following Worthington, the bodyguards should've shown by now.

“This pickup truck,” says Ceepak as he taps the bottom right square. “Why does it look so familiar?”

“It's the pirates'! Remember? They were working on it up in Feenyville when we paid them that visit! What time did it show up?”

Ceepak rocks the video back a minute or two. Tracks the truck's entrance. “Twenty-two-twenty-one.”

Ten twenty-one PM.

I glance up at the upper right-hand box. It's already black.

“So the pirates didn't cut the cable.”

“Unless,” says Ceepak, “they asked Osvaldo Vargas to do that particular job.”

“Nope,” I say. “Not unless he's the Flash.” I tap the screen. “That looks like him right there!”

We watch a short man come out of the rest area building. The lighting is good. Ceepak manipulates the zoom and we get a pretty good look at the janitor as he hops into the back of the pirates' pickup truck. It sure looks like Osvaldo Vargas.

“Apparently,” says Ceepak, “Mr. Vargas left work early Friday night.” His eyes stay glued on the spinning digital clock. I'm not sure why. It hits 22:22. Twenty-two minutes after ten. The truck starts to move. Vargas is seated in the cargo bay. The vehicle disappears from the lower right square and enters the box on the lower left-hand side as it moves through the southbound-side parking lots. Finally, it crosses that frame and, about thirty seconds later, reappears in the upper left-hand quadrant.

“There they go,” I say. “Swinging around to the northbound side.”

Ceepak picks up my train of thought as the pickup truck disappears. “Where they will discover Smith's car and remove his air bags and CD changer.”

Which they will do unseen in the blacked-out box in the top right corner.

“We need to head back to the hospital,” says Ceepak.

“You still want to interrogate Lieutenant Worthington?”

He shakes his head. “No, Danny. His father.”