Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“And who was on that flight,” I add.

“Precisely.”

“Would the killer use his own suitcases?”

“If he or she acted in haste, hadn’t premeditated the mutilation, he or she might.”

“What’s the other thing?”

“Next to the torn tags.”

I see orange yarn pom-poms. One on each handle.

“That’s what my mom does,” I say. “So she can spot her suitcase on the baggage carousel.”

“Does your father do the same thing?”

“Nah. Only women do that.”

“Such has been my experience as well.”

So …

That’s why Ceepak was doing the “he or she” thing.

Maybe Gail didn’t run into a jealous old boyfriend. Maybe she bumped into somebody’s girlfriend who couldn’t stand the competition.

The MCU people arrive.

The boss is a new guy named Bill Botzong who took over when Dr. Sandra McDaniels retired after working her last case in Atlantic City.

She’d seen enough, she told Ceepak. Except her grandkids; them she wanted to see more.

“Has anything been moved?” Botzong asks.

Ceepak has to explain Santucci’s rummaging through the luggage looking for ID and then his repacking of said luggage.

“This Santucci still here?” asks Botzong.

“Across the street,” says Ceepak. “Knocking on doors.”

“Good,” says Botzong, who looks like a chemistry teacher I had in high school, only he’s wearing the navy blue CSI shirt plus aviator glasses and a Star Trek Bluetooth device in his ear. On weekends, I’m guessing, he goes to comic book conventions. “Hey, Carolyn?” he calls out to one of his crew.

“Yeah?”

“Put in a call to that forensic anthropologist in PA. The guy who analyzes knife and saw marks. I want to know what our guy used to decapitate our victim and sever her limbs. Serrated kitchen knife or Ginzu, hacksaw or chainsaw? I want make, model, and manufacturer’s suggested retail price.”

“On it.”

“Carolyn Miller,” says Botzong as Miller walks away. “Good people. Getting her doctorate in forensic geology. She’ll be all over the ground here. If there’s a footprint or a wad of chewing gum or a pebble from a parking lot on the other side of the island, she’ll find it.”

“We noted that the sand has been raked to mask footprints,” says Ceepak.

“Yeah. But the rake man didn’t know I was bringing Carolyn. You walk on water, she’ll tell me your shoe size.”

“We’re going to work this side of the street,” says Ceepak. “Canvass for witnesses. We’ve initiated retrieval of the victim’s phone records and have requested a search warrant for her apartment. We’ll send over a team. Lock it down for your guys.”

“You the lead on this thing for SHPD?”

“Ten-four.”

“Good. Sandy McDaniels told me I should hire you to come work for us. Interested?”

“Not right now.”

“Think about it. You work with us, you get one of these.” He points to his Bluetooth device. Now he gestures toward the crime scene. “When we know anything, you’ll know it, too.”

“Appreciate that.”

“Hey, George-we need to wrangle a truck to get these suitcases back to the lab as soon as Susan’s done taking pictures. Something with refrigeration. Get on the horn, see if a grocery store or a water-ice shop or Ben and Jerry’s or the local Boar’s Head meat distributor can help us out here-”

While the CSI guys comb the crime scene and pack up their gruesome luggage, Ceepak and I head up the block toward the beach.

We ring doorbells, knock on doors. Tangerine Street is a ghost town. The lights aren’t on and nobody’s home. We move to the next block, the one closest to the beach. In Sea Haven, the closer your home is to the pristine sandy beaches, the higher the price tag. The homes in this block are big and boxy and built on stilts so they won’t get flooded when the next hurricane hits.

“Rentals,” I say to Ceepak as we walk away from our tenth empty home. These mansions are a lot like Sea Haven-they fill up after the Fourth of July and empty out after Labor Day.

Finally, at number 3 Tangerine Street, we find a human being.

And a dog.

We actually hear from the dog first, because the instant we ding the dong, there’s snarling and growling on the other side of the door.

“Puck? Sit!”

Puck is not sitting. His paws are still trying to scrape through the door.

“Puck? Heel!”

Okay, I’m not a dog owner, but I know “heel” is not the correct command in this situation, unless, of course, the screaming woman is giving tips on what part of our bodies the mutt should aim for first.

I see Ceepak unsnapping the right thigh pocket on his cargo pants. That’s where he keeps the Snausages.

The door creaks open. About two inches.

The snarling beast is a little yappy lap dog. One of those white fluff balls that looks like a dust mop without the pole.

Towering over him is a woman in a bathrobe. Her hair is bundled up in a towel turban. She has seaweed smeared all over her face. We’ll call her Mrs. Shrek.

“May I give your dog a treat?” asks Ceepak. He always asks first. In these pricey neighborhoods, you never know when the mutts might be on a holistic, wheat-free, ultra-low-carb, all-raw, mercury-free, vegan doggy diet.

“What is it?” the woman asks.

Told you.

“A new product called Snawsomes. Peanut butter and apple flavor. My dog loves them.”

“Sorry. Puck is only allowed Banana Pupcakes. Our maid bakes them.”

Puck drops to all fours and is content to grumble at us. Or his owner. I think he sniffed out the Snawsomes and is miffed that he has to go organic.

“Maria was giving me a seaweed facial,” she says, gesturing toward her green mask. Guess that’s why it looks like she fell asleep over a bowl of split-pea soup. “Are you two here on official business?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Officer Ceepak. This is my partner, Officer Boyle.”

“Valerie D’Ambrosio.”

“Ms. D’Ambrosio, the Sea Haven Police Department is investigating an incident here on Tangerine Street.”

“Did someone call in a complaint? Because it wasn’t me.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual last night.”

She hesitates. “No. But, as I told the other officer, I sleep with ear plugs.”

“What other officer?”

“I forget. Italian name. Santa Lucci.”

“Santucci?”

“Yes. Do you know him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I glance over my shoulder. See Santucci and Murray working the opposite side of the street. I wonder how they got here before us.

The woman in the door crack shifts her weight. Ceepak and I see way too much thigh. It’s spray-tanned and scary. Think congealed beef gravy.

“You know, come to think of it, Puck might’ve heard something-very late. Three or four in the morning.”

“How’s that?”

“He started barking up a storm. I didn’t get out of bed, of course. My doctor has me on Ambien. Makes me groggy.”

“Do you know the people who live up the street at 145 Tangerine?”

“No.”

Ceepak fishes a business card out of his shirt pocket. “If you think of anything else, please give us a call.”

We walk away from the house.

“So how did Santucci get down here before us?” I ask.

“Not knowing, can’t say.”

“Sounds like the dog is our only witness.”

“So far, Danny. So far.”

We have one more house to check out on this side of the street, so we hike down the asphalt. There are no sidewalks on Tangerine, just the pavement, then the sandy edge of the pavement, and then more sand, speckled with weed patches.

We pass a small breezeway between number 3 and number 1 Tangerine Street, definitely the most expensive house on the block. These ones on the beach corner usually sell for a couple million dollars. Then the new owner tears the old house down and builds a modern-art masterpiece of sharp angles with multiple sun decks for one or two million more. Up the breezeway, I see an outdoor shower, so the renters, or owners, can wash the sand and salt out of their hair when they come up from the beach.