Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Looks like someone is staying here,” says Ceepak, indicating a recyclables bin at the corner. In the Rubbermaid barrel, I see dark green champagne bottles, vodka bottles, scotch bottles, and one of those squat cognac bottles you see in magazines but figured nobody ever actually drank out of because liquid gold would be cheaper.

We march up the concrete walkway past some shrubs, the kind that look like pine-coated curly fries. When we get to the porch we see something the neighbors probably can’t see or we’d get all sorts of complaints: lewd garden gnome sculptures, including a nude Mama and Papa Smurf testing out the springs in their ceramic Smurf bed and a naughty gnome flashing her boobies. There’s another gnome, wearing nothing but his red pointy hat, perched at the edge of the porch. He’s poised to pee on the rose bushes.

We ring the doorbell.

Knock on the door.

Ring again.

Knock again.

So unless the porno statues start talking, we’ve got nothing.

“We need to talk to Samantha’s mother,” says Ceepak. “See if she knows who rents out this house. Who the current occupants might be.”

Sam’s mom, Mrs. Starky, knows everything about everybody-a fact that creeps me out on a regular basis.

Santucci and Murray stroll across the street from number 2 Tangerine.

“You guys get anything?” asks Santucci.

“One dog who heard something at three A.M.,” I answer.

“Next door? The rug rat, right? Puck. Thing barks like a maniac. Yip-yip-yip.”

“How’d you get there before us?”

“The early bird gets the worm, Boyle. We got bubkis on the south side.” Santucci looks at his watch. “Three o’clock on the dot. I’m heading home. Guess you guys can’t, huh, Ceepak? Guess that comes with being ‘in charge’ of shit. Enjoy. Come on, Murray. Let’s roll. The Yankees are playing tonight.”

Santucci swaggers up the street toward their parked patrol car.

Murray hangs back. “You guys need anything? I’m good tonight if you want an extra pair of legs.”

“Appreciate that, Dylan,” says Ceepak. “Danny and I might run down some of Ms. Baker’s known acquaintances this evening. Not much more we can do until the M.E. completes the autopsy and MCU shares what they learn from the forensics.”

Dylan nods. “You need anything, give me a shout.”

“Murray?” Santucci screams. “Come on. I don’t want to miss the first pitch.”

Which isn’t for, like, four hours.

Murray, shaking his head, takes off to join Santucci.

“Where next?” I ask Ceepak, because the Mets aren’t playing so I got nothing to hurry home for.

“Your bartender friend. It might be our most efficient means of piecing together a more complete picture of Ms. Baker’s romantic entanglements.”

“Yeah. Bud knows more than even Mrs. Starky.”

We swing by the house since it’s on the way to Big Kahuna’s.

I need to hit the locker room and get out of my funeral clothes. Ceepak wants to check in with Denise Diego, see how she’s coming with Gail Baker’s cell phone records.

As we walk up the front steps, Mayor Hugh Sinclair is walking down. For a change, his sunglasses are on his nose instead of dangling around his neck on a Croakie.

“Hot one,” he says to Ceepak, his face crinkling into a squint.

“Yes, sir.”

“Say, guys, I was just talking to Chief Baines. Couple things …”

Here we go.

“Now, I know you two don’t need to be reminded of this, but let’s not blow this thing out of proportion. The young girl ran into somebody she shouldn’t have. They meet in a seaside bar, she had one too many kamikazes, one thing leads to another …”

“Was there something else?” says Ceepak, who never likes to make any murder the victim’s fault.

“Yeah. Let’s not bother the neighbors up and down the street where you found the suitcases. For all we know, the bags were just dumped there because, well, for no reason whatsoever. Some out-of-towner, he picks up the beach babe in a bar, hacks her to pieces in the parking lot, stuffs her into a couple empty suitcases, then drives around town looking for a quiet street, and he just happens to pick Tangerine. So let’s not punish the folks on that street for something none of them had anything to do with.”

Ceepak takes off his own sunglasses so he can peer with confusion at Mayor Sinclair. “So far, we have made contact with only one resident on Tangerine Street. A Mrs. D’Ambrosio.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

“We took her statement.”

Ceepak’s not going to lie but he’s not going to tell Mr. Bright-Yellow-Polo-Shirt everything we know, either.

“We need to be inside,” he says.

“Right. One more thing, guys: We need to treat this like the heart attack thing on the roller coaster. Keep it on the Q.T. School’s out in three weeks. Let’s not scare off any potential tourists by blabbing about it to the mainstream media.”

“We do not discuss any ongoing investigation with the media. That’s why we have a public affairs officer. Danny?”

I give the mayor a two-finger salute off the bill of my cop hat, or where the bill would have been if I were wearing my uniform, which I’m not because I had to waste time on the steps with the mayor.

I do a quick change in the locker room, say hi to everybody hanging out around the coffee pot, and then Ceepak and I check in with Denise Diego in our tech center.

She’s removed all the Lord of the Rings figurines from her workstation and replaced them with Dark Knight paraphernalia. I just hope she doesn’t start doing that Joker lipstick thing. She eats so many nacho cheese Doritos, she already has an orange ring around her lips.

“How’s it going?” Ceepak asks.

“Excellent. Just had to wait for the M.E. to officially declare Ms. Baker dead, which happened moments ago. Verizon’s pulling everything now. Should have it in a couple of hours.”

“Well done. Thank you, Denise.”

“No problemo. ‘I like this job! I like it!’”

Ceepak stares. I chuckle. It’s a line from the Batman movie.

We’re officially off the clock, but we stay on the job.

It’s the Ceepakian way.

Around five P.M., we pull into the parking lot of Big Kahuna’s Dance Club. The place doesn’t really start hopping until around nine, so we have our pick of spots. Except the handicap ones near the front door. Ceepak would never take one of those even if we are the only car in the parking lot. That would be cheating.

The second we enter the nightclub I smell spilt beer, wet carpet, and stale perfume. The place smells like a hangover feels. We see Bud behind the bar slicing lime wedges for people to jam into their Coronas. Next he’ll probably do the oranges for bottles of Blue Moon. I hope no new beer starts a fad with kiwi fruit any time soon.

“Hey, Bud,” I say.

“Danny boy, what’s up?”

“Nothin’.”

Okay, this is what guys say even when they walk into a bar before it’s officially open while wearing a full police uniform-gun, cuffs, baton, and walkie-talkie included-accompanied by a six-two tower of power, also in uniform

“We need to ask you a couple of questions,” I say since any Bar Zone is in my area of forensic expertise. “This is my partner, Officer John Ceepak.”

Bud wipes his limey hands on his apron so he can shake with Ceepak without making him smell like a Mojito.

“Dude,” he says as he and Ceepak shake. “Heard all about you. You guys need a beverage? Coke? Fruit juice? I figure you can’t do a beer and a shot.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “Water would be nice.”

“Danny?”

“I’m cool.”