Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

I figure in his spare time Dr. Hausler memorizes the portal pages to porn sites.

“Do you know of any other men who were dating Ms. Baker?” Ceepak asks.

“Pick up the phone book.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Look for a rich man. Probably someone older. A lot older. Very wealthy.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Gail liked her bling. The shinier and flashier the better. On our last date, I gave her this diamond pendant necklace. Cost five thousand dollars at the Tiffany store over in Red Bank. Came in the little blue box with the bow, the whole megillah. You know what Gail said when I gave it to her?”

We play along. Shake our heads.

“She told me it was cute. That’s when I noticed her diamond earrings. They probably cost four times as much as my chintzy necklace!”

The happy couple in the black-and-white photo behind the counter is still smiling. Dr. Hausler, not so much.

“We’ll attempt to corroborate your story with the escort service,” says Ceepak, “and we may need to speak with you again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

The way he says it, it sounds like he’s commenting on the state of his life, not his travel plans.

Ceepak’s cell chirps. The personal line.

He answers it.

“Hello.”

I hear a voice leaking out, and it doesn’t sound like Rita or his stepson, T.J. I know both their squawks.

“How did you get this phone number? I see. No. It’s not a problem, Skip. I’m glad you called. That’s right. We are currently investigating her death. And, may I offer you my condolences. If memory serves, you and Gail dated a few years back.”

Yep. Back when Skippy was a part-timer with a cell phone stuck to his ear when he should’ve been directing traffic.

“We’re on our way.”

He closes up the cell phone.

“Dr. Hausler, thank you for your time.”

“Sure. I … I …” He fumbles for words. “I’m sorry someone did what they did to Gail. She was so full of life. Now she’s dead.”

He probably should’ve fumbled a little longer.

Ceepak nods grimly. Gestures toward the door.

We head out, hit the parking lot.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Skip O’Malley. He, like Dr. Hausler, thinks Gail Baker may have been dating a wealthier, older man.”

“Really? Who?”

“His father.”

King Putt Mini Golf is starting to get crowded.

This is where the families with kids come after they boogie-board on the beach all day, before they go out for the fifth pizza of the week. More will come after dinner, before ice cream.

We park off to the side of the big pink pyramid, right beside the King Putt pickup truck. The door panel is painted with a bubble-nosed cartoon of the boy king in his Pharaoh hat-a green golf ball where the emerald scarab usually goes.

As we hike across the parking lot I can see a sunburned boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts lining up his shot on hole number eleven: The Sphinx. I want to tell him to forget about aiming for the tunnel between the lion’s paws, go for the bank shot; carom your ball off the curb to the right. But he’s nine and I’m supposed to be more mature. Just ask Mrs. Starky.

“T.J. and his buddies are coming here tomorrow morning,” says Ceepak. “A farewell to Sea Haven party. Rita’s organizing it. I hope we don’t have to miss the entire affair. I imagine we will be rather busy.”

Hi diddly dee. The cop’s life for me. Duty calls, the family suffers.

Ceepak’s stepson will be shipping off to Annapolis in a couple of weeks to start what they call “Plebe Summer.” Apparently, it’s the naval academy’s version of boot camp. T.J. will not get to see any family or have any liberty or shore leave (or whatever they call hanging out with your buddies) until Plebe Parents’ Weekend in August.

“Is Dave Tranotti gonna be at the big send-off?”

“Roger that.”

“Cool.”

Tranotti is a little older than T.J. and is already a midshipman at Canoe U., which is what some people call the naval academy. Tranotti, another local, is the one who put the bug in T.J.’s ear about applying for an appointment to Annapolis. Some guys grow up this close to the ocean, they want to play with boats for the rest of their lives. BIG boats.

Ceepak taps his top shirt pocket. “I need to pay for the boys.” He pulls out a folded-over check to make sure it’s there, stuffs it back in.

Skippy comes out of the office pyramid in a windbreaker that covers the top half of his pleated Egyptian chariot driver skirt. I see the Pharaoh hat stuffed in the pocket.

“Thanks for coming over, you guys,” he says, sounding kind of nervous. “I have a fifteen-minute break. Maybe we could talk across the street? One of those benches?”

He points to the Pig’s Commitment, a restaurant where pork and pancakes are the main attractions. There are a couple of benches out front for people waiting for tables during the morning rush. It’s six P.M., so they’re empty.

That means I get to see Mrs. Starky’s horse-tooth smile again.

There’s an ad for All-A-Shore Realty on the back of the bench.

“Uh, Mr. O’Malley?” someone calls behind us.

It’s a guy in green coveralls holding a Weed Whacker.

“What is it, Fred?”

Fred lifts the Weed Whacker a little higher. “I ran out of gas.”

“Then refill it.”

“Okay.” We can see Fred thinking. It appears to be hard work. “Should I, like, go down to the gas station?”

Skippy gives us a perturbed “do-you-see-what-I-have-to-work-with” sigh.

“There’s a gas can in the shed!” He gestures toward another pyramid, about fifteen feet tall, situated behind some fake palm trees on the far side of the bright blue River Nile snaking through the course. I see there are two handles on the front of the triangular structure. Clever. A hidden tool shed.

“Okay. Thanks, boss. When I refill the gas, should I keep whacking the weeds?”

“Yes-but only in the parking lot and around the fences. Not where people are playing!”

“You got it, Skipper!”

Fred salutes and bops off to gas up.

Skipper shakes his head. Sighs again. We go across the street.

“I found this when I was taking out the trash this morning. I try to pull out any recyclable paper. My dad just stuffs everything into one big can.”

He shows us a sheet of paper with something printed on it. It’s stained brown and dripping at the bottom.

“Sorry,” says Skip. “Dad wadded it up and crammed it into an almost empty cup of coffee.”

Ceepak reaches into his cargo pants pockets, pulls out a pair of forceps so he can examine what appears to be a digital photo printout.

It’s a picture of Skippy’s father, his arm draped around Gail Baker’s bikini’d waist at the Rusty Scupper. I recognize the red-and-white-checked tablecloths in the background. He’s holding a bottle of beer. She’s got her waitress pad. Both Gail and Mr. O’Malley are laughing, like they just shared a joke with whoever is behind the camera.

“He was trying to get rid of it,” says Skippy. “When I heard Gail had been killed …” He chokes up for second. “Twice in one week. The bastard …”

“Come again?”

“Nothing.”

Ceepak takes a small paper bag out of the below-the-knee pocket on the left leg of his cargo pants. Slips the crinkled picture into the evidence bag.

“Is this your only evidence of a relationship between your father and Ms. Baker?”

“Yeah. I mean, so far. I could, you know, look around. Check his phone records.”

“That won’t be necessary,” says Ceepak. “And thank you for bringing this evidence to our attention.”