Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Someone who was there at the same time as your father and Ms. Baker.”

“Who?”

“We are not at liberty to divulge the witness’s name.”

“That’s it,” says Rambo the lawyer, “we’re done here. Take your donuts and go. This ends our voluntary participation in your witch hunt.”

Up comes Mr. O’Malley’s hand to silence his attorney. “Hang on, Louie. Did you say number One Tangerine, officer?”

Ceepak nods.

“I remember now.”

Kevin’s shaking his head. Looks like Dad is about to go rogue. Cook up his own lies.

“I took Ms. Baker there to meet Bruno, that is, Mr. Mazzilli. She needed financing and Stromboli Enterprises is always looking for interesting new ventures, especially anything involving seasonal eating establishments. I thought the two of them should meet.”

Right. It was a Junior Achievement field trip. To the hot tub.

Ceepak flips forward another page in his book.

“Mr. O’Malley, why did your late wife fly to Buffalo, New York, two years ago?”

“What?”

“Why did she fly to Buffalo, New York?”

“You’re out of bounds officer,” says Rambowski.

“Mr. O’Malley?” says Ceepak, ignoring the lawyer.

“Buffalo is where Jackie’s sister lives. She, I don’t remember … Jackie might’ve gone there two years ago … just to visit. Was it around the holidays?”

Ceepak nods. “November.”

“Okay,” says Mr. O’Malley. “Two years ago. Yeah. She did Thanksgiving at her sister’s place. Took Mary with her. I took the boys to Morgan’s Surf and Turf.”

“How is any of this relevant?” asks the lawyer.

My turn to arch an eyebrow because I don’t know where Ceepak’s going with this.

He turns to me. “Sorry, Danny. I failed to mention this new piece of evidence earlier. I’m afraid I was too intently focused on securing the safety of our star witness.”

I shrug. Whatever. I’m cool.

“What the hell are you trying to pull here?” demands Rambowski. “Surprise evidence? Secret star witnesses? You watch too much TV, Officer.

“Perhaps so,” says Ceepak. “However, be that as it may, earlier this morning, Continental Airlines was able to extrapolate enough information from the luggage tag remnants the State Police Major Crimes Unit removed from the handles of the two rolling suitcases containing Ms. Baker’s dismembered body.”

“And?”

“Those were your late wife’s suitcases, Mr. O’Malley.”

The pompoms.

Ceepak was right. The suitcases belonged to a woman. Mrs. O’Malley.

Things aren’t looking so hot for her husband right about now. The victim texted him at midnight. Somebody used white shoe polish to paint over the blood splotches in the shower stall and Mr. O’Malley is the only adult male I know who actually wears white shoes that aren’t sneakers. Then he calls the mayor from the scene of the crime. And the suitcases Gail Baker’s body parts are stuffed into belong to his wife.

I’m ready for Ceepak to read the roller coaster mogul his Miranda rights.

Instead, he looks at his watch.

“What time is your grand opening?” he asks.

“Hmm?” says Mr. O’Malley, who looks like he’s in a state of shock.

“We’re going ten to ten,” says Kevin. “We’re keeping it simple this time. Just a tie-in with WAVY. They’ll do an all-day live remote broadcast, but down on the ground, not in the cars. That’s our only planned publicity, but Dad should be there for the kickoff.”

Sounds like Kevin is expecting Ceepak to slap on the cuffs, too.

“When do you anticipate being free again, Mr. O’Malley?” asks Ceepak.

It’s an interesting choice of words. I’m tempted to blurt, “Never” because life plus twenty-four-years was the sentence handed down to the last sick dude who killed and dismembered a Jersey girl a couple of years back.

“I’m sorry, what was the question?” says Mr. O’Malley, his eyes looking as vacant as the Mussel Beach Motel in March.

“When will you be able to continue answering our questions?”

“If you have more questions, ask them now,” says the tough-guy shyster, trying to force Ceepak’s hand.

“Unfortunately, we have not yet been able to search the house at number One Tangerine. Judge Rasmussen, however, will be issuing a search warrant within the next two hours. Further questioning of Mr. O’Malley will be contingent on what we find inside the residence.”

The lawyer tosses up both arms. The shoulder pads in his spiffy suit bunch up around his neck. “This is preposterous! You can’t keep my client on tenterhooks!”

Ceepak ignores Rambowski, focuses on the pages of his spiral-bound note pad. I need to buy some of those. Might stop me from making faces at dipstick attorneys in Italian silk suits that cost more than I’ll make all month when they use words like “tenterhooks,” which sounds like something REI might sell to campers so they can hang up their pup tents.

“I do have one more question,” says Ceepak.

“What?” demands the lawyer, his hands shooting to his hips.

“Why, Mr. O’Malley, do you wear white buck shoes?”

“What?” says his lawyer. “How can my client’s choice of shoes have any bearing on-”

Up comes Mr. O’Malley’s silencing hand again.

“Why,” he says slowly, “did Colonel Sanders wear a string bow tie or Orville Reddenbacher those glasses? It’s all about branding. Folks see my white bucks and seersucker suit, they know it’s me from a mile away. I want to dress like it’s summer three hundred sixty-five days a year because summer is what my business is all about.”

Ceepak nods. Makes sense to him. Maybe he belonged to Junior Achievement back in Ohio. Doubtful, but possible. John Ceepak has lived his life trying to do the right thing, which is seldom the thing that will also make you rich.

“What brand shoe polish do you use?” Ceepak asks when he’s done nodding.

“What?”

“Is there a particular brand of white shoe polish you prefer?”

Mr. O’Malley looks to his son. “Kevin?”

“Kiwi. The liquid polish. It’s best for scuffs.”

“Kevin gets it for me.”

“They carry it at the Acme, CVS. It’s a rather common brand.”

“Thank you,” says Ceepak as he dutifully jots down Kiwi on a fresh sheet in his tidy notebook. “Do you polish your own shoes?”

“Huh?” says Mr. O’Malley.

The lawyer laughs a little. “This isn’t the army, officer. My client can’t be reprimanded for not spit-polishing his shoes.”

“I think Jackie had the maid take care of it,” says Mr. O’Malley, his voice distant. “She always told me to leave a pair outside my bedroom door first thing in the morning. Guess I’m going to have to take over running the household, too.”

“I’ll help,” says Kevin.

“Thanks, son. I really miss your mother … all that she did for me … for the family.”

Everybody’s in sympathetic-nod mode.

Except me.

I think Mr. O’Malley killed my friend Gail. Sliced her up like a butcher working through a side of beef. I really don’t care who’s going to polish his shoes or run his home. Heck, he may not have to worry about it, either; I have a feeling he’ll soon be rooming at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. They don’t wear white bucks. Goes against their brand image as “inmates.”

Ceepak stands up, somewhat abruptly. “We’ll talk with you gentlemen again at noon. Please present yourselves at police headquarters on Cherry Street at that time.”

Rambowski takes a step forward and it looks like he wants to go chest to chest with Ceepak. Good luck with that, pal.

“Do you have plans to incarcerate my client at that time?”