Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

Ceepak nods. So I say, “Interesting” to the phone like he would.

“Sure is. If shampoo was in her hair, some foam should have trickled down to her shoulders, her torso. There should even be a trace amount on her hands. There is none anywhere. Perhaps our killer rinsed the body parts clean after severing them.”

This time, I just nod.

“This next part is even stranger,” says Dr. Kurth. “When we opened her up and examined her organs …”

I do a silent urp . My imagination is too vivid. I see this stuff when people talk about it.

“… we found that a dark blue substance had stained her esophagus and lungs. I’m having a hard time explaining how it got there. If she drank something, say, with a heavy amount of blue food coloring in it, it might explain the discoloration on the interior of her throat but not the lungs.”

“Any idea what sort of dye it is?” asks Ceepak.

“No. Not yet. We’re still analyzing its composition, running it through the database. First guess-and it is only a guess-I’d say it’s some kind of heavily dyed automatic toilet bowl cleaner. Toilet Duck and Tidy Bowl are both the same intensely blue color.”

Yep. There’s even a Tidy Bowl cocktail: vodka and Blue Curaçao liqueur. Bud makes them at Big Kahuna’s for frat boys. Sure, they suck ’em down, but not into their lungs.

“This new evidence would seem to suggest,” says Dr. Kurth, “that Ms. Baker was killed somewhere besides the outdoor shower stall. The CSI crew did not find a similar discoloration on the walls or floor.”

So maybe Mr. O’Malley drowned Gail in a toilet bowl.

In the bathroom.

In the house at number One Tangerine.

“Thank you, Dr. Kurth,” says Ceepak.

“I’ll keep you guys in the loop when we find out what kind of dye we’re dealing with.”

“Appreciate that.”

Ceepak clips his phone back to his belt.

“We need to get inside that damn house!” I overstate the obvious because it’s what I do best.

“We also need to reexamine the shower stall.”

“How come?”

“If Ms. Baker was drowned and, therefore, killed somewhere else, why was there so much blood splattered on the walls?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing,” says Bill Botzong when we contact him at nine A.M. “We need to be inside. Now.”

Botzong and the entire State Police MCU crew spent the night in their van at number One Tangerine Street. I can hear the crick in his neck over the radio.

“Your warrant will be signed within the hour,” Ceepak assures him.

“Good. We’ll hit the bathrooms first. Look for discolored toilet water.”

“We’ll see you at nine thirty,” Ceepak says to the radio.

“Bring some coffee,” says Botzong.

“Roger that.” Ceepak cradles the radio mic back into its bracket. I’m behind the wheel as we cruise down Ocean Avenue toward town.

“Let’s swing by The Rusty Scupper,” says Ceepak as he stares out the window. I can tell: He’s piecing together the jigsaw puzzle in his brain.

I take the next right, head west to Bayside Boulevard. The greasy spoon where Gail Baker used to waitress is open for breakfast and we still have an hour before we can enter the so-called Sugar Shack on Tangerine Street. Ceepak’s probably figuring we can talk to Gail Baker’s co-workers, maybe eat a slippery egg with a ketchup-encrusted fork and crunch on some burnt bacon. We can also grab Botzong and his team some coffees-the kind with oil slicks skimming the surface.

Yep, the Scupper does breakfast even worse than they do lunch.

We cruise over to the public pier on the bay side of the island because that’s the restaurant’s main attraction: It’s close to the water and the boats. The stench of the barnacles on the pilings helps cover up the foul smells from the kitchen.

Now, when I call The Rusty Scupper a restaurant, I’m using the term loosely. It’s really just this four-table grease pit with a grill. The décor is simple: red-and-white vinyl tablecloths with tomato-red rings wherever a dirty-bottomed ketchup bottle has recently resided.

The place is totally empty. No one’s sitting in any of the wobbly chairs. At one table, there’s stack of laminated menus polka-dotted with unidentifiable food splotches.

“Let’s grab some chow while we’re here,” suggests Ceepak, gingerly picking up a menu with his thumb and forefinger. We’re going to need Purell after we order. “No telling when we might have another chance to eat today.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I say.

We sit down. First Ceepak wipes the clumps of scrambled eggs off his chair, the seat of which is ripped and torn so you can see the spongy yellow foam inside the cushion.

I’d probably drink some of the tepid water sitting above my bent spoon, but I’m sort of allergic to lipstick when it’s rimming the top of a dirty plastic drinking cup.

“What’re you two eating?” a guy in leather pants and a sleeveless leather vest (no shirt) says when he comes out of the kitchen to our table. He sports a shaved head, handlebar mustache, nipple rings, and a filthy apron splattered with egg yolks and coffee stains. Well, I hope they’re coffee stains. The apron doesn’t really match his black leather pants, but I guess, that without Gail, they’re going with a whole different look.

“We’d like some eggs and some information,” says Ceepak.

“Do I look like a library?”

Actually, now that I examine his tattooed arms, he looks exactly like Peter O’Malley’s boyfriend. The biker boy.

“You’re Peter’s friend,” I say. “Peter O’Malley.”

He shifts his weight. A hip rises. Bare abdominal muscles ripple. “So?”

“We’re investigating the death of Gail Baker,” says Ceepak. “She used to work here.” He hands the man his card.

Biker boy takes it. Flicks it under his nose. “Is this you? John Ceepak?”

He can read.

“That’s right.”

“I’m Thomas.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance. I take it you are a waiter here?”

“Chef. We’re a little short-staffed this morning. I have to work on the floor and in the kitchen.”

And probably on the kitchen floor, too-which is where, I have a hunch, they cook their eggs to make ’em so gritty.

“So, Mr. John Ceepak,” Thomas asks shifting his weight so he can flash his washboard abs again, “do you work out?”

“Some.”

“Some? You look like you’re ripped under that shirt.”

Great. Even the gay short-order cooks want to flirt with my partner.

“Was Gail a friend of yours?” Ceepak asks, choosing to remain oblivious to Thomas’s manly advances.

“More like an acquaintance. You know-when things were slow, we’d grab an empty table and a cup of coffee. Swap stories about our O’Malley men.”

“She told you she was intimate with Peter’s father?”

“Uh-hunh. And …” Thomas glances around to make certain no one is eavesdropping, which they’re not because, like I said, we’re the only ones in the joint. “Gail had also been with two of Mr. O’Malley’s sons. Wild child Sean last winter and, a couple years ago, the one they named after the peanut butter.”

“Skippy,” I say.

“Is that really his name?”

“I think so.”

“Anyway, this one day, Gail and I had an absolute hoot comparing certain O’Malley familial similarities.”

He leans on the words like we should catch his double meaning. I don’t.

“The boys’ physical attributes?”

I’ve still got nothing.

“You know-the Irish curse? A red nose and a short hose? All potatoes and no sausage?”

Thomas blinks a lot. Grins.

“What about Kevin O’Malley?” Ceepak asks, somewhat abruptly. “Did Ms. Baker have any sort of relationship with Kevin O’Malley?”