Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“I doubt it. That boy is his father’s favorite. No way would he jeopardize that by chasing after his father’s hot little toddy.”

“Any thoughts about why Kevin is the only son the father seems to include in his business affairs?” Ceepak asks.

“He’s the first-born man-child,” says Thomas. “In an Irish Catholic family, that automatically makes you the heir apparent. The other three sons-Peter, Skip, and Sean-all have issues with their dad. Even the sister, Crazy Mary, doesn’t like the old man very much. Guess he never took her to a daddy-daughter dance at the loony bin.”

I get the feeling Thomas doesn’t like Big Paddy O’Malley very much, either. Probably still bitter about his boyfriend being uninvited to last weekend’s grand opening at the Rolling Thunder.

“Of course, both Peter and Sean also had problems with their mother-may God bless that tubby old witch’s soul. Skippy, on the other hand, Skippy loved Jackie O’Malley. Absolutely adored her. Frankly, between you and me, I think Skipper is gay-he just doesn’t know it yet.”

“An interesting hypothesis,” says Ceepak, probably so the guy will shut up.

“You wait, John.”

Ceepak flinches. Nobody calls him John, except his wife and the chief.

“It’s just a matter of time before that boy comes skipping out of his closet in something skimpier than a chariot skirt. He’s a straight man and he loves cats? I don’t think so.”

“Do you have any idea,” asks Ceepak, “who in the O’Malley family would gain the most if Mr. O’Malley went to jail?”

“Is that going to happen?” Thomas asks eagerly.

“We don’t know. But if it did, who, in your opinion, would benefit the most?”

“Easy. Kevin. With the mother dead and the father in jail, the golden boy would take over everything.”

We’re back in the car, heading south and east to Tangerine Street.

“You think Kevin killed Gail and then made it look like his dad did it?”

“It’s a possibility, Danny.”

“Guess it would explain why there’s so much evidence pointing to Mr. O’Malley as the murderer.”

Either that, or he is the murderer. Sometimes a duck is a duck, or however that saying about quacking and waddling goes.

Ceepak flicks on the car radio, I guess for a quick update on the news. Maybe the weather. After all, T.J. has that golf outing this morning. The radio is tuned to WAVY.

“This is the Skeeter buzzin’ in your ear. I’m on the Boardwalk where we’ve set up shop inside the loading shed at Sea Haven’s brand-new, all wood, all-wild Rolling Thunder roller coaster. We’re counting down the minutes till ten, when Big Paddy O’Malley will come in, head over to the control room, and bop the button that will send the first train rollin’ and thunderin’ around the track. Stop by and say hey. Be the sixth caller and you could win an all-day, all-access pass to ride all the rides on Bruno’s Fun Time Piers-including the all-new Rolling Thunder!”

Ceepak snaps the radio off.

He doesn’t make any commentary.

He doesn’t have to.

We’re on our way to search Bruno Mazzilli’s other Fun Time enterprise.

As we near the house at nine twenty-nine A.M., I see that the State MCU team has called in a few more vans. People are milling around in white Tyvek clean suits. They look like envelopes on a coffee break in a FedEx drop box. I also see a guy in khaki pants and a polo shirt handing a sheaf of official-looking documents to Detective Bill Botzong at the edge of the driveway to number One Tangerine.

“Judge Rasmussen was as good as her word,” says Ceepak.

The warrant has arrived. The troops are going in.

Picture a frat house for rich old farts.

Only instead of furniture collected off the street, these guys have an Ethan Allen showroom of stuffed chairs and shabby-chic sofas. The kitchen has all sorts of stainless steel gear lining the Italian tiled walls. Refrigerators, grills, trash compactors, beer coolers with windows in the doors so you can keep an eye on your designer brewskis. Everything’s done up in chrome and black and marble.

In the living room, I see a fully stocked bar with a big mirror behind the bottles and a battalion of cut crystal tumblers and fancy beer glasses. No mugs.

Speaking of mirrors, when we check out the first floor bedrooms, there seems to be a mirror hanging over every bed. I think I’m gonna have nightmares about Bruno Mazzilli’s ape-hairy back jiggling on the ceiling for the rest of my life.

“They wired these bordello rooms with video cameras,” says Carolyn Miller, the CSI tech, as she points to a small lens hole in a piece of furniture I think you call an armoire if you have five thousand dollars to spend on a TV cabinet. The hole is aimed at the bed.

“Find the videos,” barks Botzong. “Look for photo albums. Any kind of souvenirs or trophies these guys kept of their conquests. It’ll help us ID the bastards when they start lying about it in front of their wives.”

“Here’s a bathroom,” says Ceepak.

He, Botzong, and I poke in our heads. We don’t want to walk in-not until Ms. Miller crawls across the floor and reveals its secrets: footprints, hairs, fibers. But, gazing through the door, I can tell even the bathrooms were designed to be romantic in that gaudy Donald Trump sort of way. Claw-foot tubs. Gold fixtures. Candles everywhere.

“The toilet water is uncolored,” reports Ceepak.

Yeah. Guys hang out here. They left the seat up.

“Carolyn?” says Botzong. “Clear the bathrooms for us first. If you find any kind of blue toilet cleanser-in the bowl or under a sink-give me a holler.”

“Boss?” a CSI guys calls from the kitchen.

“What’s up?”

“I think I found the shoe polish.”

Miller goes into the bathroom, the rest of us hustle back to the kitchen.

“It was in a plain white bag under the kitchen sink,” says the tech, who, in addition to his hermetically sealed suit, is fully gloved and handling the evidence with forceps like it’s a rod of radioactive uranium. “Kiwi. Liquid Magic Scuff Cover,” he reads the label for us. “‘Polishes in one easy step for all smooth leather shoes with scuffs that need covering.’”

Scuffs or blood stains.

“Says it’s ‘water-resistant,’” the tech reads off the back of the label.

Handy. Especially if your bloody scuffs are on a shower stall wall.

“Six bottles of Kiwi, all empty. Four bottles of Stride Rite, one still half full.”

“Any receipt in the bag?” asks Ceepak.

“No, sir. Just this.”

“What?”

The tech forceps a crisp white rectangle out of the plastic bag.

“A business card. Big Paddy O’Malley, Shore 2 B Fun Enterprises. Lists an address on Ocean Avenue.”

“He dropped a calling card into the bag?” says Botzong incredulously.

“It’s possible someone is attempting to frame Mr. O’Malley,” says Ceepak.

“Yeah. Either that, or this guy is the dumbest killer in history.” The lead detective turns to a young blonde in a blue windbreaker. “Okay, Reiss. Hit all the local shoe stores, drug stores, Kmarts and Wal-Marts. Anybody who might have this much white shoe polish on hand. Somebody buys a dozen bottles, maybe a cashier remembers them. If they do, Bunny, dig for security tapes.”

“Will do,” says the CSI named Bunny Reiss. She heads out the front door and, yes, hops into her sedan at the end of the driveway.

That’s when I see Sean O’Malley parked out front in the street.

“Ceepak?” I say. “Sean’s back.”

“Then let’s go have a word with him, Danny-let these folks do their jobs.”

“Yeah.” I’m already strolling out the door.