Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“Perhaps he had learned from his father or his younger brother where the spare key was kept.”

Yeah. Guys that rich probably bought one of those plastic key-hiding rocks they sell in “People With Too Much Money” catalogs.

“Hey, Dad!”

It’s T.J. and Dave Tranotti. They’re coming into the golf course sucking on milkshakes from the restaurant across the street.

“You looking for your father?” T.J. asks.

“Come again?”

“The skeevey old guy with the wild greasy hair,” says Tranotti, who must not have studied international diplomacy during his first year at the naval academy.

“He said he was my grandpa,” says T.J. “Well, stepgrandpa.”

“My father was here?”

“Yes, sir. Joe Ceepak. But the other cop already hauled him away. Told your father he was in direct violation of an active restraining order.”

“Who was this other cop?”

“Freckle-faced dude,” said Tranotti. “Had on a cop cap, black cargo pants, uniform shirt.”

“Holster and pistol,” adds T.J.

“He works the counter here on his days off,” says Tranotti.

“You know him, Danny,” says T.J. “Skippy O’Malley.”

“What did my father want with you, T.J.?”

T.J. shrugs. I’m still not used to his buzz cut. I keep expecting to see his bouncing bundle of dreadlocks bobbing up and down.

“Said he wanted to ‘get to know me.’ Talk to me about my grandmother. I know you and mom want to keep him way from Grams.”

“So T.J. told the old wino to take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut,” says Tranotti.

“Yeah,” says T.J., looking down at his sneakers. “Sorry about that.”

Ceepak nods. “An understandable reaction, son.”

“Next time, I’ll be nicer.”

“Let’s hope there isn’t a next time. Did Skippy O’Malley put my father into the King Putt truck?”

“Yeah. He slapped him in cuffs and everything. Sort of shoved him into the vehicle, held down the top his head-did it just like the cops do on TV shows. When I told him to take it easy on the old fart, dude flashed me his badge. Said I shouldn’t interfere with police business unless I wanted to take a ride, too. Oh, there was a rifle in the truck. I saw it on the floor. Wicked-looking shotgun.”

“Do all auxiliary cops get to carry that much firepower?” asks Tranotti.

“Auxiliary cops?” says Ceepak.

“That’s what O’Malley said he was when I asked him how come he worked at the golf course all the time if he was a police officer.”

“T.J., David-young Mr. O’Malley is in no way affiliated with the Sea Haven Police Department. It is very important that we locate and apprehend him ASAP. Could you tell what direction he headed with my father?”

“Not the jail,” says Tranotti. “He peeled wheels out of the parking lot and headed north on Ocean.”

Cherry Street is south.

“The causeway is north,” says Ceepak.

True. And it’s the only road off the island.

My partner reaches for his radio. “Dorian, this is Officer Ceepak.”

“Go ahead, Officer Ceepak.”

“We need a roadblock.…”

“Ten-four. The Causeway. Chief Baines already ordered one.”

“We have confirmation that Mr. O’Malley left the golf course in the King Putt pickup.”

“A Dodge Ram,” T.J. tosses in.

“A Dodge Ram,” Ceepak says to the radio, even though he already knew that.

“Ten-four. You told me that already.”

“Sorry. Dorian?”

“Yes, Officer Ceepak?”

“We’ve just been informed that O’Malley has taken a hostage.”

“Copy that. Any ID on who he grabbed?”

“Yes. Joseph Ceepak. My father.”

There is a beat of dead air.

“Ten-four.” I can hear our new dispatcher straining to remain professional. She cracks. “Hang in there, hon, ya hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. Will do.”

Down comes the radio mic.

“Danny? We need to be mobile. Fortunately, the vehicle is easy to spot. We should get a hit on it soon.” Then he turns to T.J. “I need for you to go home, in case Skippy, for whatever reason, decides to come after you, your mom, or Marny.”

“Yeah,” says T.J.

“I’ll hang with you, man,” says Tranotti, who, I can tell, has put in some serious physical training during his first year at Annapolis. “We can play Battleship.”

T.J. laughs.

“Sorry about this, son,” says Ceepak. “Guess I ruined your big day even more than we had anticipated.”

“Nah,” says T.J. “I ruined it myself. Shot six over par on the back nine. Did even worse on the front of the course. Go on. Go rescue your old man.”

“Will do. Tell your mother I love her.”

“Hey, tell her yourself. Tonight. After you come home safe.”

“Roger that.”

Then they hug. Seriously. I don’t think I ever hugged my dad. Not even when I graduated high school, which, by the way, many people considered a mathematical impossibility.

“Dylan? Jeremy?” Ceepak breaks out of the father-son embrace and marches into the office where the Murrays are guarding the golfers. I’m right behind him.

“Keep this location secure. Young Mr. O’Malley might roll back this way if we corner him and he has nowhere else to run.” He turns to the kids and parents we hustled off the golf course earlier. “King Putt is officially closed for the day due to ongoing police activity. Come back tomorrow and the management will gladly offer you a free game or a full refund.”

Having seen all our weapons and heavy-duty body armor, they scurry out the door in a clump. Guess playing putt-putt tomorrow sounds like an excellent idea.

We’re crawling north on Ocean Avenue in our patrol car.

I’m in the passenger seat, scoping out every pickup truck I can spot. They’re all legit. Landscapers. Brick masons. Guys helping their buddies move a couch.

“Why’d he grab your father?” I ask.

“Perhaps he hopes we will negotiate with him if he has a hostage.”

I laugh a little. “Leave it to Skippy to grab a hostage nobody wants.”

“Danny, right now, my father is simply a citizen being held against his will in need of our assistance. It is our sworn duty to protect him.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Tomorrow, Joe Ceepak can be the sorry asshole we all wish would curl up and die. Today, we have to save his wrinkled old butt.

“All units, all units …”

Ceepak’s behind the wheel so I twist up the radio dial.

“… Joseph Thalken of the Sea Haven Sanitation Department reports seeing the King Putt pickup truck heading north on Beach Lane near Kipper Street.”

Joey T. The man deserves a medal for all he’s seen this week.

“The boardwalk,” I mumble. “It starts at Kipper. He could be heading to Pier Four. If he takes that shotgun to the roller coaster he could seriously ruin his dad’s big day.”

“Is your friend still broadcasting from the Rolling Thunder, Danny?”

I snap on the dashboard radio while Ceepak hits the lights and sirens and jams the accelerator down to the floor.

“Hang on.”

We slalom our way north through heavy traffic, occasionally borrowing a lane from the terrified cars trying to head south.

“… and what’s your name, young lady?” Cliff Skeete chatters out of the car radio.

“Layla.”

“Like the song?”

“Hey, that’s the first time anybody ever said that.”

“Well, Layla, you ready to climb aboard a lightning bolt and roll like thunder?”

“Not really. I came here for the roller coaster.”

I like this Layla. She’s got sass. ’Tude.

Cliff moves on down the line. “And you are, mi’lady?”