Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

Squeegee

Everybody finishes reading about the same time. We know we will have to show this to Betty, just not right away.

“ We, ” Ceepak says. “ Us .”

“Yeah,” Morgan chimes in. “Saw that too.”

“Stands to reason he'd have associates,” the chief says. “Ten million dollars is a lot of money.”

“I thought you guys told me Squeegee was a junkie.” Morgan is leaning back in his chair.

Something doesn't smell right.

“We found drug paraphernalia near the Tilt-A-Whirl,” Ceepak says. “In the spot where we know the man in the Timberland boots was hiding.”

“Right. Behind the bushes.”

“What's your problem, Morgan?” the chief sounds grouchy, upset at Morgan for slowing things down.

“It just doesn't make sense.”

“I know what you mean,” Ceepak says.

“What doesn't make goddam sense?”

“Chief Cosgrove,” Morgan speaks in this slow, easy rhythm. “Since when is a junkie capable of pulling off something this big? Most junkies can't even mastermind their next score or their next bath, let alone an elaborate scheme like this. Yet, every step of the way, this thing's been carried out with military precision. The hit at the Tilt-A-Whirl. The grab on the beach. The smooth nautical getaway. The photo. The timing of the faxes.”

“What's your take, Chris?” Ceepak is interested.

“Let's run this thing down,” Morgan says. “If Squeegee is in the bushes because, let's say, he tailed Mr. Hart and his daughter to the Tilt-A-Whirl, why doesn't he just nab the girl then? If the ten-million-dollar ransom money is his ultimate motive….”

“Don't forget,” the chief says, “he called Hart a ‘fucking slumlord.’”

“I remember. So first he takes a little revenge and pops seven bullets into Hart. Fine. Then, he wants to sweeten his revenge by grabbing the daughter and ripping off the slumlord's estate for ten million bucks. Okay. But if that's the plan, why doesn't he just grab the girl at the amusement park? He's got a gun. The girl's in no state to resist. Why didn't he grab her then?” Morgan asks it again. “Why does he wait?”

“Only about fourteen hours,” the chief answers.

“Still, he waits.”

“He knew,” Ceepak says. “About the will. The probate. The potential for delay. The need to find the executor, contact the insurance companies….”

“Exactly,” Morgan says. “Sound like typical junkie thinking to you guys?”

“No, sir.”

“Sounds more like the mob,” the chief is getting with the program now.

“Or a gang,” Morgan adds.

“Danny?” Ceepak swivels in his chair. “Your friend Becca? What was it she told you?”

“You mean about Mendez and his crew?”

The chief stands up. “His crew?”

“Yeah. He and his buddies were hanging out around the pool, flexing their muscles….”

“Danny? Focus, okay?”

“I remember some of the names. Mendez. Ramirez. Echaverra. All these tough dudes, she said.”

“Gentlemen,” Morgan says, “we may have found us our ‘ us. “

Good thing we have Mendez locked up in the back. Unfortunately, the chief never did cook up a good charge against Cynthia Stone, so the lawyer went back to her room at the B amp;B to plot her revenge.

“I will make myself available at 3 P.M.”

Her steel-tipped voice now emanates from the chief's speaker-phone.

“We'd prefer to talk with Mr. Mendez sooner,” Morgan says. “We'd prefer to talk to with him sometime closer to now!”

“I'm sure you would, Mr. Morgan. However, he will not speak to you without his lawyer present. Me.”

Ceepak nods. He knows it's the right way to proceed.

“It is currently 1:15,” Ms. Stone says. “I have a few final matters to attend to, regarding the transfer of Mr. Hart's assets into Ashley's name.”

“Three is fine,” the chief barks. “Not a minute later.”

“I'll be there. You have my word.”

The chief jabs the speaker button to make sure Ms. Stone is gone. I don't think he likes her.

“Gentlemen?” Morgan moves toward the door. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go grab a quick bite with my guys. There's something I want them to look into….”

“What?” the chief asks. “Anything we should know?”

“No. Don't think so. But if it turns out to be something, I'll let you know. Probably won't. Just … I don't know. I'll keep you posted. Where's a good place for a sandwich?”

“Just head over to Ocean,” I suggest. “There's sub shops and delis up and down the street.”

“Thanks, Boyle. We circle back up at, say, 1445?”

“Make it 1420,” the chief says.

Morgan leaves.

“Close the door, Boyle.”

“Yes, chief.”

He waits until I do it before he speaks again.

“Ceepak?”

“Sir?”

“I want you up on the north shore tonight.”

“That's my plan.”

“Good. Mendez and his gang might be involved, but I don't think those gangbangers are the kind that get their rocks off with teenaged girls.”

“Check.”

“Squeegee, on the other hand …”

The chief walks over to a locked closet. He slips in the key and opens the door.

There's a long case sitting on the floor. It looks like the kind of hard-sided storage box you'd pack your power tools in if you had some tool that was about three feet long.

The chief props the case up on his desk and snaps open all four latches.

I was right about SWS. It's a rifle.

Inside the case, tucked into specially cut foam slots, are all the pieces of an Army issue M-24. The stock, the barrel, the scope, even a silencer. I see Dymo-pressed label tape: “M-24 Sniper Weapon System.”

SWS.

“Just in case,” the chief says.

Ceepak snaps the latches shut and picks up the case.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Let's go grab some lunch.”

We almost go out the front door. Then we remember the reporters. Ceepak is sort of a poster boy for this case, talking directly to the kidnapper on TV and all. If the newshounds see him, they'll start screaming questions again and chase after us like twelve-year-old girls on the heels of Justin Timberlake or whoever they're squealing after these days.

We slip out the back.

I take Ceepak to this totally out-of-the-way restaurant.

Actually, to call The Rusty Scupper a restaurant is a stretch. It's really just this four-table grease pit with a grill and a waitress over on the bay side of the island that practically nobody ever goes to except starving people with boats because it's located right off the public dock. In fact, you can smell the salty air and listen to the water slap against the barnacle-crusted pilings while you wait for your burger to be burnt.

I come here to ogle the waitress. Gail.

She's at the “staff table” painting her toenails. She has her bronzed leg up on a chair, her back arched, her long hair hanging forward. She is incredibly tan and likes to wear a skimpy bathing suit on the job so she can stay that way.

Two tables have customers, chewing their burgers over and over and over, nibbling droopy fries out of red plastic baskets with tissue paper dotted with grease blots. The décor is simple: red-and-white vinyl tablecloths with tomato-red rings wherever a dirty-bottomed ketchup bottle sat in the past week. Gail is not a big table wiper.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Hey, Gail.”

Gail shakes her frosted hair out of her eyes and sees Ceepak.

“Ohmygod. You're that guy from TV!”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“How totally cool! You were just on TV.”

Gail is a few fries short of a Happy Meal, as they say. She's sort of forgetting why Ceepak made his television debut earlier in the day.