Chris Grabenstein - Tilt-a-Whirl

“You work for my brother?” she asks Ceepak.

“We work for Sea Haven Township.”

“Like I said … you work for my brother?”

“Yes, ma'am. I suppose we do.”

“I'll have to commend him on his new hiring policies.”

Ceepak steps back from the bushes and onto the lawn.

“Sorry to bother you like this, ma'am.”

“Oh, it's no bother.”

“We have a few questions.”

“So do I. Are you married?”

Ceepak actually blushes.

“Was the tricycle situated here on the porch?” he asks.

“The tricycle?”

“Yes, ma'am. Was it on the porch?”

“Are you really investigating a missing tricycle?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“What a waste of manpower.” Now she's arching her back, like she's yawning, like maybe she needs to go back to bed and maybe somebody should go with her.

“Miss?” I say. “We're kind of in a hurry.”

“Who are you?”

Figures. When you're with Ceepak, women don't even notice you.

“What is this? Take A Stupid Kid To Work Day?”

The mayor's sister? She has this nasty side. And when it comes out is when she squinches up her nose and glares at you. Then you notice where the plastic surgeon didn't do such a hot job.

“Where exactly did you go to cop school?” she asks me. “Some doughnut shop?”

I'm no Boy Scout, so I don't have to do the courteous bit.

“Where'd you get that tan?” I say. “Sears, or Costco?”

“Oh, I see. You're the comedian cop?”

“He's part-time,” Ceepak says.

“He's going to be no-time after I call my brother.”

“No need to bother your brother,” Ceepak says, whipping out his little notebook. “I'll take care of it.” He jots something down.

“What're you doing? You writing him up?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Hah! Good.”

“Now if you could … could you please tell us what happened?”

“Of course.” She acts like she's composing herself, smoothing out any crinkles in her shorts, front and back. She spends more time smoothing out the back than the front. “My son left his tricycle on the porch steps like he always does, even though I tell him not to. Maybe if his father were still living with us, maybe if I was still married-which, incidentally, I'm not-maybe things would be different….”

“When did you first notice it was stolen?” Ceepak asks.

“When he was stealing it! The thief made so much noise! He banged the thing against my screen door!”

“Did you see him?”

“No. I called the police right away. I was all alone … I didn't dare confront him….”

Now she's doing a damsel-in-distress thing that makes it look like she's a ship flashing Morse Code because her eyelids are painted baby blue and every time she blinks we get a dot or dash of bright light.

“You must have been terrified,” Ceepak says.

“Oh, I was. He was right here. And my bedroom? It's right there….”

She points dramatically to a window. I can make out chintzy pink curtains on the other side and one of those hurricane table lamps catalogs say add a touch of romance to almost any room.

What all this means is that the trike bandit banged it against the door just to make certain anybody inside knew he was out here stealing something.

The thief wanted her to call the cops.

“He even kicked over one of my potted plants.”

“We'll write it up … additional damage … for your insurance claim….”

Ceepak jots down another note in his pocket pad.

“And, look down there….” She points to the other side of the porch. “He crushed my Fairy. My beautiful pink Fairy.”

“Your Fairy rosebush?”

Oh. Ceepak knows horticulture, too.

“Yes! See?”

“Yes, ma'am. What a shame.”

“I'll say.”

“Fairies are prolific climbers,” Ceepak says.

“I'm impressed. You know your roses….” She's leaning on the porch railing again.

“A little,” Ceepak says, looking down at the shrubbery instead of up at the mountains. “I'm no expert. Not like you. You did an excellent job mulching these flower beds.”

“Moi?” She gives Ceepak a coy, “silly boy” look. “Hardly. I hire a man to do it for me. He says mulch is the only way to retain moisture in our sandy soil. It's so hot down here.”

She says “hot” like she said “man” earlier.

Ceepak studies the trampled rosebush.

“What a shame. He crushed it under his boot,” he says.

I look down and see where the moist, mulched soil has retained a print.

“His Timberland boot?” I ask.

Ceepak nods.

“Only kind he ever wears.”

We're back in the car. Working Ceepak's punch list. Off to dig up more evidence.

“So,” I say, “the chief sent the first ransom fax? Because of the boot prints, right? Outside the hotel room? On that patio there?”

“Solid analysis, Danny. I may need to write you up in my little blue book again.”

“Are you really going to give me a reprimand for mouthing off?”

“Negative. I said I was writing you up. I was contemplating penning a letter of commendation to place in your personnel file.”

“Excellent. It'd be like my first, I think.”

“Perhaps. But I doubt it will be your last.”

I glance over. Ceepak has the proud-big-brother smile on his face again.

It's all good.

“The way I see it,” Ceepak says, “Chief Cosgrove wore his Timberland boots whenever he wanted us to think Squeegee had been somewhere. I speculate that Cosgrove had met Mr. Shapiro and knew of the man's fondness for thermal boots, even in the summer months. In fact, it's highly probable that, once the chief and Miss Bell selected Mr. Shapiro, a.k.a. Squeegee, as their scapegoat, they paid keen attention to such telling details. It's why they chose the Tilt-A-Whirl. They knew we'd find evidence linking the location to Squeegee, even if he wasn't sleeping in the bushes Saturday morning. They knew we'd find his blood sample in the hypodermics, his muddy footprints on the platform….”

“Why'd the chief wear his boots to the mayor's sister's house?”

“Simple.”

“What?”

“He made a mistake. Most criminals usually do. It's how we catch them. He never anticipated we'd investigate a tricycle theft.”

“Hell, you wanted to do it first thing Saturday morning!” I'm feeling kind of jazzed, like you do after chugging two cans of Red Bull and snarfing down some Hostess Ding-Dongs. “Remember? Before any of this other shit even went down. You wanted to ‘swing by and check it out.’ Remember?”

“Did I?”

“Hell, yeah. Fuckin’ A!”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall expressing an interest. And Danny?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Swearing is the sign of a limited vocabulary.”

“Yes, sir.”

Next stop is The Smuggler's Cove Motel, where Ceepak suspects our suspects “had their trysts.” I think that means they went there to have sex on a regular basis.

“She stayed there Friday night because she knew, as she stated later, ‘they're very discreet.’”

Ceepak is flipping through his notebook again. You tell this guy something? He writes it down or memorizes it.

“Remember how the chief acted when she told us that?” I remember stuff, too. “He was so totally ticked off.”

“Roger that. I suspect he would have preferred that his accomplice make some other choice of accommodations so we wouldn't ask questions that might warrant unwanted answers.”

“So the chief's, like, cheating on his wife?”

“So it would seem. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if we were to discover that Chief Cosgrove has made an arrangement with the motel's management allowing them to operate in their unseemly fashion in exchange for their discretion as called for. The pornography. The inherent probability of prostitution….”