the rearview mirror of his mind, so to speak. I have a feeling those objects might appear closer than they actually are.
I see a TV satellite truck rumbling down the avenue, heading back to where we came from. Word spreads fast.
We're still not moving. In fact, we're stuck behind an ice-cream truck. Not the cute, ringy-dingy kind that cruises up and down the side streets selling Good Humor bars. This is a Ben and Jerry's delivery truck with black cows painted on the back panel and it's crawling its way up to the supermarket, hoping to get there before all the Chubby Hubby and Cherry Garcia melts. I can't see what's in front of it. Probably a beer truck. Or a Frito-Lay step van. Ice cream, beer, and potato chips. Come summer, these are the three basic food groups in my hometown.
In the lane to the right of us is a convertible with the top down. They want to turn left, crawl in front of me and the trucks, hit the causeway, and leave the island behind. Their vacation is obviously over.
Mom and Pops are up front, fuming, craning their necks, trying to see what the heck the holdup is, looking like their whole week of rest and relaxation evaporated the second they hit this gridlock. Two boys, about six and seven, are sitting in the back seat, all buckled in. They're bored stiff and start waving at us like kids will do when they see cops. One's wearing a diving mask. The other has on some kind of pirate hat. I'm not driving anywhere any time soon, so, when the kids catch my eye, I wave back. The scuba-faced boy gives me a big military salute and I salute back.
Ceepak is still staring out his window. He sees the convertible, too.
“Danny?” he says. “We need to expedite our exit.”
“10-4.”
I hit the lights and siren, pull around the ice-cream truck, and scream up the avenue in the wrong lane.
“That'll work,” Ceepak mumbles.
He never did salute the cute kids.
Guess he's done playing Army for today.
Police headquarters kind of looks like a house. We've got a nice wraparound porch, a white picket fence, and a tidy little lawn. This being the beach, our lawn is made out of marble chips and red pea-pebbles instead of grass, but we keep it raked and weeded.
We're on Cherry Lane, a street that cuts across Ocean Avenue, and heads from the bay on one side of the island to the beach on the other. In this part of town, the east-west streets are named after trees and are arranged in alphabetical order, north to south. Beech Street is north of us. Dogwood is south.
Ocean Avenue is to the west of us, Shore drive to the east. One block past Shore is Beach Lane, not to be confused with Beech Street, but, as you might guess, it often is, especially by out-of-towners looking for the beach, which is on Beach. Not Beech.
State police cars and vans are parked in our lot and up and down the street out front. Two hours after it went down, the Hart homicide is already big. By noon, it'll be huge.
“Let's see where the CO needs us,” Ceepak says, climbing out of the car. He's talking military talk again, saying “CO” for Commanding Officer, sounding more like the old Ceepak.
We move inside and feel the 68-degree AC smack us in the face. It feels good.
“What a freaking day, hunh?”
It's Gus Davis, the desk sergeant. He's about sixty years old and completely out of shape. His regulation police pants don't fit any more and sort of droop off his bony hips. Gus is about two months away from retirement and has been a Sea Haven cop for close to thirty years. He used to ride up and down Ocean Avenue in a pink- and-turquoise cruiser, but now he works behind the front desk answering phones, taking messages, dealing with walk-in civilians.
I think Ceepak took Gus's street job, but Gus isn't bitter. Not about that, anyway-just everything else. Life in general.
“This freaking day!”
“What's up?” Ceepak asks. He and Gus get along. Maybe because Gus did time in the Army, too. Korea. Vietnam. One of those. “Switchboard busy?”
“Busy? It's a freaking funhouse in here. First, we get a call at 6:28.”
“The tricycle?”
“You heard?”
“I was up anyhow….”
“Normally, I'd blow the caller off. You know, tell her to come in at a decent hour and file a report. I mean, come on-it's a freaking tricycle! Who spends three hundred and fifty bucks on a tricycle? But guess who the caller is?”
“Who?”
“The mayor's sister. You ever meet her?”
“No. Not that I'm aware of.”
“Consider yourself lucky.” Gus shivers to help paint the picture. “She's like a piranha that's had plastic surgery. A real man-eater.”
“Check.”
“So I radio Kiger. Pull him off beach sweep, send him over to write up the missing bike.”
“Who's Kiger?”
“Adam Kiger. Young kid. Works the graveyard shift. Rides his scooter up and down the beach, looking for riff-raff.”
“Scooter?”
“ATV,” I say. “All Terrain Vehicle? Good on the beach….”
“It's a freaking scooter! He looks like a mailman!”
I can tell Ceepak's gonna want to talk to Kiger. Find out what kind of riff-raff's been spotted near the Tilt- A-Whirl playing with hypodermic needles.
“Then you two …” Gus gestures at Ceepak and me like he's disgusted. “Seven something-you get a body! Now, I got the press calling. The mayor? He's bitching about the roadblock, how it's ticking off the tourists. I gotta track down the kid's mom, find Hart's lawyer, his corporate people, the works. I'm never freaking going home.”
“What's the problem? You don't like it here, Gus?”
It's the chief.
He's a big ol’ bear, but he has this quiet way of slipping up behind you right when you're bellyaching about him.
“No, chief. I was just saying-”
“Sketch artist needs coffee,” the chief says.
“Do I look like freaking Starbucks?”
“Go rustle her up a cup. Move it. Shake a leg.”
Even old-timers like Gus jump when Chief Cosgrove pulls his gym-teacher act.
“So,” the chief says to Ceepak, “how badly did Slobbinsky screw things up?”
“Royally.”
“Damn. Sorry he caught the call. Good thing we have the eyewitness….”
“Yeah,” Ceepak says. “How's she doing?”
“Not bad. Considering.”
“Yeah.”
“Her name is Ashley. Ashley Hart. She's been asking for you.”
“Me?” Ceepak seems surprised.
“Apparently you're her new hero. Says you flew over a fence or something?”
“Playland's main gate was locked. I gained access by alternate means.”
“She said you looked like Batman.” The chief turns to me. “Guess that makes you Robin, hunh, kid?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
“Sorry McDaniels was out of town,” he says to Ceepak.
“I think we'll survive. The CSI crew is boots-on-the-ground. They're all pros.”
