Ceepak waits. Then he speaks, real soft-a gentle nudge.
“And then?”
“He just sort of smiled this freaky smile at me and told me to count to like a thousand or whatever, like we were playing hide and seek. I tried to count but I couldn't because I was crying and I knew he didn't really care how high I counted ’cause he just ran back to the hole and crawled under the fence and ran away.”
“Which way did he go?”
“I'm not sure. I ran behind the turtle to hide. I'm sorry….”
“That's okay. You were smart to hide.”
“I was scared.”
“Did you see him drop the gun?”
“No. Before he crawled back under the fence, he tucked it back into his pants. Those dirty blue jeans I told you about?”
“Right.”
“He put it in, like, the waistband. He didn't have on a belt. He had a string. Twine? Like you wrap up boxes and stuff with? He had twine for a belt, I forgot that part until just now….”
Ceepak makes a note.
“Did he say or do anything else?”
“No. I don't think so. No. Wait….”
Ashley looks at her mother.
“He used the F-word,” Ashley says.
“How so?” Ceepak asks.
“Go on, sweetie.” Her mother gives her permission to swear. “Tell them what he said.”
“He said to me, he said, ‘You should know-your father was a fucking slumlord.’”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ifigure Ceepak is totally pissed at me.
We're sitting in the car in the driveway with the engine shut off, so that means the AC is off too and the temperature is 110 inside the Explorer thanks to the sun everybody comes down here to worship.
Ceepak's not saying anything. Not telling me where to drive next. He's just sitting there, staring out the windshield at those ugly pompon poodle bushes.
“Tell me what you saw,” he says after what feels like four hours of slow roasting in the Ford E-Z Bake Oven.
“Inside? With them?”
“At the fence.”
“You mean the hole?”
“This lid. This plywood lid you say you saw.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. It was, you know, a square. Probably two feet by two feet. It was covered with sand, from where the sweeper raked over it….”
“What was the condition of said tunnel?”
“It was only like three feet long. Enough to scoot under the fence.”
“How deep?”
“Foot or two.”
“And the bottom?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it loose? Packed down?”
“Packed down.”
“Like people had been crawling in and out every day?”
“Yeah.”
Ceepak nods.
“You see why this should be considered important?”
“Yes, sir. Sorry.”
Ceepak nods again. I don't think he ever loses his temper. I wish he would. This quiet routine gives me too much time to realize just how royally I screwed up.
“Notice anything else that might be important?”
“At the beach?”
“Or anywhere. Take your time.”
Okay. Now I'm actually kind of pissed at
I suddenly recall the rust marks I saw on the wall in the men's room at The Pancake Palace, maybe because Ashley said the crazy guy with the gun smelled like pee-pee and maybe my astute observation could also be considered urine-related.
Then I remember the perfume.
“The lawyer? Cynthia Stone?”
“Yes?”
“She smelled like that perfume. The Victoria's Secret stuff.”
“Interesting.”
“You think she was there? At the Tilt-A-Whirl?”
“It's a possibility.”
I do the head-bob nod this time, like I've figured something out.
“But,” Ceepak says, “the more likely scenario is that the odor emanated from Mr. Hart's own clothing, suggesting he had contact with Ms. Stone earlier in the morning or late last night. Perhaps they were romantically involved. Good work, Danny.”
I can tell he means it, too.
“Thanks.”
He flips through his notes.
“Possibly our ‘crazy man’ was a tenant at some point in one of Mr. Hart's buildings … or knows someone who was.”
“On account of what he said to Ashley about her father being a slumlord.”
“Presents us with a long list of names to check….”
“Thousands.”
“We can also conjecture that the perpetrator used a semi-automatic weapon.”
“Because he had to keep squeezing the trigger?”
“Exactly.”
That one was pretty easy, but I smile anyhow. I'm starting to feel better.
Ceepak looks at his watch. It's 2:45 P.M. My shift is supposed to end at three but I'm willing to work overtime if it will help dig me out of the hole I think I dug for myself when I forgot to tell Ceepak about the lid over that other hole.
“I want to see Officer Kiger. The officer on beach patrol this A.M. …”
“Sure. No problem. I'm cool with pulling some O.T., won't even put in for it….”
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“You're not in trouble. You made an honest mistake. You should have told me about the trapdoor, but you did not. Now, however, you have, so we move forward. I harbor no resentments. We all make mistakes. That's
