Tilt-a-Whirl

“Hey guys-that girl? You know, the one whose father was like shot in Playland? Was she like kidnapped or something?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Oh….”

The fifteen-watt bulb in her brain is now illuminated.

“So that's why you were on TV!”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Cool. Funny, we get a lot of TV people in here lately….”

“The reporters?”

“No. Just that weather girl who married Hart. The kid's mom.” She taps her curved fingernail extension on the front-page photo of Betty Bell Hart. “She was all like secretive and like leave me alone-ish and all. I guess on account of what happened to her ex-husband and her daughter. She looked kind of sad, you know?”

“When'd she come in? Earlier today?”

“No. Friday.”

“Friday?” Ceepak says before I do.

“Yunh-hunh.”

“You sure?”

“Uh-yeah. She ordered fish sticks.”

“And?”

“Duh! We only serve fish sticks on Fridays. For the Catholics or whatever. Makes sense she'd want to be left alone after all this. I know I would if my ex got killed or my kid got kidnapped. Not that I'm married or anything….”

Neither Ceepak nor I mention that all “this” took place on Saturday. Not Friday. Not when Ashley's mother was, according to what she'd told us, at her apartment in the city.

“Danny?” Ceepak stands up.

“Yeah.” I push back my chair and smile up at Gail. “We gotta run.”

“Really? Your burgers are almost done.”

I can hear the cook squeezing the sputtering life out of our chopped meat patties on his griddle. I give Gail ten bucks for our uneaten lunch.

“We'll take a rain check.”

It's not that we're afraid of The Rusty Scupper's burgers.

We just need to talk to Ashley's mother about the fish sticks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“She what?”

“She was in town on Friday night.”

“Fuck….”

I can tell the chief is upset by our news flash. He doesn't usually swear like that over the radio.

“I'll meet you there,” he barks. You can almost hear the acid indigestion churning up in his stomach. The guy is a Tums time bomb.

“No need, sir. Danny and I can cover it.”

“I'll meet you there, goddammit!”

We reach the Beach Crest Heights subdivision's gatehouse and tin the rent-a-cop standing inside his hut. That means we show him our badges and he doesn't ask a whole lot of questions-he just opens the gate. I always wonder about these unarmed, white-shirt security guards. If they look at your driver's license and decide you're a bad guy, what do they do?

Whack you in the head with their clipboard?

We pull into the circular driveway. Ceepak rings the doorbell.

“Yes?”

It's that butler dude again. I wonder if he did it. He does everything else butlers do in the movies, so maybe he's the one who murdered Reggie Hart. Maybe he and Mendez were working together, too.

“We need to see Mrs. Hart,” Ceepak says.

“She is temporarily indisposed.”

“Tell her it's Officer Ceepak.” With this, Ceepak simply sidesteps the loyal manservant and glides into the glass-walled front room. I glide in after him.

“But sirs …”

Ceepak folds his hands behind his back, up near the belt loops, standing at what they call parade rest, ready and willing to wait.

“We're kind of in a hurry,” I say.

“Please wait here.” Nose held high, the butler strides slowly to his right.

“Is she in the sunroom?” Ceepak asks.

“Sir, if you'll kindly wait….”

Ceepak remembers the way. I bring up the rear. Behind us, I hear the chief make his entrance.

“Ceepak?”

“This way.”

“But … sir … really….”

Sounds like the chief is pushing past the butler, too. Maybe the poor guy ought to go back to working for Joe Millionaire.

“Yes. I was in Sea Haven on Friday night.”

Betty is sitting on the couch sipping tea. She has on white pants that cuff above her ankles, white strappy sandals, and this white-and-gold top that sparkles in the sun.

So much for widows wearing black.

“I took a motel room-”

“Where?” the chief asks.

“The Smuggler's Cove.”

“Jesus,” the chief groans.

“What?” Ceepak is curious.

“The Cove? They rent out the same goddamn room ten times a night. It's a hot sheets hotel! Hourly rates. Adult movies….”

“I see.”

“They are also very discreet,” Betty says defensively. “Gentlemen, I am not proud of my deception, but I fail to see how my being here on Friday has anything to do with Ashley's kidnapping. Why aren't you out searching for her? Why are you wasting your time here, questioning me?”

“So what were you doing here, ma'am?” The chief cuts to the chase.

“Looking out for my daughter.”

“How's that?”

“He had her in the house here with him. In front of my daughter.”

“Had who?” The chief puts his fist to his stomach like he just burped up a bubble of something nasty.

“The lawyer? He had her … here.”

“Were Mr. Hart and Ms. Stone romantically involved?” Ceepak asks.

“Yes,” Betty says and sets down her teacup. “She was Reginald's most recent conquest.”

The chief rolls his eyes and mutters something that sounds a lot like “Jesus Fucking Christ.”

If I was Betty Bell Hart? I'd talk to Ceepak and forget the chief who really looks like he's going to explode some time soon. He's hardly even sitting in his chair any more, his fists are digging into his thighs, and he's grinding his teeth louder than he knows.

Yeah, I'd talk to Ceepak.