“Male or female?” she asks.
“Female,” he answers. “We suspect she had breakfast here.”
“Poor kid,” says Rita.
That's Ceepak's lady in a nutshell. She's more worried about what drove a young girl to steal than what was stolen from somebody's beach bag. Rita hauls a pile of clothes out of the back seat of her car, clutches the bundle against her chest.
Ceepak springs into action. “Need a hand?”
“No, thanks. It's not heavy. I'm just dropping off some of T. J.'s old T-shirts and jeans. Stuff he's grown out of.”
Clever move. Clean out the kid's closet while he's on vacation up in the city. I think that's how I lost my baseball card collection.
“I thought maybe some of the boys here could use them.”
“They have boys?” I wonder aloud. Thus far, all I've seen here are upright and courteous young girls. From the look of things, Reverend Billy could be running a mission for reformed cheerleaders.
“Of course,” Rita laughs. “The food's free.”
“How long have you known Reverend Trumble?” Ceepak now asks.
Rita hesitates. “A long time.”
Ceepak doesn't push it-not in public.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Don't call me
“Roger.”
Her face warms. “Do you even know how to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?”
“Negative.”
She shakes her head. Laughs again. “I'll see you later.”
We watch her carry her bundle up to the second floor.
“She's a good lady,” says Ceepak as we head off. “An inspiration.”
“Yeah.”
With Ceepak and Rita, it's a case of likes, not opposites, attracting. If he's a goody-goody, she's a better- better. Last spring, she rescued this sea gull she found lying in the middle of Ocean Avenue. First, she had to dodge traffic to reach it. Then, she took it home, mended its broken wing, fed it with an eyedropper, and nursed it back to health. She even gave the gull a name: Jonathan Livingston-I forget why. In June, she set the bird free. She and T. J. and Ceepak went down to the beach and made sure the gimpy gull was able to swoop with its own kind. They took pictures.
“Rita does enough good for both of us,” Ceepak once told me.
The thing is, his own choices haven't always been easy ones. I've never asked him if he's killed anybody, but I've seen how he looks when other idiots do.
“Did you kill anybody over there in Iraq?”
They always whisper when they ask it.
Ceepak never answers. He usually just walks away.
We're in the car, driving toward headquarters, when the radio squawks.
“Unit Twelve, this is base.”
Ceepak snatches up the microphone.
“This is Twelve.”
“That you, Ceepak?”
“Yes, Sergeant Pender. Over.”
“Chief Baines said to bounce this one out to you, seeing how you're in the neighborhood.”
There's this long pause.
“Go ahead,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah. Sorry. Don't know what to call this one. Tempted to say it's a 10–37.”
That's a mental case.
“What's the situation?”
“You know that tiny museum up on Oyster Street?”
“The Howland House?”
“10-4. Woman just called, said she's the curator, sounded hysterical. Says some children found something ‘horrible’ but she wouldn't tell me what it was.”
“We are 10–17. Out.”
10-17 means we're en route.
Ceepak hangs up and does a three-finger hand chop toward the horizon. “Oyster and Bayside. The Howland House Whaling Museum.”
“Roger. Should I 10–39 it?”
Ceepak looks at me. Hey, I memorized all these 10-codes for the final exam at the academy. I figure I need to use them or I might lose them like I've lost everything I memorized back in high school: atomic weights, the metric system, who did what to whom in 1066. It's all gone.
“No need for lights or siren, Danny. Let's keep it 10–40.”
“10-4.”
He means
I mean
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Howland House is this two-story brick building that used to belong to a whaling ship captain named Jebediah Howland.
About fifty years ago, a bunch of ladies, the “Daughters of the Sea,” got together and raised enough cash to buy the place before it was torn down to make room for another miniature golf course. Now it's a museum nobody goes to.
I guess few vacationers want to walk around a dank house looking at dusty furniture during their week off from work. Sure, there are a couple of ship models in glass cases mounted on the walls. There are even three or four model ships in glass bottles. But mostly, it's moldy furniture and velvet drapes.
The museum doesn't give tours or anything. In fact, nobody is ever there. Somebody comes by in the morning and unlocks the front door. They come back in the afternoon to lock up. There's a plexiglass box on a desk in the front hall with a hand-written sign: SUGGESTED DONATION $2.
“Is that Norma?” Ceepak asks as we pull up to the curb on Oyster Street and see a figure on the porch.
“Yeah, I think so.”
Norma Risley, a dignified Daughter of the Sea, is seventy-five years old and works part-time as a hostess at Morgan's Surf and Turf, the restaurant where Rita waitresses. When Norma leads you to your table, you have plenty of time to contemplate the daily specials. In fact, you have time to do your laundry.
“Officer Ceepak!” She is waving hysterically. “Hurry! Please!”
Ceepak speeds up the brick pathway. I'm right behind him.
“Norma? Are you injured?”
“No. No.” Her hand flutters near her chest.
Ceepak reaches her in time to catch her when she faints.
“Danny?”
I grab an arm. We haul Norma inside, find a velvety chair in the foyer, and sit her down.
About fifteen seconds later, she comes to.
“Oh, my.”
“Norma, do you need an ambulance?” Ceepak asks.
