Whack A Mole

“You mean those … things? In the jars?” whispers Mrs. Pepper.

“You mean the ears?” a boy blurts out from the pool.

“They were gross!” screams the teenaged girl.

“No, they weren't! They were awesome!” I'm figuring the boy is Warren, Jr. “Maybe some sailor lost them to scurvy! We read about scurvy in school. He didn't eat his limes so his ears fell off and then they pickled them!”

Now I hear bawling. A little girl in water wings who wants her big brother to shut up.

“Mommy, make him stop!” Must be Maddie.

“It was disgusting,” says her mother. “I told that woman-she should be ashamed.”

“How long will that ear exhibit be in there?” her husband now asks Ceepak. He sounds genuinely interested.

“Warren?”

“Well, the boy wants to go back … maybe take the cousins … it's kind of educational….”

“The museum will remain closed for the foreseeable future,” says Ceepak.

“Really?” Mr. Pepper sounds disappointed. “I was just telling the guy in 109 about it. He's been coming down here for fifteen years and never even knew they had a museum, let alone one with, you know, mummy ears.”

“Were those King Putt's ears?” Warren Jr. has climbed up the ladder and hauled himself out of the pool. Currently, he is standing beside me, shivering and dripping on my shoes. “Dad says they were probably from like a caveman….”

Ceepak ignores the boy. “Did you see anyone else at the museum, ma'am?”

“No,” says Mrs. Pepper. “We were the only ones inside. It's not a very popular spot. I can see why.”

“Did you see anybody coming out when you were going in?”

“No.”

“You're certain?”

“Positive. We ran in when the thunderstorm started. I told the kids they could look around. Nobody else was in the building until the old lady showed up.”

Ceepak nods. “Thank you, ma'am. Sir. Danny?”

He puts away his notebook and we head back to the parking lot.

“That was certainly helpful,” I say as we drive away. “They can go into the Witless Protection Program.”

“Now, Danny, you know that police work involves a lot of walking down trails that turn into dead ends. However, walk down them we must.”

Ceepak checks the time. It's nearly six P.M.

“Where to now?” I ask. “Any more dead ends we can get out of the way today?”

The radio on the drivetrain hump between us bursts with static.

“Unit Twelve?” It's a female voice. “This is Special Officer Diego. Over.”

Ceepak picks up the microphone. “This is Twelve. Go ahead, Officer Diego.”

“Where are you guys?”

“Seahorse Motel.”

Or more correctly, traveling down a dead-end street to Nowheresville.

“Can you swing by the house?” she asks. “Like right away?”

Ceepak snaps down the microphone button with renewed vigor. “Did you find something on Mary Guarneri?”

“Oh, not much. Just Miss Milk Carton's mother.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Chief Baines recognizes the significance of our recent finds,” says Ceepak, “and agrees that they warrant further investigation.”

We're huddled around Denise Diego's computer workstation: just the three of us.

“However,” Ceepak says, lowering his voice, “Chief Baines also requests that we keep this matter under the tightest operational security. We three are the only individuals he wants in the know on this. I will personally update the chief regarding our progress on a periodic basis.”

“Should we have like a secret handshake or something?” asks Diego. “I could work up a code….”

Ceepak smiles. “No need, Denise. Just don't discuss this matter with your fellow officers, friends, or family.”

She shrugs and buries her arm in a bag of Cheese Supreme Doritos. I think she's disappointed that the Sea Haven Police Department doesn't afford more opportunity for Dungeons amp; Dragons-type tricks.

“Whatever,” she says.

Diego is a little older than me. And a lot smarter. Her family is Cuban-the ones who said adios to Havana back in the ’60s when Castro came to town. She's got a sweet face and a cute figure. When she tries to talk tough, her big brown eyes usually give her away. She also likes to eat Doritos. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She told me once that Doritos are the perfect food. I called them “chemical chips” and she said, “Exactly! That's what makes them such an efficient fuel.”

“Tell us what you found,” says Ceepak.

Diego licks her fingertips and starts clacking on the keyboard.

“This one was pretty simple,” she says. “I did a quick history on those milk-carton pictures. They started putting missing children on the side panels in the late ’70s and early ’80s-after Etan Patz in New York and all those kids in Atlanta disappeared.”

Ceepak nods. Like I said-he's more of a forensics history buff than I am.

“Anyhow, I went to missing-kids-dot-com. It's run by the National Center for Missing amp; Exploited Children. They even have an 800 number: 1-800-THE-LOST. Creepy, hunh? Sounds like a vampire movie. But, then I realize-all the information about missing kids is centralized over at the FBI. So I tap into the NCIC….”

Even I know this one: she's talking about the National Crime Information Center, a computerized database filled with all sorts of info about fugitives, stolen property, and missing persons. The data is available to all federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

“Anyway,” Diego continues, “I put in the name Mary Guarneri, and the computer spits out the next of kin who posted the original missing child alert: Martha W. Guarneri, 24 West Grove Street, Fresno, CA, 93706.”

“Fresno?” says Ceepak. “That's a long way from New Jersey….”

“Yeah. So, I checked her background. She used to live in West Pennsylvania. Erie. Up near the lake. No husband. Never married. You guys tell me her daughter left home and came to Sea Haven in the summer of 1985. Well, mom left Erie, PA, in 1992.”

“I wonder why,” Ceepak muses.

“You can ask her.” Diego hands him a purple Post-It note. “That's her phone number. She's sixty years old, and she should be home right now. She lives in a one-bedroom rental close to the Fresno Airport. That's why her rent's so cheap.”

Diego winks at me.

“You got all that off the Internet?” I ask.

“Yep. Took me almost an hour.” Another wink. “Be careful, Danny. Big Sister's watching you.”

I nod. I will.

“How do you know she's currently at home?” asks Ceepak.

“Well,” she says as her fingers play across the keyboard, “it's partially supposition on my part. We know she works the early morning shift at Country Waffles on Blackstone Avenue. She gets off at three P.M. and, according to her credit card bills, takes the FAX bus, that's the Fresno Area Express.” She glances at her wristwatch. “It's six fifty here, means it's ten to four out in Fresno. The bus ride takes ten to fifteen minutes.”

I give her a wrinkled brow of disbelief. How could our new Nancy Drew know that?

“Danny,” she says, “FAX posts its schedule online. I simply plotted the shortest route from her job to her