We drive toward the setting sun, over to the bay side of the island.
Retired desk sergeant Gus Davis spends most of his time on his fishing boat, especially in the summer. He says it helps his marriage: he and his wife get along better if they only see each three times a day-coffee, dinner, and the ten o'clock news.
Gus's boat, a thirty-eight-footer, is usually docked at the public pier near Cherry Street. Ceepak and I park in a crumbling patch of asphalt close to the pier pilings.
“Here he comes,” says Ceepak, pointing to a puttering fishing boat followed up the inlet by a flock of hungry gulls.
Then I hear Gus, yelling at the birds swooping down to check out his catch.
“Get outta here, you freaking mooch birds! Find your own freaking fish….”
It's a wonder the birds don't snag their wings on all the poles and antennae and outriggers jutting out above the boat. Gus pulls back on the throttle, churns up some water, and reverses engines to wharf in his berth.
“Throw me the line, Danny,” he hollers. “Freaking mooch birds!”
I pick up a coil of rope and toss it down to Gus. He wraps it around a cleat. The birds keep circling and squawking.
“Here you go, you greedy bastards!”
Gus scoops his hand into a five-gallon bucket and tosses a tangled chunk of chopped squid as far out as he can. The birds dive bomb and attack it.
“They can have the freaking bait,” Gus says with a raspy laugh. “But the fluke is all mine.” He hoists a Styrofoam chest up and over the side. I grab it.
“Good day?” Ceepak asks as Gus moves around the cockpit closing things down.
“Not bad. You ever eat fluke?”
“Roger that. However, I believe the restaurant called it ‘summer flounder.’”
“Same difference. I'll be eating good tonight, boys. I cleaned and gutted on the way in. That's why the birdbrains were giving me the winged escort. I told Fran to drag out the corn meal and pickle relish.”
Fran is Gus's wife. It's why his boat is called the
“You boys be sure to think of me when you're grabbing a cup of bad coffee and a shrink-wrapped sandwich over at the Qwick Pick.”
Gus just described the typical cop's dinner, purchased at any friendly neighborhood convenience store. Of course, this cop usually adds in a bag of chips, some Ring Dings, and a can of Mountain Dew. Ceepak goes with the bag of baby carrots.
Gus climbs over the gunwale and up onto the dock. “So, what's up? Fran called on the cell, said you boys were looking for me.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “We need to ask you a couple questions. About an old case.”
Gus grimaces. His face is brown with leathery seams. His wispy hair has been bleached white by the sun. I can tell he doesn't much want to talk shop, doesn't want to play cops and robbers anymore. He's retired. Put in his time, picked up his pension. Now all he wants to do is fish and breathe in the salty sea air until the day his lungs conk out.
“Can we make this quick? I'd like to eat my fish while it's still fresh.”
“Of course,” says Ceepak. “Do you remember a case involving a teenage runaway named Mary Guarneri?”
“No. Should I?”
“Perhaps. The girl's mother spoke with you several times. She had reason to believe Mary was in Sea Haven.”
“What kind of reason?”
“She received a postcard from her daughter.”
“Is that so? Hunh. Well, I got to be honest-I don't remember any Mary Guarneri. When was this? Couple years ago or something?”
“1985.”
“1985? Jesus, Ceepak. That's freaking ancient history.”
“Agreed. However, the mother spoke with you several times over the course of that summer. Again right before Christmas. I thought perhaps….”
“Listen, Ceepak-I realize you're relatively new down here, but let me give it to you straight: we have moms and dads calling about their kids all summer, every summer. Sea Haven is a very popular destination for your juvie types. They figure they can head down here, hang out on the beach, sleep under the boardwalk-live the dream, you know what I'm saying? Nothing but sun, sand, and sex.”
“We have reason to suspect that this girl could have become the victim of foul play.”
“What reason?”
“Recently uncovered evidence.” Ceepak doesn't go into the grisly details.
“Hey,” Gus says with a shrug, “if her mom called, I'm sure we put her name up on the board with the rest of 'em. But I guarantee you we didn't bust our hump searching for this Mary Guarneri kid. Summers, we're crazy busy. You know that. Forty-some officers. Twelve men a shift. We never had the time or manpower to provide station house adjustments for every kid that comes down the shore looking for a good time without telling her parents about it first.”
“Did you write up an incident report when Ms. Guarneri called? Maybe if we re-examined your records….”
Gus shakes his head.
“You're not listening. There aren't any records, no paper at all. These runaway kids were never what you might call a ‘high priority.’ Most of them were druggies or worse. Now if this kid got into some kind of trouble, say she was ripping people off or, you know, dabbling in drug dealing or prostitution or what have you, then we might have something on her.”
“Do you have reason to suspect she might have been engaged in criminal activity?”
“Most of these runaways are troublemakers. I wouldn't be surprised if her parents kicked her out of the house, told her to take a hike.”
“This particular girl's mother was actively searching for her.”
“Then she's the freaking exception to the rule. Most of these kids, they're like the garbage you fling out your car window, you know what I'm saying? You're happy to be rid of it. Maybe somebody comes along and cleans up your mess, maybe they don't, but you don't really give two shits either way.”
Ceepak nods but gives Gus the sad eyes that say he could have and should have done better.
“I gotta go home.” Gus picks up his cooler. “Fran's waiting.”
Ceepak puts away his notebook, clicks his pen shut.
“Say ‘hello’ for me.”
“Yeah.” Gus shambles toward his car. Stops. Turns to face Ceepak. “You might ought to check with that Jesus freak on the boardwalk.”
“Are you referring to Reverend Trumble?”
“Yeah. Most of these runaways, sooner or later they get hungry or stink so bad they end up at his place for a hot meal and shower.” Gus shrugs. “Sorry I can't, you know, give you guys anything more.”
Ceepak smiles. “Don't worry, Gus. It's all good.”
Gus opens his car door. His lips twitch down into a frown. I get a feeling his fried fluke won't taste so good tonight, no matter how well Fran breads and spices it.
As his car crunches out of the lot, Ceepak turns to stare at the sun setting behind the skyline of boat antennae. The view kind of reminds me of this fake oil painting that's bolted to the wall in my apartment. My apartment used to be a motel room. Motels use bolts on all their works of art.
I hear Ceepak sigh.
“What's up?” I ask, because when he heaves a sigh like that, I always know something is.
Ceepak turns. Squints. It's not the sun that's causing his eyes to tighten. He's seeing something he'd rather not, something that happened in the past. Something bad.
“Antwoine James,” he says.
