“You're a surgeon?”
“Indeed I am.”
“And you used to come down here, back in the ’80s?” I ask.
“That's right. When I was in college and med school. Sea Haven offered a welcome respite. I'd put down the books, pick up my fishing pole….”
“Right. Cool. You ever hang with a girl named Miriam?”
“Miriam?”
“Yeah. She could've been a Jewish girl.”
He thinks. Pouts out his lower lip.
“No. Not that I recall. I don't remember any chicks named Miriam….”
“How about a Ruth?” I ask.
“Another Jewish chick?”
“I don't know. I think she was from Pennsylvania. Up near Erie.”
Teddy tilts his mug and pours a perfect foamy head. He takes a sip, smacks his lips obnoxiously to show his appreciation for the Belgian brewmeister's skill.
“Ah. There's nothing quite as refreshing as a crisp, hoppy, pilsner, is there?”
“Yeah. So-did you know a Ruth back then?”
“Maybe. There were so many scrumptious young things roaming the beaches back in the day. But tell me, since we're discussing fine female flesh-do you know a young redhead who calls herself Stacey?” He looks wistful. “Enormous breasts. Quite fetching.”
“No,” I say. “I don't know any Stacey.”
Except, of course, the one I picked up hitchhiking. The same one I saw in the parking lot with this doofus last night. Sure I'm lying, but frankly, I don't care if Princeton has a Code.
He sighs. Way too dramatic. “Too bad. Amazing young woman. I need to find her.”
“How come?”
“She slipped away before I could jot down her phone number.”
“I see.”
“She also pilfered about a hundred dollars.”
“She robbed you?”
“So it would seem.”
“You want to fill out a complaint? Press charges?”
“No. No need. She earned it. Every penny. In fact, I was hoping we might hook up again later this week.”
“Is she a prostitute?”
“Heavens, no. The money she took was a gift. An honorarium, if you will.”
“Sure,” I say, because I want him to keep talking.
“However, that motel, Smuggler's Cove, it's even worse than I remembered. You're lucky you have your own pad.”
I think a pad is where you take chicks. I should watch
I gesture toward Ralph, who's down at the far end of the bar reading a wrinkled copy of
“Ralph's even luckier,” I say. “He lives on a boat. A houseboat.”
“I am envious,” says Teddy. “Fortunately, I was able to get out on the ocean this afternoon. Usually, I rent my own vessel. Captain it myself. Today, however, I took a quick charter with my wife.”
I cock an eyebrow.
He gets it.
“Now before you condemn me as an adulterous scoundrel, hear me out: my wife takes certain antidepressant medications that serve to suppress her libido, forcing me to seek ‘relief,’ if you will, elsewhere.”
Some people take Rolaids, he takes redheads.
“We're staying at a
“How come?”
“Nothing but middle-aged couples hoping to rekindle some semblance of their fading romances. Housewives desperate to get laid at least once a year so they drag their husbands into tarted-up Victorian houses filled with dishes of potpourri. There, one is encouraged to eat breakfast in a communal dining room with these … people. Fat people, mostly. Obese. You should see them scarfing down the homemade cranberry-pineapple muffins. As they ooh and aah over the scones, you are compelled to imagine them naked-aahing and oohing while they do what you know they did the night before.”
Now he's grossing me out worse than Miriam's nose. I change the subject.
“So you went fishing?”
“Indeed. I thought a quick fishing expedition might cheer my wife. Revive her sagging spirits. She, however, quickly became seasick. Vomited over the starboard railing. We had to turn about and come back to dock early. The charter captain, by the way, was a very decent fellow. Only charged me for the hour we were out, not the three we booked. Quite gregarious, too. On the way back, he told the most amusing stories.”
“Was it Cap'n Pete?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Sure. Everybody knows Cap'n Pete. He's a local institution.”
“As he should be. Anyway, if you see this redhead, let me know.” He hands me a business card. “Call my cell.”
I tuck the card into my shirt pocket-not because I want to pimp for Theodore “Teddy” Winston but because I'd like Ceepak to meet this guy. Call me crazy but I have a hunch he'll want to ask this scalpel-wielding perfectionist a few more questions about “chicks” named Ruth and Miriam.
Maybe even Lisa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Tuesday morning starts like Monday: at seven-thirty A.M. in the roll call room.
Only today Sergeant Pender is manning the podium instead of Chief Baines. I think the chief's in his office. Blow-drying his hair.
“Ceepak,” says Pender, “you and Boyle can continue your ‘special investigation’ until oh-nine hundred. After that, we need you guys working crowd control at the Sand Castle site. The heavy machinery starts rolling at ten A.M.”
Ceepak isn't happy. “Will do. However, that gives us insufficient time to follow up some very significant leads.”
Pender shrugs.
“Sorry. The chief gives me the marching orders; I pass 'em on to you.”
Ceepak nods. “Roger that. Understood.”
Pender looks down to the podium, checks his notes.
“We almost done here?” says Dom Santucci, yawning and leaning back in his chair. “Me and Malloy are working a special investigation, too.”
Sergeant Pender looks confused.
“I don't see anything in the book….”
“That's because it's
