wind.” He slaps at the greenhead nipping at his neck. “Shit. Fucking flies. Catch you later, Danny Boy.”
“Yeah. Later, Ralph.”
Finally, he walks away. Up and over the dune, down to where the wind won't blow out the last of his paper matches.
“Bitter man,” says Ceepak when Ralph is gone.
“Yeah.”
Ceepak pulls out his notebook and jots something down.
I believe the belligerent bartender just made Ceepak's suspect list.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
We need to put up some screens. I want this whole area sealed off.”
The first unit responding to our backup request?
Santucci and Malloy.
Santucci is all of a sudden acting like he's in charge because he has extra stripes on his sleeve. Ceepak, you have to understand, never bothered to take the sergeant's exam last winter. Santucci took it five years ago. Passed it two years later.
“Where's Tray?” Santucci snaps.
“Tray?” Malloy screams at this young kid in navy blue shorts and a baseball cap.
“Here, sir.”
Tray is Keith Barent Johnson III, the son of a local hotel owner. It's a nickname, something to with his being KBJ Number Three. Either that or he used to work in a cafeteria. Anyhow, Tray is a summer cop like I used to be. Only I worked with Ceepak. He's been dealt Santucci and Malloy.
“Tray,” Santucci says, sounding a lot like one of those mean drill sergeants in military movies, “I want you working with the guys from the municipal garage.”
“You got that, son?” echoes Malloy.
“Yes, sir,” says Tray. He salutes, too. Either that or he can't see because the sun is in his eyes and he's using his hand as a makeshift visor.
I see Ceepak checking his watch. Again. Still no word from Diego.
Santucci points toward the competition site. “I want crash curtains everywhere. Establish the perimeter, then seal it off. Understood?”
Malloy leans in, shouts in the kid's ear. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Tray looks confused. “I mean, no. What are crash curtains, sir?’
“Jesus,” growls Santucci. “Just how stupid are you?”
“Answer the sergeant's question,” adds Malloy. “How stupid are you, son?”
Now Tray looks like he might cry, which is never a good choice when you're on the job. Trust me. Nobody wants to see their law enforcement personnel being
Ceepak steps forward, tries to get between the kid and his two tormentors.
“Crash curtains are seven-foot-tall green tarpaulins that the State Police use to shield accident scenes from motorists in an attempt to reduce rubbernecking delays.”
Tray straightens up. “I see. Thank you, Mr. Ceepak. I didn't know.”
“Take it easy son,” says Ceepak. “It's all good.”
Santucci turns to face Ceepak.
“All good? All
Ceepak grins. “Completely, Sergeant.”
Santucci works his gum. Snaps an air pocket between his molars. He leans in close so Ceepak can smell his fresh, minty breath.
“You know, this used to be a quiet little town until you showed up.”
“Excuse me?”
Santucci points at the holes in the sand.
“This skull crap. We didn't have problems like this until you joined the force.”
“Actually,” says Ceepak, “according to the evidence recovered thus far, these particular incidents took place in the early 1980s. I was in junior high school at the time. In Ohio.”
“Yeah? Well this is Jersey, okay? You got a problem with that?”
I have no idea what Santucci's talking about. Maybe he's trying to invent his own Code. Either that or he's working on a new state slogan, something to put on the license plates, since nobody ever bought that whole “Garden State” deal.
Santucci's partner, Malloy, is staring at the four holes Ceepak and I dug in the sand. He moves his head. Back and forth, back and forth. Real slow. It's hard for Malloy to shake his head because his neck muscles are so thick his noggin is basically a golf ball teed up on a stump.
“Look at all these holes,” he says. “It looks like that Disney movie. You know-the one with all the holes in it. What was that one called?”
“
Santucci turns. I see my smiling face reflected back in his mirrored glasses. Yeah. He's right. I definitely look like a smart ass.
The radio on Santucci's utility belt squawks. He whips down the hand mike clipped to the top of his left shoulder.
“This is Sergeant Santucci. Go.”
“Dom. Chief Baines. What's your 10–38?”
“We are on-site, sir. Oak Beach. Situation is well in hand.”
“Is Ceepak there?”
“10-4.”
“Good. I want you and Malloy to take over Sand Castle security. Ceepak should continue to gather evidence but should do so without drawing unwanted attention to his activities. Copy?”
Ceepak nods. This means two things. The chief's still not calling the FBI or the State Police, and Ceepak and I are still in charge of excavating the treasure chests-but we have to do it in a way that doesn't let anybody on the beach know what we're digging up.
“10-4, Chief,” says Santucci. “I'll give Ceepak his marching orders.”
“I think I just did,” the chief snaps back. “I also gave you yours.”
We don't do any more digging.
As soon as Santucci, Malloy and Tray traipsed down to the contest site and started setting up stanchions for their crash curtains, Denise Diego radioed us with the results of her search.
“I found it,” she says. “The book of Ezekiel. Chapter twenty-three.”
“Read it back,” says Ceepak.
“It's kind of a weird passage.”
“Hold on.”
We move away from the crowds. Walk further up the sloping sand, up to the sea grass and fencing again. Ceepak depresses the button on his handy-talkie. “Go ahead, Officer Diego.”
“Okay, I'll cut to the chase. These are verses twenty-five to twenty-seven….”
We hear her clear her throat. Take a deep breath. She starts reading from the Bible: “‘And I will set my jealousy against thee, and they shall deal furiously with thee: they shall take away thy nose and thine ears; and
