and retired cops lining the walls. Years ago, a couple of these guys busted me and my buddies for drinking beer on the beach.
When we reach the lobby, our most recent retiree is waiting for us. Gus Davis. He's out in front of the short railing that separates Us from Them: the public servants from the public.
Gus looks upset.
“Good evening, Gus,” says Ceepak.
“Can it, Ceepak.”
His face is red. Retirement doesn't seem to be agreeing with him at the moment. Any second now, he could go postal on us.
“Why the hell did you send Santucci over to bust my chops?”
“Come again?”
“Don't play dumb with me, smart ass. He says you gave a list of names to Jane Bright. Wanted to see if I went to some kind of freaking whale museum.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee, Gus?” Ceepak asks. “It's still as bad as….”
“No, I don't want a goddamn cup of coffee!”
Several night-shift guys are strolling in the front door, ready to do the seven-thirty P.M. roll call and pass-on. They take their time heading to the locker room. Seems they prefer to hang out here and catch the floor show.
“Let's step into an office,” says Ceepak.
“Forget it, you prick. Santucci said you're trying to make me for a string of murders that went down in the 1980s.”
Ceepak doesn't reply.
Gus moves a step forward, braces the bar, and gets in Ceepak's face.
“Just because I didn't track down that tramp when her mother called. Screw that noise. We were busy! I didn't have time to go search under every bed in town for some two-bit slut!”
Ceepak holds up his hand.
“You don't want to say these things to me, Gus. Not now. Not without your lawyer present.”
Gus backpedals a step or two.
“My lawyer? I don't have a freaking lawyer. Never needed one until you sent Santucci over to bust my hump.”
“Perhaps you should retain one now.”
“What? You think you can arrest me? I still got friends in this town. More friends than you, that's for damn sure. You know why? Because you annoy people, Ceepak. You act all superior and sanctimonious. Like you're some kind of freaking Boy Scout altar boy. Well, who the hell died and made you pope?”
“No one.”
“You got that right. No one! And don't you ever forget it!”
“Go home, Gus. We'll talk about this tomorrow.”
By tossing in the “tomorrow,” I'm pretty sure Ceepak just handed our old friend a huge hint: he is not really a prime suspect. If he were, we'd be talking to him
“Fuck you,” says Gus, flipping Ceepak the finger. Way mature. In fact, the bird never looks all that menacing when extended upward on a sixty-five-year-old hand. Too many liver spots. Wrinkles. Bony knuckles.
“Fuck you, too, Boyle!”
Guess he read my mind.
“Go home to Fran, Gus.” Helen, the dispatcher has come out of her cubicle to join the audience.
“Fuck you, Helen!” Now Gus sees the crowd of cops staring at him. Knows he's made a fool of himself. “Fuck you all,” he mutters. “Every blue bastard one of you!”
His hands tremble into his pockets and his shoulders sag.
No one says a word. Heads drop all around the room. Nobody wants to watch the show anymore. This thing stopped being funny a while ago.
Gus turns, the crowd parts, and he makes his way out the door.
“I only spent one night with the girl.”
All of a sudden, Dr. Teddy Winston doesn't want to wait for his lawyer. He wants to talk. It's almost seven- thirty P.M. I figure he must have another hot date lined up for later tonight.
“You were there,” he says, fluttering his fingers in my general direction. “Remember? You were at The Sand Bar and told me where I might procure a six-pack to go.”
I sink down in my chair an inch or two.
We're in the interrogation room. Like most such spaces, it's got one of those one-way-mirror window deals. Chief Baines is currently on the other side watching us, and now the suspect is describing how I aided and abetted his bedding of the underage girl we've all been hunting for by pointing him toward Fritzie's Package Store.
I figure I could crawl under the table but that might make me look even worse.
“She's the one you ought to arrest,” says Winston. “The girl.”
“Why's that?” asks Ceepak.
“For prostitution.”
“Did you pay her?”
“No. She robbed me.”
“When?”
“You know. After. She took one hundred dollars. Cash.”
“Did she take the key to your room at Chesterfield's as well?”
“No. I simply lost it.”
“When?”
“Which time are you talking about? I've lost it a few times this week.”
“Tell me about them all.”
“Heavens-I don't know. I don't really pay much attention to such things. Fine. I confess to being absentminded, but the folks at the front desk don't seem to care. In fact, they have been quite accommodating. Surely it's no crime to lose one's room key. And this ridiculous littering charge….”
Ceepak flashes open the wallet we retrieved from the B amp;B.
“Is this your driver's license?”
“Yes.”
“Is 08540 your current ZIP code?”
“Yes.”
Ceepak's watching his eyeballs. Now he knows which way Teddy's eyes will swing when he flings us a fib.
“Do you come to Sea Haven often?”
“Not recently. Not in ten, maybe fifteen years.”
“What about in the past-specifically the 1980s?”
“Yes. When I was in college. I came down here quite a bit. So did a lot of people. The beaches, as I recall, were always quite crowded.”
I think he's trying to be sarcastic.
Ceepak keeps going. “During these visits, did you ever attend religious services at Life Under the Son?”
Ceepak arches an eyebrow. I think Teddy just looked the wrong way.
“Are you certain?”
Teddy leans back in his chair. Ruminates.
“Life Under the Son?” He's acting up a storm. Scrunching up his face. Thinking. He'll probably rub his chin pretty soon. Yup, there he goes. “Is that down by the boardwalk?”
Ceepak nods.
“They used to put on some sort of show out in the surf. Baptisms, I believe.”
