damages done to her perishable goods and store fixtures.”
“Tell her to wait,” says Santucci. “We're busy out here. Traffic. Crowd control.”
“Roger that.”
Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder and we move forward. Ralph and his mom were hiding in the prep area where they gut the catch of the day.
The floor is covered with those honeycombed rubber tiles that are easy to hose down. Behind Mrs. Connor, I see a big cutting board sitting atop a stainless-steel counter. The chopping block looks like it used to be white but now it's stained a permanent pink with decades of fish blood. On the cinderblock wall near to the slop sink, I see a rack full of knives. About six, all different lengths, shapes, and sizes. Filleting knives, curved boning knives. There's a sharpening rod hanging up there, too-so I know the blades are wicked sharp. A rusty hacksaw hangs off a hook near the knife rack.
Hmmm.
Every serious fisherman probably has the same sort of tools stowed on his boat-especially a guy like Gus Davis who loves to catch and clean his dinner every day. You don't think of this gear as dangerous when you think of a guy heading out to fish the day away. Fishing's a peaceful sport.
But now, when I close my eyes, all I can see is one those hacksaws working its way through a neck bone.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
It's nearly nine P.M. by the time we pull into a parking space in front of Santa's Sea Shanty on Ocean Avenue at Locust Street.
“What about Gus?” I ask again.
I shared my fisherman theory with Ceepak back at Mama Shucker's but he insisted we come see Santa Claus first. Me? I'm not in what you might call a festive holiday mood.
“It's gotta be Gus!”
“I don't think so,” says Ceepak.
“Okay. If not Gus, who?”
“That's what I hope Ms. Byrne will help us determine.”
“What if she tells us that Gus used to hang out at Life Under the Son?”
“Seems highly doubtful.”
“But if he did, then can we arrest him?”
“He'll certainly warrant further attention. However, at this point, although I find your theory sound, I do not think Gus Davis is our man. I doubt he would have had the time or temperament to become a member of a youth-oriented church group operating out of a converted motel.”
Ceepak is probably right. Gus would rather be fishing. Says so on the bumper of his car. But what if he was fishing for victims?
“Let's roll, Danny,” says Ceepak. “We don't have much time.”
I nod and open my door. He's right. The sun is long gone. There's only three hours left to July 17.
The twinkle lights that illuminate Santa's Sea Shanty are still sparkling bright. Must be a billion tiny bulbs in the fake evergreen garlands wrapped around the building and buried in the even faker fiberglass snow banks surrounding the window display's miniature Victorian Village. Santa is still on duty.
We open the door. Sleigh bells ring. Of course.
“May I help you officers?” asks a chubby lady in reading glasses behind the cash register. She's got the apple cheeks. The button nose. Put a little bun in her hair bubble and she could be Mrs. Claus.
“I was just closing up. Is there some problem?”
“Are you Ms. Sarah Byrne?”
“That's right. Have we met?”
“No, ma'am. I don't believe so. I'm John Ceepak. Rita Lapczynski is a friend of mine.”
“Is that so? How is Rita?” She smiles. “Is she still working over at Morgan's? Haven't been by there in ages. Store keeps me busy. It's Christmas three hundred and sixty-five days a year in here.”
Ceepak moves closer to the counter. He's so tall his head scrapes against the plastic mistletoe suspended from the ceiling.
“Ms. Byrne,” he says gently, “we need to ask you some questions about the time you spent at Reverend Trumble's mission. We need to know about Life Under the Son.”
She looks up at Ceepak. The sugarplum twinkle is gone from her eyes.
“Rita told you?” she says. She looks surprised.
“Only because you might be able to help us in a matter of utmost urgency.”
“I see.”
“Ms. Byrne,” says Ceepak, “lives are at stake.”
She probably heard him but doesn't act like it. Instead, she fiddles with the felt hat on top of a papier- maché caroler's head.
“I assure you, Ms. Byrne, anything you tell us will be held in the strictest confidence.”
She finally looks up. Stares into Ceepak's eyes. Sees what she needs to see. Then she looks at me.
“Young man? Could you kindly lock the front door?”
“Sure.”
I throw the deadbolt. Flip over the CLOSED-FEEDING THE REINDEER sign.
Ms. Byrne moves out from behind the cash register to stand near an aluminum tree loaded down with seashells and sequined tropical fish.
“What do you gentlemen need to know?”
“You joined the community run by the Life Under the Son ministry?”
“Yes. I had run away from home. My stepfather….”
She doesn't finish. She doesn't have to. Ceepak only wants information that's pertinent to our investigation.
“This was in the 1980s?” he asks.
“That's right. 1985.”
“Did Reverend Trumble baptize you?”
“Yes. We walked out to where the waves break. He dunked me under; I swallowed a mouthful of saltwater. When I came up I was Joanna-a biblical name that means
“How long did you room at his mission?”
“I was there through September. Until I miscarried.”
Ceepak nods solemnly. “Yes, ma'am.”
“Rita told you about that as well, I take it?”
“We needed to know.”
“I see.” She looks lost. Lost to us, at any rate. I figure she's thinking about the past.
We wait patiently.
Even though we're in a huge hurry.
The clock is ticking, but Ceepak's giving her all the time she needs. I just hope she doesn't need too much more.
Finally, the respectful silence is broken when Ms. Byrne clears her throat and says, “But how is it I can help you, Officers? I'm sure Rita must have thought I could or she wouldn't have sent you over here, would she?”
Ceepak reaches into his shirt pocket, pulls out a copy of the missing-person milk carton photo Cap'n Pete found buried in the sand.
“You say you were at the mission in 1985?”
“That's right.”
