“Do you remember this girl?”
He hands her the picture. She adjusts her glasses.
“Yes. She was my friend. Her name was Mary. Mary … something. Italian. Rhymed with Mary….”
“Guarneri?”
“Yes. Mary Guarneri. That's it. We shared a room at the motel.”
“She was also a runaway,” says Ceepak.
“That's right. Her mother didn't like the boys she'd been fooling around with back home in Pennsylvania. So, she came down here to fool around with ours.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“No. Merely promiscuous. She had no intention of ‘washing away her sins,’ as Reverend Billy liked to say. She just needed the free room and board.”
“Do you remember what happened to Mary?”
“Not really. I know she pretended to be baptized.”
“Pretended?”
“She played along. Said all the right words. Before you could be born again, you had to stand up in front of everybody, the whole congregation, and confess your sins. Reverend Trumble always insisted that we be very specific. I think he liked hearing the intimate details.”
Ceepak nods.
“Well, let me tell you, gentlemen-Miss Mary Guarneri did not disappoint. No, sir. She regaled us all with lurid tales of wild sex on the beach, in the back seat of Buicks, under the boardwalk. I don't know how much she made up, how much was true, but the day after her X-rated admissions, Reverend Billy dragged her out into the ocean, dunked her under a breaker, and Mary became Ruth.”
“Do you remember when she was baptized?”
“Not really. Sometime in July. Before my miscarriage.”
“And she remained at the mission?”
“For a while. She put on quite a show. Even took to acting like the true believers. The zombies. She called herself Ruth. Called everybody else brother and sister. Sent out the postcards like Reverend Billy told her to. Even sent one to her mother and pretended to make amends.”
“Do you know what happened to Mary a.k.a. Ruth?”
“No. Mary, or Ruth, simply disappeared. It was hot and muggy here that summer. Awful. There was no air conditioning at the motel in those days. I always assumed she ran away to someplace cooler. Maybe up to Canada.” She stares at the milk carton panel. “Was someone searching for her?”
Ceepak nods. “Her mother.”
“Did she find her?”
“No, ma'am. Mary Guarneri never came home.”
“I'm sorry to hear that.”
“Do you remember any of the young men who might have been at the mission that same summer?”
“No. Not really. The boys drifted in and out. Not many took rooms. They came for the food, a hot shower, and, if you ask me, to meet girls who had already proven themselves to be … readily available.”
My turn to butt in: “Were any of those guys police officers?”
“Police?”
Ceepak tries to clear things up: “Ms. Byrne, did you know Sergeant Gus Davis when he was with the SHPD?”
“Sure.” She smiles for the first time since we strolled through her door. “Everybody knows Gus. He stops in here all the time. Buys every fishing Santa I stock. Gus loves Christmas. Under that gruff exterior, I suspect he's a sentimental softy.”
“Do you remember seeing Gus at Life Under the Son during the summer of 1985?”
“Gus? No. Never.”
“Are you certain?”
“As certain as I can be, I suppose. It was such a long time ago. I've tried to move forward and forget all that.”
“Are you sure he wasn't there?” I ask.
“I'm sorry. I wish I could be of more help. But I simply don't recall many details.” She turns to Ceepak. “Perhaps you should talk to Pete.”
“Pete?”
“Peter Paul Mullen,” says Ms. Byrne. “Do you know him?”
“Yes, ma'am. Captain Pete.”
“That's right. Well, back then, before he was married, he was one of those young men I was telling you about. His mother wouldn't let him go out on dates. So Pete was a good boy and spent his weekends with the boardwalk ministry. He never did anything, mind you. Never hit on anybody. Never even flirted. I remember he always hung out in the back. Kept quiet, kept to himself….”
Ceepak turns to me.
“Danny, it seems your theory may be correct.”
Yeah.
I just had the wrong fisherman.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
We're hauling ass up Ocean Avenue.
Ceepak is tapping on the Mobile Data Terminal keyboard, looking up Peter Paul Mullen's home address, running a search through state and national crime databases for anything they have.
“He lives up north. 14th Street in Cedar City.”
That's like seven miles away.
“Let's swing by his dock first,” Ceepak decides.
That's two blocks up Ocean, three over to the bay.
“Lights and siren?” I ask.
“Negative. If he is there with the girl we don't want to spook him.”
“Roger that,” I say and hang a sharp left on Gardenia Street.
“Should we call for backup? Alert the chief?”
Ceepak leans back in his seat. Checks his ammo again. I see him glance over to the rearview mirror. I know he's thinking about Santucci-back there at Mama Shucker's, directing traffic and steering rubberneckers away from the mess he made.
“Negative,” he says.
“Right,” I crack, “the chief might give Santucci fresh ammo.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak.
He isn't joking.
At Ceepak's suggestion, I park at the corner of Gardenia and Bayside. We're about one hundred yards from Cap'n Pete's Pier. In the distance, I can see a string of carnival lights swinging in the breeze.
Ceepak taps his chest. Points toward the darkened office.
We're going in.
I see the double-door ice machine. The picnic table. I figure I can use those for cover if this thing goes hot.
Ceepak pulls out his pistol. I do the same. My palm is clammy, so I slip my gun back into the holster for a split second so I can dry my hand across the seat of my pants. Then I take it out again. Hold it with both hands. Hold it out in front of my face.
Ceepak zigs and zags in a crouch across the parking lot. I do the same. He uses light poles and parked cars and a telephone booth to make certain we're not sitting ducks or fish in a barrel.
