“Send the car to his house immediately. Officer Boyle and I will continue our search here at his Pier House and dock.”
“10-4.”
Ceepak clips the mike back to his shoulder.
“Should we check out these boxes? On the shelves?” I ask.
“Not now. We can surmise what they contain. Doubtful they will give us clues as to our suspect's current whereabouts.”
Stacey moans. Squirms. Flutters her heavy eyelids.
Ceepak moves back to the bed.
“Keep an eye on the entryway, Danny. I suspect Mullen will soon return to finish what he was preparing to start.”
“On it,” I say. I move closer to the curtains. A drop of sweat trickles out from under my cop cap. Stings my eye. I squint. Great. If Cap'n Pete busts in now, I'll have to take him down with one eye clamped shut.
“Ma'am?” I hear Ceepak say behind me. “Ma'am?” Now I hear a rattling of springs. He must be rocking the bed, shaking her awake.
“Oh, shit,” I hear her mumble. “Where the fuck….”
I sneak a peek. She's trying to sit up.
“Stay still, ma'am….”
“You … you're the asshole cop who was chasing me….”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Him, too!”
Guess she recognized me.
“We need to take you into protective custody,” says Ceepak.
“What?”
“The man who brought you here….”
“Stupid fucker tricked me.”
“Ma'am?”
“He told me his ankle was twisted. Said he did it playing Skee Ball and needed help carrying his stupid stuffed panda to his car.”
“Panda?”
“Yeah. Huge fucking thing. A black-and-white teddy bear that was like five feet tall. Guess he won it somewheres.” The more she talks, the more alert she sounds. “So I grab the stupid panda and sort of use it as a shield to hide behind so you two assholes can't see me anymore. And this fucking bear? It's old and ugly and its fur is all matted and dirty and it stinks like a can of tuna.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I figured some arcade must've scammed him, gave the guy a used prize-some secondhand piece of shit they stole from the Salvation Army or something.”
Or maybe, cagey Pete brought his prop with him. Maybe he picked it up back in the 1980s when those Chinese Pandas Ling Ling and Ding Dong were all the rage. Maybe he's used the stuffed panda ploy before.
“Where is he now?” Ceepak asks.
“The guy who tricked me?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“I don't know. See, he's hobbling along and I tell him I need a ride out of town. He says no problem. If I help him carry the damn bear, he'll take me wherever I want to go. But when we finally get to his car, he jumps me. Puts some kind of cloth over my face. I have to breathe this gross chemical shit while he shoves me into the back seat.”
“Do you remember anything else?”
She thinks, then shakes her head.
I hear a siren approaching.
“Could be the ambulance,” I say.
“Or Santucci,” says Ceepak. “Stay with the girl, Danny.”
Right. Santucci. Maybe he heard Ceepak radio in our location. Maybe he wants in on the action again. We may find ourselves needing to dodge bullets. Stacey, too. And she's not dressed for it.
Ceepak heads outside.
I look at Stacey. Smile.
She pulls a face. Half sneer, half wince.
“I suppose you want your fucking twenty dollars back?”
“Nah. That's okay. We're cool.”
She unwraps Ceepak's jacket from her chest so she can slip her arms into the sleeves. I look away. There's too much flesh-stretching and bikini-top-tugging going on in the cot district. Need to maintain my professional demeanor. Need to not stare.
So I peer past the curtains to the front door, which is still wide open. Moths are fluttering inside to check out the light bulbs and Cap'n Pete's charter prices. Outside, in the parking lot, I can see the paramedics hopping out of the ambulance. They open up the back, drag out their gurney.
But I don't see Ceepak.
I look harder. Try to make visual contact with my partner, make sure he's okay.
The ambulance's strobing roofbar sends some light out to where the parking lot meets the street. Finally, in the distance, I see Ceepak.
He's bending down. Petting a tail-wagging dog. His dog.
Barkley.
The dog's dragging his own leash.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The paramedics take over inside.
I dash out the door.
Barkley looks worried. You know how dogs get. Their tails go droopy, their ears arch up into question marks, their eyes go wide and sad, and then they whimper.
“What's up?” I ask, winded from my sprint.
“Barkley,” says Ceepak. He points to the dog's leash. I can see where it's wet and dirty from being pulled through puddles and gutters. “He's … she … he was….”
I glance over at him. I have never seen the man look like this before.
I have never seen John Ceepak look scared.
He blinks. Purses up his lips. Pulls a cell phone off his belt. It's the one he uses for personal calls.
He thumbs the power button, presses a speed dial number, raises the handset to his ear. Waits.
“No answer. Just the message.”
Waits some more.
“Rita?” I ask.
He nods. Closes up the phone.
“She takes her cell phone with her when she walks the dog….”
I grab the leash. “Come on. Let's roll.”
“Where?” he asks.
“Your place,” I say. His apartment is close. “We'll run by The Bagel Lagoon. See if she's upstairs. Maybe her phone's not charged or something. Maybe Barkley slipped out the door, took himself for a walk, and got lost.”
Ceepak turns away. Faces the dock.
“Mullen's boat,” he says, hollowly.
I see what Ceepak sees: The
