were coming to get him.
I see the back of Ceepak's rib cage swell under his shirt. He's taking in two big balloons of air. Pulling himself together. When he swivels around, his eyes are filled with the steely determination I'm used to seeing there.
“Danny?” he says, clipped and efficient. “We need to contact the Coast Guard. Immediately. Advise them to send out their rapid response vessel. Employ any and all air assets at their disposal.”
“Right.”
“We'll alert the chief. Have him contact the State Police over in Tuckerton. They can deploy marine units.”
“Okay. Yeah.”
Ceepak scoops up Barkley, cradles him against his chest.
“We need to hustle,” he says.
Then he starts jogging toward our parked car.
Once again, I'm right behind him, bringing up the rear. I huff and puff, and I'm not the runner lugging a sixty-pound dog.
Ceepak's mind is racing. “Perhaps we can borrow the Mosquito Control Commission's helicopter again,” he shouts over his shoulder.
We did that last October when we had those floods. Rescued some folks off rooftops. October is a slow month for mosquitoes. The helicopter was available.
We reach the car and Ceepak places Barkley in the back seat.
“You drive,” he says. “I'll work the radio, call it all in.”
“Right. Where to?”
“Home.”
The Bagel Lagoon is a straight shot down Gardenia Street to Ocean Avenue.
Ceepak lives only three cross-town blocks from Cap'n Pete's Pier. I think about the THANK YOU note we received. The J. C. typed on the front envelope flap. I'm wondering if maybe our resident psycho has been baiting Ceepak all along. Maybe after a fifteen-year hiatus he wasn't just trolling for his next victim, some runaway girl nobody would care about. Maybe he crawled out of his mole hole seeking the thrill of a true challenge: taking on John Ceepak, Sea Haven's one and-only supercop. Maybe Pete planted that high-school ring on Oak Beach where he knew Ceepak was sure to find it just to get the game started.
Ceepak uses the radio and the short hop up Gardenia Street to put out the APB. I expect to see the French Foreign Legion and a couple aircraft carriers show up any second now.
“Secure the dog,” Ceepak says, leaping out before I've technically brought the car to a complete stop. He bounds up the steps to his apartment.
“C'mon boy,” I say to Barkley.
He won't budge. Who knew the back seat of a police vehicle could be so comfy? I tug on his leash. I tug some more.
“Barkley! Come!” It's Ceepak. Apparently, he's swept the apartment. Now he's up on the landing, calling his dog.
Barkley's ears perk up. He snaps to attention and leaps out of the car. When he hits the ground, he barks three short, sharp blasts up to Ceepak. I believe the pooch just gave Ceepak a “Roger that,” in response to his “Come” command.
Anyway, Barkley scampers up the steps. Ceepak ushers him through the door. Locks it.
“Stay!”
Ceepak comes pounding down the stairs.
“Rita is not here. There's no note.”
The emotion or fear I detected earlier is long gone. He's set to
“Did you try her cell again?
“Affirmative. No answer. Voice mail.”
“Did you leave a message?”
I don't know why I asked it, but Ceepak answers: “Roger that. I told Rita we were on our way.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Do you know what freaking time it is?”
Ceepak glances at his watch. “Twenty-two forty-five.”
Our old desk sergeant, Gus Davis, shakes his head, pulls on his I’M RETIRED, DO IT YOURSELF baseball cap.
“Let's roll,” he says.
The three of us hustle down the front steps of Gus's tidy little house and hit the concrete pathway out to the driveway and our car. Our light bar's still spinning, streaking the front of Gus's house with flares of red light.
“You guys woke up my wife with your freaking cherry top.”
“Sorry about that,” I say.
“Yeah, well. Whatever.” Gus turns to Ceepak. “I take it I'm no longer a suspect?”
Ceepak stands near the Ford's rear door.
“Gus. I'm sorry. I truly am. I made a mistake….”
“Yeah, yeah. Isn't that why your pencil has that freaking eraser sticking out its ass?”
For the first time in about an hour, I see Ceepak almost smile.
“Roger that,” he says.
“Yeah, well, don't worry about it,” says Gus, pulling open a passenger door and sliding in. “I would've done the same thing. Hell, Ceepak-I probably would've arrested me. Come on, you two. Enough with the yakking. Let's go nail this nut.”
Gus Davis keeps his boat,
I help him haul in the lines, run the pumps, get the engines going. Ceepak hails from Ohio. They don't have oceans in Ohio. Just that river. Maybe a lake. He's not much help on deck, so he's up in what we sometimes call the “tuna tower”-the canopied cockpit situated atop the main cabin. He's up there in the command and control center, working the ship's radio, checking up on the air and sea assets currently being deployed up and down the Jersey coastline. Off in the distance, over the ocean, I hear a helicopter. I hope it's one of ours.
“When did Cap'n Pete shove off?” Gus yells up to Ceepak as the motors start to thrum under our feet.
Ceepak leans over the bridge's aft safety rail to answer.
“Uncertain. However, we know he abducted the girl on the boardwalk soon after our own encounter with her in the same general vicinity.”
“Okay. So when were you two knuckleheads chasing after this girl?”
“Right before you dropped by the house.”
Ceepak omits the detail about Gus telling us both to go fuck ourselves.
“Jesus,” says Gus. “That was what? Seven? Maybe seven-thirty?”
Ceepak nods. “Giving him a three-hour head start.”
Gus hauls in the last line.
“He could be anywhere. It's a huge freaking ocean. Come on, Danny. Take us out.”
“Right.”
I scale the ladder up to the flying bridge and take the helm. Gus climbs behind me.
“The Coast Guard Auxiliary Flotilla over in Avalon is sending out their swiftest boat,” says Ceepak. “It can do thirty-five knots.”
“That'll work,” I say, and start manipulating the port and starboard throttles, working the wheel.
“Cap'n Pete can only do about twenty-five knots in the
“That's like thirty miles per hour,” I say as we back out of the berth, reverse engines, and make for the
