I can tell Bud’s trying to figure out how Dudley Do-Right could have Sir Skee-velot for a father. “Anyway, Joe’s cool. You know. Does his job. Tells everybody to call him Joe Sixpack, and, since it’s a bar, they do.”
“Is he here?”
“Nah. Won’t clock in until six.”
“Any sense of when he might be moving on?”
“Nope. Says he has some family business to take care of.”
Now Ceepak just nods and stares.
So I jump in. “Bud, we need to ask you about Gail Baker.”
“Sure. Why?”
“Someone killed her.”
Bud’s too stunned to even say “No way.”
“I had lunch at the Scupper on Tuesday,” he mumbles. “She was just in here. Couple nights ago.”
“Was she with anybody?”
“Yeah. Mike. Mike Charzuk.”
“Who’s he?” I ask.
“Trainer at the gym. Has a chin goatee like Springsteen. You know-the tiny triangle.” He points to his chin to give us the visual.
“Yeah,” I say. “I saw them goofing around together last weekend at the gym. She said she was free to hook up with him this week.”
“Lucky bastard,” mumbles Bud. Then he remembers that Gail is dead, throws up both hands. “No disrespect.”
“What about the dentist?” asks Ceepak.
“Marvin Hausler? Yeah-you guys should definitely check him out. Total psycho killer qu’est que c’est material.”
Ceepak and I quote Springsteen; Bud goes with Talking Heads.
“What makes you say that?” asks Ceepak.
“Dr. Marvin was also in here on Tuesday-I think because all well drinks are two for one on Twofer Tuesday. Anyway, he sees Gail and Mike doing their aerobics routine out on the dance floor, almost went postal on us. Your pops helped out. Hauled Hausler to the door, tossed him into the parking lot, scared the living shit out of the little dude.”
Great. Busboy Ceepak is doubling as a bouncer.
“Anyone else we should be aware of?” asks Ceepak.
“You mean other guys?”
Ceepak nods. Bud thinks.
“No. Not really. Last weekend, she came in with a bunch of her girlfriends. Didn’t see her much over the winter or spring.”
Ceepak’s cell phone chirps. The business line.
“This is Ceepak. Go.” He covers the mouthpiece so he can mouth, “MCU, Bill Botzong.”
I nod. It’s the state police. Maybe they found something.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. “Agreed. Very unusual. We’ll look into it. No. We should have her phone records soon. Right.”
He closes up his phone.
“Thank you for your time,” he says to Bud. “If we have further questions.…”
“I’ll be here.”
“Danny?” Ceepak head gestures toward the door.
“What’s up?”
“The State CSI crew has transported the two suitcases back to their lab in Hamilton.”
“And?”
“In examining the contents, they came upon all of Ms. Baker’s bloody clothes-jeans, undergarments, socks, shoes-everything except a shirt.”
“Well, she was definitely wearing a shirt when we wrote her up last night.”
Ceepak nods. He remembers it, too: tight. Snug. Four sizes too small. Mustard-yellow with cranberry lettering: Sugar Babies. Just like the candy wrapper.
“We need to talk to Santucci,” says Ceepak.
We sure do.
Maybe when he went on his treasure hunt for Gail’s ID, he decided to take home a souvenir T-shirt.
16
I give Samantha Starky a quick call to let her know our unofficial standing Friday night date is officially cancelled.
Our murder investigation “To Do” list just keeps getting longer.
Go to the dentist (we have a 5:45 appointment).
Talk to Santucci about a missing T-shirt.
Track down Gail Baker’s phone records.
Wait for the medical examiner and Major Crimes Unit to tell us what they’ve learned from the forensic evidence-especially those torn luggage tags.
Swing by The Rusty Scupper, see if any of Gail Baker’s workmates can clue us in to who may have wanted to hurt their star waitress.
Go back to that Naughty Gnome Museum on Tangerine Street, knock on the door, see if Papa or Mama Smurf are home.
We’re cruising south on Ocean Avenue toward the Sea Haven Smile Center, which is what Dr. Marvin Hausler calls his dental office in a strip mall at the corner of Jacaranda Street. We’re at Fig, five blocks north.
“Isn’t that where Mrs. Starky works?” asks Ceepak as we stop at a traffic light near All-A-Shore Realty.
“Yeah.”
“Let’s pull in. See if she can tell us anything about the owners of that corner house on Tangerine Street.”
“Even though Mayor Sinclair told us to leave the innocent citizens alone?” I say, just snarky enough for Ceepak to know I’m kidding.
“All the more reason to investigate further,” he says.
Yeah. My man has a very well-tuned BS detector. It buzzes like crazy every time we’re near our mayor, a city council member, or politicians in general. With that many booze bottles in the recycling bin, Ceepak is figuring somebody might have been there last night. So, for him, it’s worth a quick chat with Mrs. Starky.
For me? Not so much.
Let’s just say Sam’s mom isn’t crazy about Danny Boyle and her only daughter being romantically linked, especially the assorted sleepover dates. I don’t think Mrs. Starky would ever cut off my head and stuff it into a suitcase, but she may have other Lorena Bobbitt-style ideas in mind, if you catch my drift.
But duty calls.
So we park out front and head inside.
The office of All-A-Shore Realty always smells damp and moldy-like yesterday’s bath towel that never got dry because you kind of clumped it on the rack on top of some other wet towels. There are ugly black amoeba splotches crawling across the ceiling tiles near the air-conditioning vents. I always think I’m gonna come down with Legionnaires’ disease when I drop by Mrs. Starky’s workplace.
“Hi, Danny,” says Janet Costello, the girl behind the front counter. She answers the phones while stuffing the plastic “Welcome to Sea Haven” bags every renter receives when they pick up their keys. They’re crammed with coupons for all sorts of stuff like 15 % off fudge at Pudgy’s Fudgery, $1 off any pie at Pizza My Heart, and a free dental exam at the Sea Haven Smile Center (two X-rays included). Janet and I have been pals since high
