Dr. Hausler blinks a lot. “Stephanie?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Perhaps you should go home.”
Stephanie grabs her stuff, jams it into her pocketbook, and scoots out the door.
“Am I a suspect?” Dr. Hausler asks when the receptionist is gone.
“Where were you last night, Dr. Hausler?” says Ceepak.
“I am a suspect, aren’t I? Why? Because I called her a bitch and a tease?”
“Last night?”
“I had a date.”
“With whom?”
“This girl.”
“What girl?”
Hausler unsnaps the collar of his smock. “Her name was Amber.”
Ceepak and I each puzzle up an eyebrow.
“She works for an escort service. Elegant Encounters.” Dr. Hausler fumbles in his pants-the back pockets, thank God. Pulls out a wallet. “Here. This is the credit card receipt. They put the girl’s name on the receipt, but I think it might be an alias or a stage name.”
Well, duh.
“When did your ‘date’ begin?” asks Ceepak.
“Eight o’clock.”
“And when did it end?”
“She left at three or four in the morning.”
“Why the long night?”
Dr. Hausler blushes.
“We ended up in a barter situation.”
“Come again?”
“Her tooth was hurting her. Number fifteen on the upper right. The pulp chamber had seriously deteriorated and she desperately needed a root canal. So, we came here.”
Why do I think Dr. Hausler gave Amber all the nitrous oxide she wanted?
“The procedure took quite some time … and then … well … as I stated, it was a barter situation.”
“Do you have a phone number for this Elegant Encounters agency?” asks Ceepak.
Dr. Hausler dips back into the wallet. Pulls out a black-and-pink business card. Or, it could be one of those club cards they punch every time you buy something, like at the coffee shop; get enough hole punches, you get a freebie.
“Elegant Encounters provides a very useful service,” Hausler goes on while Ceepak jots down the information from the card. “They cater to professional and upscale gentlemen seeking companionship-men whose lifestyles may not allow them the opportunity to meet quality people in conventional ways.”
I figure in his spare time Dr. Hausler memorizes the portal pages to porn sites.
“Do you know of any other men who were dating Ms. Baker?” Ceepak asks.
“Pick up the phone book.”
“Can you be a little more specific?”
“Look for a rich man. Probably someone older. A lot older. Very wealthy.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Gail liked her bling. The shinier and flashier the better. On our last date, I gave her this diamond pendant necklace. Cost five thousand dollars at the Tiffany store over in Red Bank. Came in the little blue box with the bow, the whole megillah. You know what Gail said when I gave it to her?”
We play along. Shake our heads.
“She told me it was cute. That’s when I noticed her diamond earrings. They probably cost four times as much as my chintzy necklace!”
The happy couple in the black-and-white photo behind the counter is still smiling. Dr. Hausler, not so much.
“We’ll attempt to corroborate your story with the escort service,” says Ceepak, “and we may need to speak with you again.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
The way he says it, it sounds like he’s commenting on the state of his life, not his travel plans.
Ceepak’s cell chirps. The personal line.
He answers it.
“Hello.”
I hear a voice leaking out, and it doesn’t sound like Rita or his stepson, T.J. I know both their squawks.
“How did you get this phone number? I see. No. It’s not a problem, Skip. I’m glad you called. That’s right. We are currently investigating her death. And, may I offer you my condolences. If memory serves, you and Gail dated a few years back.”
Yep. Back when Skippy was a part-timer with a cell phone stuck to his ear when he should’ve been directing traffic.
“We’re on our way.”
He closes up the cell phone.
“Dr. Hausler, thank you for your time.”
“Sure. I … I …” He fumbles for words. “I’m sorry someone did what they did to Gail. She was so full of life. Now she’s dead.”
He probably should’ve fumbled a little longer.
Ceepak nods grimly. Gestures toward the door.
We head out, hit the parking lot.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Skip O’Malley. He, like Dr. Hausler, thinks Gail Baker may have been dating a wealthier, older man.”
“Really? Who?”
“His father.”
17
King Putt Mini Golf is starting to get crowded.
This is where the families with kids come after they boogie-board on the beach all day, before they go out for the fifth pizza of the week. More will come after dinner, before ice cream.
We park off to the side of the big pink pyramid, right beside the King Putt pickup truck. The door panel is painted with a bubble-nosed cartoon of the boy king in his Pharaoh hat-a green golf ball where the emerald scarab usually goes.
As we hike across the parking lot I can see a sunburned boy in a baggy T-shirt and shorts lining up his shot on hole number eleven: The Sphinx. I want to tell him to forget about aiming for the tunnel between the lion’s paws, go for the bank shot; carom your ball off the curb to the right. But he’s nine and I’m supposed to be more mature. Just ask Mrs. Starky.
“T.J. and his buddies are coming here tomorrow morning,” says Ceepak. “A farewell to Sea Haven party. Rita’s organizing it. I hope we don’t have to miss the entire affair. I imagine we will be rather busy.”
Hi diddly dee. The cop’s life for me. Duty calls, the family suffers.
Ceepak’s stepson will be shipping off to Annapolis in a couple of weeks to start what they call “Plebe Summer.” Apparently, it’s the naval academy’s version of boot camp. T.J. will not get to see any family or have any liberty or shore leave (or whatever they call hanging out with your buddies) until Plebe Parents’ Weekend in August.
