He winks. I think that was another funny. Richard Heimsack must be the class clown in Tort Reform 101. With a last name like that, he better be.
Ceepak flips up his wrist, checks his G-Shock watch. “Danny?”
Yeah. I agree. Time for us to say buh-bye.
“We need to hit it,” I say to Sam.
“Right.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Okay. Stay safe, you guys.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak.
We march across the boardwalk toward the thunderbolt neon lights spelling out Rolling Thunder.
“Sorry about that,” I say to Ceepak.
“About what?”
“Sam and her friends. Slowing us down.”
“Not to worry.” We keep walking. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Ceepak pursing his lips, trying hard to think of what to say. “Danny … this job … it can put enormous strain on one’s personal life and relationships.”
“Yeah. I know.”
It’s a wrecking ball.
The Rolling Thunder isn’t open for business; they’re just testing out the lights, running empty trains around the track, greasing the rails. We go under the blinking entryway sign and head for the ticket booth.
We bump into our second surprise guest of the night: Sergeant Dominic Santucci, all decked out in black boots, black cargo pants and a black commando-style shirt. There’s a radio clipped to his belt. It’s black, too.
“Dom?” says Ceepak.
“Ceepak.”
“What are you doing here?”
Santucci gestures with his head toward the ticket booth. “Running security for Mr. O’Malley.”
“But the ride isn’t even open.”
“Doesn’t matter. Mr. O’Malley asked me to escort him around town tonight.”
“May I ask why?”
“He pays, I show up. Badda bing, badda boom.”
“We need to talk to Mr. O’Malley.”
“About what?”
“A matter related to our ongoing investigation.”
“What? The dead chick in the suitcases?”
“Is Mr. O’Malley here?”
“Well, duh, Ceepak. What kind of security operation you think I run? Get hired to guard a guy and not guard him? Jesus.”
“Let me be more specific. Where is Mr. O’Malley?”
“He and his son, Kevin, are walking the track. Making sure everything’s copacetic for the big opening tomorrow.”
“When will he be back down?”
“Five, ten minutes I figure.”
“We need to ask him a few questions.”
“Hang on.” Santucci unclips his radio. “Mr. O’Malley? This is Security One, over.”
We wait. Santucci chews his gum. Loudly.
“What the hell is it, Dom?” comes a snarl out of his radio.
“Couple of my buddies from the Sea Haven PD just dropped by. Say they want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
Santucci turns to Ceepak. “What about?”
“The murder of Gail Baker.”
Santucci chews his cud a little more slowly. Fewer pops. He brings the radio back to his mouth.
“That girl I was telling you about. Over.”
“Mr. Santucci?” says a new voice on the radio. “This is Kevin O’Malley.”
Santucci’s back stiffens. I get the feeling Kevin is in charge of hiring security guards for O’Malley Enterprises. “Yes, sir?”
“Kindly inform the officers that we’ll be down in five minutes.”
“Will do. Over and out.” Santucci clips the radio back to his belt. It’s black, too. “They’ll be down in five.”
Right. We were paying attention.
“We’d also like to ask
“Me? What about?”
“Did you remove an article of clothing from the suitcases?”
“What?”
“When you went searching for ID in Ms. Baker’s clothing, did you take anything out of the two bags?”
“Are you freaking kidding me? You think I grabbed a souvenir or something?”
“Did you?”
“Fuck you, Ceepak. Okay? I’m off the job, so I can say it. Fuck. You.”
“How long have you been employed by Mr. O’Malley?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“What sort of things has he asked you to do in the past?”
“Keep annoying assholes like you out of his face, you jarheaded jag-off.”
“Did you know about Mr. O’Malley’s relationship with the deceased?”
“What, his wife?”
“Gail Baker.”
Santucci’s eyes slide back and forth a couple of times. He swipes at his mouth with his hand. “If he had a relationship with her, he didn’t tell me.”
“Does he pay you extra to lie for him?”
“What?”
“You do it pretty well,” says Ceepak. “However your eye movements and hand gestures betray you, Dom. Avoiding eye contact. Touching your face.”
Santucci gives us his donkey laugh, but it comes out sounding stilted. “You watch too much fucking TV, Ceepak.”
“Dom?” Kevin O’Malley and his father emerge out of the darkness behind the ticket booth. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. O’Malley, I’m Officer John Ceepak. This is my partner Danny Boyle.”
“We know who you are,” says Kevin.
“We need to ask your father a few questions.”
“About what?” says the older Mr. O’Malley, stepping forward. It’s a warm June night, but he’s wearing a seersucker suit and white buck shoes. He was wearing the same outfit last Saturday. Must be his official uniform.
“Your relationship with Gail Baker.”
“Don’t say a word, Dad,” advises Kevin. “Lou Rambowski is on the way.”
Ceepak’s eye twitches. Every cop in Sea Haven (and most of New Jersey) knows and despises the lawyer Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski, ever since he helped a punk up in Newark get a free pass by making the jury believe it was a dead cop’s own fault he got shot in the back of his head.
“Very well,” says Ceepak, “we’ll escort Mr. O’Malley to police headquarters and-”
“I know how to find headquarters,” says Santucci. “I’ll drive Mr. O’Malley.”
“When will your lawyer arrive?” asks Ceepak.
“Late,” says Kevin. “He’s driving down from Montclair.”
“How about we do this first thing tomorrow morning?” suggests Mr. O’Malley.
