knew about it. Wanted to be partners on that, too. Maybe he wanted a four-way.”
My stomach lurches up into my mouth at the thought of two flabby middle-aged men-undoubtedly with muffin tops around their bellies-rolling in the hay with taut and tawny Gail and Marny.
But I soldier on.
“Maybe the four of them came here. One thing leads to another, Gail ends up dead, and Marny, afraid she’s next, hightails it out of town.”
“Interesting,” says Ceepak.
“It’s just a hunch,” I say. “A wild idea.”
Ceepak nods. He knew that’s what it was.
“We need to search this house!”
“What would be searching for?” Ceepak asks.
“Evidence!”
“Danny, the Fourth Amendment requires that searches be specific and reasonable.”
I think Ceepak should run for president-he’s an expert on constitutional law, too.
“As you know,” he continues in his calm, professorial tone, the one he uses whenever I make a bone- headed suggestion, “a judge will only approve our request for a warrant if we are specific as to the items we are searching for and prove that probable cause exists that the specific item will be located in a specific place at the time the warrant would be executed.”
“Unless it’s in plain view,” I toss in. “Then we don’t need a warrant to seize it.”
“Only if we are legally in the location at the time the item is seen.”
Bummer.
Ceepak glances at his watch. He knows Gail’s personal trainer will be at the house in half an hour. “What do you suggest, Danny?”
“Let’s look around a little. We’ve got time. See if we can see anything out in the open.”
“Such as?”
“I dunno. Gail’s missing Sugar Babies T-shirt?”
“Very well. Let’s take a quick look around.”
“Can we look through the windows?”
“Negative.”
Yeah. I guess it’s not considered plain view if you climb up on each other’s shoulders to sneak a peek.
So we head down the porch steps and stroll through the manicured pebble lawn.
“Let’s circle around back,” I say.
Ceepak nods.
I’m hoping there’s a clothesline where Mr. Mazzilli might’ve hung his blood-soaked cabana outfit.
We head up the alleyway of concrete pavers that runs between Mr. Mazzilli’s place and the neighbor’s. The sun’s low in the west, sinking down on the bay side of the island, so its fading beams are blocked by Mrs. D’Ambrosio’s two-story house next door and the PVC fence on the borderline between the properties. It’s kind of dark. Hard to see where we’re walking. I knee something wobbly. Glass bottles jingle.
“Sorry.”
Seems I accidentally bumped into that booze bottle recyclables barrel that somebody dragged back here- probably when they came over to hide the lewd lawn ornaments.
The rattling bottles and cans startle Puck. We hear yippy barks on the other side of the fence.
“Interesting,” says Ceepak.
Yeah. This walkway must pass a window where Puck likes to snooze. Was somebody else back here very early this morning? Is that what made him start barking up a storm at three A.M. when every dog I’ve ever met is usually sound asleep on the living room couch or curled up in their master’s favorite chair?
Ceepak flicks on his Maglite and spotlights the outdoor shower built up against the fence that I noticed earlier.
It’s really just the Jersey Shore equivalent of an outhouse, even behind the most expensive home on the block. Typically, you have your white-washed tongue-and-groove walls, an elevated cedar deck for a floor, and a drain that dumps water on the sandy soil that’ll drink anything it can get, even if it’s soapy.
Ceepak swings his light down to the bottom of the propped-open door. There’s a cinder block acting as a doorstop, maybe so the inside will dry out, keep down the mildew and toe fungus grunge.
We move closer.
Peer through the open door.
In plain view we both plainly see two things: a bottle of No More Tears No More Tangles Plus Conditioner for Straight Hair and a green bar of Irish Spring soap.
Time to call Bill Botzong and the state CSI crew.
I think we just found where the shampoo and soap residue came from.
21
Two NJ State Police guys show up to lock down the shower stall.
“Botzong’s up in Hamilton,” says the one named Reynolds (but we can call him “Spuddie”). He and his partner, a guy named Malone (no known nickname), have unrolled enough Crime Scene Do Not Cross tape to wrap a dozen yellow mummies.
“We’re gonna preemptively lock down the house,” adds Spuddie. “You guys working on warrants?”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, who is crouching in front of the open shower door, playing his light against the wall of the stall. I notice that, every now and then, it hits a splotch of white that doesn’t quite match the surrounding white wall.
Like somebody painted over a stain they didn’t want us to see.
A bloodstain.
“We should have no problem obtaining warrants for the shower,” says Ceepak. “But we might have to push the judge to gain access to the house.”
“Big shots own the place?” asks Malone, gesturing at the boxy McMansion.
Ceepak nods. “Two of the town’s leading citizens.”
“Your judge one of ’em?”
“No.” Ceepak gets up from his crouch. “How long do you estimate that it will it take Detective Botzong to arrive?”
“It’s a long haul from Hamilton,” says Spuddie. “Maybe fifty, sixty miles. I’m guessing Bill and his crew will show up around eight thirty, nine o’clock.”
“Danny, you and I should head back to the house, talk to Mike Charzuk. We’ll circle back in forty-five minutes, catch up with Detective Botzong.”
“Cool,” I say.
The two state cops glare at me. The Staties always shave the sides of their heads and wear their hats so the crimped brim practically touches the tip of their noses. They also wear riding pants and black boots like they’re working for a dictator in some tiny country where the women have to wear sacks over their heads. They’re very scary military-looking dudes. More so than Ceepak-who really was military.
So I add, “Ten-four.” They seem to like that better.
“No one in or out,” Ceepak says to Spuddie and Malone, giving them a two-finger salute off the tip of his cap.
“Roger that,” says Spuddie, saluting back.
“We’re on it,” adds Malone.
“Appreciate it,” I say.
They glare at me again. Probably wonder how I ever became a cop. Yeah. I wonder that sometimes, too. I used to round up shopping carts in the parking lot at Wal-Mart. Then I met Ceepak and life’s been one big roller coaster ride ever since.
