“Why, Mr. O’Malley, do you wear white buck shoes?”
“What?” says his lawyer. “How can my client’s choice of shoes have any bearing on-”
Up comes Mr. O’Malley’s silencing hand again.
“Why,” he says slowly, “did Colonel Sanders wear a string bow tie or Orville Reddenbacher those glasses? It’s all about branding. Folks see my white bucks and seersucker suit, they know it’s me from a mile away. I want to dress like it’s summer three hundred sixty-five days a year because summer is what my business is all about.”
Ceepak nods. Makes sense to him. Maybe he belonged to Junior Achievement back in Ohio. Doubtful, but possible. John Ceepak has lived his life trying to do the right thing, which is seldom the thing that will also make you rich.
“What brand shoe polish do you use?” Ceepak asks when he’s done nodding.
“What?”
“Is there a particular brand of white shoe polish you prefer?”
Mr. O’Malley looks to his son. “Kevin?”
“Kiwi. The liquid polish. It’s best for scuffs.”
“Kevin gets it for me.”
“They carry it at the Acme, CVS. It’s a rather common brand.”
“Thank you,” says Ceepak as he dutifully jots down Kiwi on a fresh sheet in his tidy notebook. “Do you polish your own shoes?”
“Huh?” says Mr. O’Malley.
The lawyer laughs a little. “This isn’t the army, officer. My client can’t be reprimanded for not spit-polishing his shoes.”
“I think Jackie had the maid take care of it,” says Mr. O’Malley, his voice distant. “She always told me to leave a pair outside my bedroom door first thing in the morning. Guess I’m going to have to take over running the household, too.”
“I’ll help,” says Kevin.
“Thanks, son. I really miss your mother … all that she did for me … for the family.”
Everybody’s in sympathetic-nod mode.
Except me.
I think Mr. O’Malley killed my friend Gail. Sliced her up like a butcher working through a side of beef. I really don’t care who’s going to polish his shoes or run his home. Heck, he may not have to worry about it, either; I have a feeling he’ll soon be rooming at the New Jersey State Prison in Trenton. They don’t wear white bucks. Goes against their brand image as “inmates.”
Ceepak stands up, somewhat abruptly. “We’ll talk with you gentlemen again at noon. Please present yourselves at police headquarters on Cherry Street at that time.”
Rambowski takes a step forward and it looks like he wants to go chest to chest with Ceepak. Good luck with that, pal.
“Do you have plans to incarcerate my client at that time?”
“If evidence recovered inside number One Tangerine indicates that Mr. O’Malley should be put into custody, rest assured we shall do so.”
I catch Mr. O’Malley shooting Kevin a look.
“And,” I say, “just so you don’t waste your time sending over Sean or a cleaning crew, the State Police already have the house locked down tight.”
“Excuse me, officer,” says Rambowski, “are you in any way implying that my clients would tamper with potential evidence?”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
Hey, you work with Ceepak long enough, you end up telling the truth on a regular basis.
Ceepak and I roll out of the King Putt parking lot. He’s behind the wheel.
“He did it, right?” I say.
“So it would seem,” says Ceepak in that way he has of letting me know he really hasn’t made up his mind.
“What? You don’t think he did?”
“If he did, I am somewhat surprised at his stupidity and sloppiness.”
True. Most criminals leave you a trail of breadcrumbs to track. This guy’s dropping whole loaves-those round pumpernickel ones the size of armadillos.
“Well, who else?” I say. “Mazzilli? That’s what Marny thinks. Mazzilli and the mob.”
“It is too early to reach a definitive conclusion, Danny. We haven’t even searched inside the house, the one place where all the current suspects intersect.”
Ceepak takes an unexpected left turn on Ocean Avenue.
“Where we heading?” I ask.
“North. Mayor Sinclair’s house. It’s early. I don’t think he goes to his office until ten or eleven.”
Probably later if he had a busy night in a hot tub somewhere.
We pull into the mayor’s driveway.
He lives north of the center of town, up where the homes are more like compounds behind stockade fences and evergreen walls. I see his son Ben’s motorcycle leaning up against some boxwood shrubs. Looks like he parked it there after scootering home drunk. No big surprise. We’ve been writing the kid up ever since I was an auxiliary cop working the Tilt A Whirl case with Ceepak, and Ben Sinclair terrorized an entire video arcade.
We go ring the doorbell.
After about the fourth ding-dong-ding, Mayor Sinclair shuffles to the foyer in pajamas. His crimped hair is sticking out at all sorts of jagged angles. Maybe he went punk overnight, the better to communicate with his wayward son. Then I see a pair of bright red Crocs on his feet and a scrolled “HS” embroidered on his chest. He sleeps preppy, too.
“What the hell are you two doing here at eight o’clock in the morning?”
Before his first cup of coffee, the mayor is neither sunny nor funderful.
“We apologize for disturbing your sleep,” says Ceepak, “but we need to ask you a question regarding a phone call you received early Friday morning.”
“What? You’re kidding.”
“No, sir. Do you recall the telephone conversation?”
“When?”
“Yesterday. Three fifteen A.M.”
“And this couldn’t wait until I was in the office because …?”
“Because it is related to our ongoing murder investigation. The dismembered body found at One forty-five Tangerine Street.”
The mayor steps out on the porch, closes the front door behind him.
“Jesus, Ceepak,” he whispers angrily, “didn’t Chief Baines talk to you? That poor girl was mutilated by out- of-town mafioso-the crew that runs the Atlantic City escort service she works for- because they caught her skimming off the top, cheating her pimps out of their cut.”
“Gee,” I say, “wasn’t that an episode on
“Mayor Sinclair,” says Ceepak, “Chief Baines has not proffered a theory on the murder of Gail Baker.”
“Crap on a cracker! I told Baines to call off the investigation … get the State Police out of my town. The FBI organized crime people will look into it. They’ll find a woman to wear a wire.”
“Adriana,” I say. “Christopher Moltisanti’s girlfriend. That’s from
“Mayor Sinclair,” says Ceepak, “we only have one question: Why did Mr. Patrick O’Malley call you at three fifteen A.M. on Friday.”
The mayor frowns. Furrows his brow. “Was that him?”
“Come again?”
“Friday morning. My phone rings at some ungodly hour.”
“Three fifteen?” I toss in.
