Ceepak thinks. Nods. “Talk to the county prosecutor. See how she wants to play it.”
“You on board if she says cut the deal?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You sure?”
“Roger that.”
“What about the other thing?”
“Babysitting
“Yeah. What do you think?”
“The more time we spend with the reality show cast and crew, the more information we stand to pick up on Skeletor.”
“And,” says the chief, “maybe we can stop another one of those yahoos from passing out on top of some poor kid’s sand castle.”
Chief Baines. Always the dreamer.
“We’ll head over to the TV house,” Ceepak tells the chief. “Start interviewing the residents.”
“I’ll contact the county prosecutor. And John?”
“Sir?”
“Try to stay off camera.”
Ceepak grins a little. “That’ll work.”
As we head out the door, I remember what Dylan Murray said about Paulie Braciole when they processed him here at the house. His screaming, his face going bright orange, his neck tendons tightening up like thick cables.
“Roid rage,” I mumble.
“Come again?” says Ceepak.
“Paul Braciole. Dylan Murray and his brother were the ones who hauled the guy out of the Coin Castle. Said ‘The Thing’ was more like ‘The Hulk.’”
Ceepak stops in his tracks. Ruminates. “Roid rage. Acting in an overly aggressive, hostile manner after taking large doses of anabolic steroids. Manifesting symptoms of schizophrenia, mania.…”
“Tossing Skee-Balls at cops’ heads.”
“An interesting hypothesis, Danny. As you know, many bodybuilders often turn to the synthetic version of the male hormone testosterone as a shortcut to boost their muscle mass.”
Yeah, steroids may make your muscles swell but, from what I hear, they also make other things, such as the family jewels, shrivel down to the size of wrinkled peas. They pump you up, but let you (and your lady friend) down.
“We’ll talk to Paul Braciole first,” says Ceepak. “Good work, Danny.”
“Thanks.”
When we hit the lobby, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, waves Ceepak over to her cubicle.
“Your mother called. From Ohio.” Mrs. Rence hands him a pink message slip. “She saw you on TV last night.”
“Really? I did not know that she was a fan of the show.”
“Her church friends told her you were going to be on.”
Ceepak grins. Tucks the message slip into his pocket.
“Oh, and an Officer Vic Daniels from the Elyria Police Department called.” She hands Ceepak another piece of pink paper.
“Thank you.”
“That’s up there in Ohio?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Officer Daniels, he’s the same one who called last week. He need help on a case?”
“Something like that. Anything else?”
“No, you’re all clear.”
“Anything for me, Mrs. Rence?” I ask. We all call her Mrs. Rence because she looks like your best friend’s mom.
“No, Danny, sorry. Oh, that Layla Shapiro who signed in earlier, that’s the girl who helped you at the Rolling Thunder, am I right?”
“Yeah. She’s with the TV show.
“She’s cute.”
“Thanks.”
Mrs. Rence gives me a quizzical look.
“Danny and Ms. Shapiro have been dating,” says Ceepak to clear up any confusion as to why I would say thank you for a compliment directed at someone else.
“Oh!” says Mrs. Rence. “You’re not with Samantha Starky anymore?”
“No.”
“Well, what about that other one?”
“No,” I say, even though I have no idea what “other one” she’s talking about. To be honest, there’ve been a few.
“Oh,” she says. “Well, be careful out there.”
“Will do,” says Ceepak. “Danny?” He bobs his head toward the door.
We head out the exit, go down the porch steps, and swing around back to the parking lot to pick up our Crown Vic police cruiser.
“You want to drive?” I ask, fishing the keys out of my pocket.
“Negative.”
I can tell: Ceepak wants to use the ride over to the rental house on Halibut Street to ruminate some more. Formulate his line of questioning for Paul Braciole.
“So,” I say after we slide into the car. “That Officer Daniels up in Ohio-he offering you a job or something?”
I add a “heh-heh-heh” to let him know I’m joking.
Ceepak turns. Looks at me.
“Yes, Danny. Officer Daniels, a high school classmate of mine, is reaching out on behalf of the Lorain County Sheriff’s Department. They’re interested in me becoming their new chief of detectives.”
I nod. Swallow. “Good salary?”
“Yes. With an excellent benefits package. Plus, my mother, as you might recall, lives in Lorain County, Ohio. I’d be moving home.”
Ceepak.
The guy will not tell a lie-even when you wish he just would.
4
We’re cruising north on Ocean Avenue.
I’m behind the wheel; Ceepak’s working the radio. By the time we hit Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash at Swordfish Street, Ceepak and the desk sergeant have just about worked out a duty roster for
“We offer shifts to off-duty personnel only,” Ceepak reiterates.
“And retirees,” Sergeant Pettus crackles back through the radio.
“Roger that. Reach out to Gus Davis. He can help you put together a list of names.”
“On it.”
“Tell everybody it’s an eyes-and-ears assignment only. They see something, sense trouble, they radio it in. On-duty SHPD personnel respond in an appropriate manner.”
“It’ll take me about an hour to make the calls.”
