“Because I needed a Vegan Philly Cheese Steak.”
Ceepak gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”
“Did you catch this creep?”
“Not yet,” says Ceepak.
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We suspect the same person who transported Paul Braciole’s body to the boardwalk.”
“Skeletor? No way. He’s dead.”
“Mr. Braciole was not murdered by Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor.”
“Oh, right. You think I did it.”
“No, sir. I never said you were the triggerman. However, I suspect that, through various intermediaries, you hired this man to do your killing for you.”
Ceepak pulls a black-and-white printout from the envelope Mrs. Rence has left for us at the front desk. It shows two guys on a motorcycle. The one in front wears a sleek racing helmet and a leather jumpsuit.
“Who is this?”
“On the back of the seat is the corpse of Paul Braciole. The motorcycle operator is, we hypothesize, one half of the professional hit team that Bobby Lombardo contracted on your behalf to murder Mr. Braciole.”
Mandrake is staring hard at the picture.
“We figure someone else shot Paulie,” I say. “Came up alongside his vehicle while he was parked at a stoplight, whipped up his pistol, and boom.”
“Only,” says Ceepak, “Mr. Braciole had come to a full and complete stop. Therefore, the bullet did not ‘whizz past his ear,’ as you just described. It coursed through both hemispheres of his brain.”
Mandrake is still frozen. Everything except his hands. They’re starting to rattle the picture he’s staring at.
“Next time,” I say, “he’ll know that you roll through stop signs, so he’ll compensate for the moving target. Next time, he won’t miss.”
“Jesus,” Mandrake mumbles. “The helmet, with the lightning bolts. The flames on the jacket shoulders. It’s the same fucking guy?”
“You tell us,” says Ceepak.
“It’s the same fucking guy! This is the maniac who came at me, put a gun to my head.…”
He puts the paper down on the table and reaches for a bottle of water. Liquid sloshes out of his lips. The man’s hands are quaking because he’s finally put two and two together and come up with five, maybe six.
The tables have been turned.
The great Martin Mandrake has been double-crossed.
The killer he contracted to kill Paul Braciole and Thomas “Skeletor” Hess has a new target: Martin Mandrake.
“Mr. Mandrake?” says Ceepak, “the time for deceit and prevarication is over. If you want us to protect you, then you must start telling us the truth. Immediately.”
“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he mumbles. “This wasn’t part of the fucking deal!”
41
At approximately 3:15 P.M., barely thirty seconds after mumbling his semi-confession, Marty Mandrake totally clams up.
“I need to call my lawyer,” he says. “I have the right to consult with an attorney and have that attorney present during questioning.”
The guy has been in TV so long, he has the
“That, of course, is your right,” says Ceepak. “However-”
“Don’t try to strongarm me! I need to consult with an attorney.”
“Would you like some privacy for your phone call?”
“What? You think I have a death wish? Suppose you two leave and this crazed killer bursts through that door to finish what he started? I’m unarmed here!”
He’s also extremely paranoid, but I guess Abraham Lincoln would’ve been paranoid too, if John Wilkes Booth had missed. So we babysit him while he calls his lawyer.
Ceepak and I both cringe when we hear his lawyer’s name: Louis “I Never Lose” Rambowski, the same creep hired by the O’Malleys earlier this summer when we were working the Rolling Thunder case. Every cop in the SHPD (and most of New Jersey) knows and despises Rambowski, ever since he helped a thug up in Newark waltz out the door by convincing the jury that it was a dead cop’s own fault he got shot in the back of his head.
Today, it turns out, Rambowski is working out of his New York City office and needs to finish up “a few things.” He’ll have his driver whisk him down to Sea Haven ASAP, probably around four. At the start of rush hour. When the Lincoln and Holland tunnels are so clogged with cars, they need Drāno.
This means we don’t expect to hear any more from Martin Mandrake until 7, maybe 7:30 P.M.
We leave him in the interview room. He asks for an armed guard. Ceepak promises he will lock the door and “take personal responsibility for the key.” That means he’s going to slip it into one of his cargo pants pockets.
“Is he talking?” this from Special Agent Christopher Miller, FBI, who’s hovering in the corridor outside the Interview Room. So are about six other serious-looking individuals-male and female-dressed in suits, sunglasses, and Secret Service-style earpieces with wires resembling see-through pigtails. All six plus Miller are sporting suspicious bulges beneath the breast pockets of their natty jackets.
They’ve all got sidearms in shoulder holsters.
“He wants his lawyer,” says Ceepak.
Miller nods. “Probably wants to cut a deal.”
“If he gives up Bobby Lombardo, he might just get one,” says a woman with a severe haircut (like she does it herself with a pair of orange-handled knitting scissors) and a serious scowl.
“John, Danny,” says Miller, “this is Lisa Bonner. Works with the New Jersey State Police Organized Crime Unit. These other folks are with me. And we’re expecting more guests any minute.”
“Such as?” asks Ceepak.
“Some friends of mine from our Organized Crime Task Force, as well as a few folks from the U.S. Attorney’s Office. Everybody wants Bobby Lombardo to go away, big-time.”
And I thought all these nice people in suits were here to help us catch the hired killer on his motor scooter.
“I suggest you all make yourselves as comfortable as possible,” says Ceepak. “Coffee and soft drinks are available in the break room. We do not expect Mr. Mandrake’s lawyer to arrive for another three hours. Check back with me at 1900 hours for an update.”
Ceepak makes like he’s ready to leave. Ms. Bonner raises a hand.
“Maybe we could just go in there and have a friendly chat with Mr. Mandrake?” she says, cracking what I think she thinks is a smile.
“No, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Officer, we suspect that Mr. Mandrake can directly link Bobby Lombardo to your two homicides. We need to talk to him. Sooner, not later.”
“I understand your frustration,” says Ceepak. “However, Mr. Mandrake has requested that an attorney be present during questioning. We must respect his rights.”
“Says who?”
“Let’s go grab a cup of that coffee,” says Special Agent Miller, putting his big hand at the small of Ms.
