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Authors: Chris Grabenstein

BOOK: Hell Hole
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“That's right.”
“Who were his friends in New Jersey?”
“I don't know,” says Tonya. “Who do you think he was talking about?”
“We're also uncertain. However, we intend to find out. Officer Starky?”
“Sir?”
“I don't want these ladies returning home to Baltimore.”
“Good,” says Jacquie. “Because we aren't going there. Those two fools can sit there all day, waiting for us to come out that front door.”
“I know a safe location.” Ceepak takes out his notebook and pen. Then he reaches into a pants pocket and pulls out a motel card-key holder and jots down the address printed on it. “It's a Holiday Inn in Avondale. Ask the front desk to put their room on my account.”
Ceepak has an account at the Holiday Inn?
He hands the slip of paper with the hotel information to Starky.
“Please call me as soon as the sisters are secure.”
“You don't have a cell phone, sir.”
“Right. Good point.” He thinks for a second. “When the ladies are safely in a room, phone the house and ask the dispatcher to radio us.”
“You don't have a police car, either, sir.”
“Yes, we do!” I say. “A brand new Crown Victoria.”
I just hope no one's been messing with the tires while we were in here with the effing frappucinos.
The ladies
leave.
“You ready to roll?” I ask Ceepak.
“Roger that.”
Ceepak rises from the table.
Freezes.
Doesn't say a word.
“Hello, Johnny.”
There's this old guy with wild white hair standing about six feet in front of us.
“You're a hard man to find,” he says.
He looks like a movie star's DWI mug shot: handsome, rugged face with tight skin except where it's puffed out in saddlebags under his eyes. It's the white stubble on his cheeks and the stringy hair glued into place by a week's worth of grime (or a wind tunnel) that make him look like a drunk.
Ceepak notices the guy is holding a can of Budweiser nestled inside a foam beer koozie. “You cannot carry an open container of alcohol in here,” he says.
“I bought the beer holder in the gift shop,” the skeezy guy replies. “It's a souvenir. My first trip to Jersey. Wanted to make sure this thing worked.” He tilts the can, gulps a slug of beer, and wipes the foam off his lips. “Yep. Nice and cold.” Now he looks at me. “This your boy?”
“No.”
“I heard you had a son.”
Ceepak doesn't answer.
“Heard the kid came with your wife. You're married now, right?”
Still no answer.
“You're smart. Skip the whole dirty diaper deal. Pick up a kid who's already wiping his own ass. Of course, that means your wife must be pretty old. Like buying a used car, Johnny—you're just buying somebody else's trouble.”
Now Ceepak takes a half-step forward like he wants to deck this boozehound.
“Hey, Johnny, those people you work with, they're very helpful. Told me exactly where to find you. Said you just smashed up your cop car. You still that shitty of a driver, hunh? Ever since you got your first big-boy bike …”
I'm trying to figure out who the hell this guy is and why he's pissing Ceepak off so much. Maybe it's because he's wearing shorts and sandals and you can see where he hasn't washed below the shins since sometime last winter.
“Mind if I sit down?”
Ceepak points to the empty chairs at our table.
“We were just leaving.”
The old guy doesn't sit.
“So what's good to eat here, Johnny? Hey—how about that new Burger King deal I heard them talking about on the radio? I've been listening to the radio a lot lately, Johnny. Been on the road for almost a week. Tracking her down. Picking up clues, here and there. Started in Cleveland. Talked to all our old neighbors. Headed out to Indiana. Picked up her trail. I'm a regular detective, huh, Johnny, just like you. You want some advice?”
“No.”
“Well, I'll give it to you anyway because, hell, it's my goddamn duty. You should lay off the heroic shit. You solve a major crime or rescue some black kid out of an alley over in Iraq, the newspapers are going to write stories. They love that sappy shit. But, when they write about you, it makes you easier to locate.” He smiles. “So, where is she, Johnny? Where's your mother? She in Sea Haven where you work? She having a
sunny, funderful day
like it says on the Web site?”
“I am not at liberty to say.”
“Ah-hah! That means you know where she is! Otherwise, you'd just say ‘neo!'” The drunk staggers a side step forward, addresses me: “He still doing that George Washington bit where he cannot tell a lie?”
I look at Ceepak. Look at the old man.
“I'm not at liberty to say.” I figure if it worked for Ceepak, it might work for me.
“Who the hell are you?”
“Danny Boyle.”
“You a cop?”
“It's why I'm wearing the badge, sir.” I point to it.
“Oh. I see. You're a smart-ass.” He balls up his koozie fist. Crushes the can. I've seen arm tendons ripple like that before. My partner flexes the same kind of muscles when he gets mad.
Oh, Jesus.
Now I know who this old drunk is.
“You gonna introduce me, Johnny? Father should meet his son's coworkers. How you doin', Danny Boyle?”
Mr. Ceepak extends his hand. I instinctively take it. It's clammy.
“I'm Joe Ceepak. You can call me Joe Six-pack. All my friends do. You know why?”
I drop his hand and take a wild guess: “You like beer?”
He raises the can in a shaky toast. “Hell—it's five o'clock somewhere!”
So this is Mr. Joseph Ceepak. For a couple years now, I've heard horror stories about Ceepak's father; how the guy loved his booze more than his wife or his two sons. In fact, when Ceepak's little brother Billy was raped by a priest, Mr. Ceepak ragged him about it so much the kid
committed suicide. Jammed a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
Oh, man.
I forgot about that.
I forgot about William Philip Ceepak. Just how hard was it for my partner to look at those crime-scene photographs of Shareef Smith and not see his little brother with his skull blown open? Billy's suicide happened when Ceepak was already in the Army, serving overseas. He wasn't home to protect his kid brother, wasn't able to shield him from their father. I don't think Ceepak has ever forgiven himself for what he once called his “dereliction of duty.”
“Kindly leave,” says Ceepak.
“Or what?”
“We'll place you under arrest for violating the State of New Jersey's open container ordinance.”
“This your jurisdiction?”
“I'll call the state police. They patrol this area quite frequently.”
“What if I'm not holding an open container when they get here?” Mr. Ceepak tosses his foam-cuddled empty at a trash barrel. Misses. “Never was any good at basketball. Hell, son—neither were you. Looked like a spaz out there on the court.” He flaps his hand up and down and makes what he must think is a funny face. “Hey, remember when ‘Santa Claus' brought you that goddamn bicycle?”
Okay. I've heard a few of the Ceepak Family Christmas stories. They'd never make it on the Hallmark Channel unless, you know, they start doing monster movies.
“That was your mother's idea, that goddamn bike. Oh, you wanted one so bad. Whined to her about it all the time. So I had to ‘curtail my social life.' That's what your mother called it. Meant I had to give up my beer money so she could go buy you that goddamn red bike at Kmart. Then she made me take you out to that restaurant parking lot first thing Christmas morning to teach you how to ride the damn thing, remember?”
“Yes.”
So Mr. Ceepak turns to tell me the story.
“It was early and the restaurant was closed so the parking lot is
empty except for this one car. Guess what? Little Johnny Ceepak hit it! Only one goddamn car in the whole fucking parking lot and he hits it! Bent the frame on his brand new bike so bad, every time he goes out to ride, he's reminded how he fucked-up Christmas morning because his handlebars are forever pulling to the right.”
Mr. Ceepak is wheezing with laughter.
“Danny?” says Ceepak.
“Sir?” I say it sharply to show Mr. Ceepak how much some people respect his son.
“We need to leave.”
“Yes, sir.” I practically salute.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a goddamn minute. We haven't seen each other in, what, ten, twelve years?”
They're like six inches apart now. Face-to-face.
“Listen,
son
—I'm not leaving New Jersey until I find her. You know where she is. You tell me, I go away.”
“Why this sudden urge to locate your ex-wife?”
“That's just it, son—she's not an ‘ex' anything. We're Catholics, Johnny, and there's no such thing as ‘divorce' in the Catholic Church. Hey, those are the rules. I didn't write them. I did, however, make certain vows in front of God, the priest, and everybody else in that goddamn church and so did she. ‘Till death do us part.' Well, Johnny—I'm not dead yet. Neither is she.”
“So you heard about her inheritance?”
His father smiles again. “She tell you about that?”
“We talk on a weekly basis.”
“Who knew, hunh? Her Aunt Jennifer. No kids. All her sisters and brothers dead. Living all alone in that split-level shack outside Sandusky. Who knew she was sitting on a shitload of stocks and bonds and your mom was her favorite living relative.”
“They were close.”
“Yeah, yeah. She played it smart, I'll grant her that. Angled her way in, kissed the old lady's ass on a regular basis.”
“She read books to her when her eyesight failed. Brought her hot meals.”
“Like I said, she played it smart. But what the hell is your mother going to do with two point three million dollars?”
“Move further away from you.”
“She's still my wife, Johnny. You ask any priest, they'll tell you. What's hers is mine. In sickness and health, better or worse, richer or poorer. So where the hell is she?”
“I'm not at liberty to say.”
“You fucking jarhead moron. Fine. Suit yourself. I'll find her. Of course, if I have to use force to make her keep her vows …”
“If you touch her, you'll answer to me.”
Mr. Ceepak puffs up his chest. If he ate something besides liquid nourishment, he might still be strong. You can see, despite his best efforts to destroy it, his body is pretty fit.
Ceepak could care less. He eats his vegetables at every meal and could whip his old man with both hands tied behind his back.
“Stay away from my mother,” he says.
“Hey, you're such a good son, how come you don't call me every week?”
Ceepak refuses to answer.
“Still pissed off about Billy, hunh? I was just trying to toughen him up, John. Shit, he was a sissy. A pansy. No wonder the priest diddled him. Probably figured Billy was asking for it.”
“Danny?”
Ceepak jerks his head to the side. We turn and walk away.
“You should get in on this too, Johnny!” Mr. Ceepak shouts after us. “You earned it. Putting up with your mother's bitching and moaning all these years. Get it while you can, boy. Don't wait for your reward in heaven. Once you die, you're done. You hear me, Johnny? You die, you're done!”
Geeze-o, man.
And I thought
my
dad gave lousy lectures.
We make
our way through the mob of tourists emptying chip bags into their mouths.
Our brand new cop car is where Murray parked it: haphazardly angled against the curb.
“Guess we should give Dylan a ticket,” I crack, trying to break some of the father-son tension, which has to be higher than the humidity. It's at 98 percent. I know because my shirt just attached itself to my back.
“No need to write up the parking violation, Danny. Police officers are allowed certain leeway in the execution of their official duties.”
My partner has officially switched into automaton mode. Ceepak does that sometimes. They say a lot of children of drunks become cops and soldiers so they can finally have some control over their screwy world. After hanging with John Ceepak for a couple years, I know that's where his more robotic moves come from. It's how he stuffs down the rage. He controls his emotions, clips his words, and recites the nearest rule book. Me? I usually pound the steering wheel and scream.
I pull out the keys to the Crown Vic.
“You want to drive?” I ask.
“Haven't you heard? I'm a lousy driver.”
“C'mon, that's not true.”
“I was making a joke.”
“Oh. Cool.”
Sometimes with Ceepak, it's hard to hear the punch lines.
I think the Crown Vic Interceptor is brand new. It has that smell all vehicles come with when they roll off the assembly line. Either that or Murray just ran it over to Cap'n Scrubby's Car Wash and had them spritz it with that bottle of “new car scent” instead of the strawberry, which is what I usually go with in my Jeep. Reminds me of this girl I picked up hitchhiking once. Long story.
We're cruising up the Parkway, almost to 62, the exit for Sea Haven. Ceepak checks the time. Twelve forty-five PM. The digital clock is in the techno-looking instrument panel. So are the side-window demisters. We didn't have those in the Explorer. I don't even know what they do. De-mist, I guess. I fidget with a button on the side of my seat. Ah. Lumbar support.
“Vargas is our best lead,” says Ceepak.
Guess he's focusing on the case to help him forget he has a father.
“You think the janitor is the one who sold the Hot Stuff heroin to Smith?”
“It's a possibility, Danny. Especially since he appears to be friendly with the Feenyville Pirates, a group that's been on our narcotic-trafficking radar for some time now.”
“Yeah. It could've been a drug deal gone bad.”
“In any event,” says Ceepak, “Osvaldo Vargas is the closest connection we have between contraband known to be processed and packaged in Sea Haven and Shareef Smith, a traveler who had not yet arrived on our island. We have also seen video of a janitor resembling Vargas moving with a mop and bucket through the rest area concourse close to the time we can surmise Smith was shot. Granted, it was a grainy image and positive identification would prove impossible from that single source … .”
“But, if he's somehow connected to the Hot Stuff …”
“Our chain of circumstantial evidence grows stronger.”
“So you and the chief think the Feenyville Pirates are the ones running the drug show in Sea Haven?”
“Yes, Danny.”
“That why he gave us a new set of wheels?”
“I believe so. If we can shut down the Hot Stuff drug mill, we will do all of Sea Haven Township a great service.” Ceepak reaches for the radio. Takes him a second to figure out how to use it because it's brand new, different from the one we destroyed this morning in our other car. “I need to contact the state police.”
“See how they're doing with those parking lot cameras? Maybe they have that tape for us.”
“Good point, Danny. I'll ask them about that too.”
He twists and turns the appropriate knobs and dials, and is connected to a scratchy voice at the state police.
“This is John Ceepak, Sea Haven PD.”
“Go ahead,” the radio operator answers back.
“Please be advised that an intoxicated motorist will be leaving the Garden State Parkway rest area at exit fifty-two within the next several minutes.”
“We'll send over a trooper. Who are we looking for?”
“Mr. Joseph Ceepak.”
“Any relation?”
“He is my father.” He says it without a hint of emotion.
“Ten-four.”
“He will be driving a 1992 Chevrolet Cavalier RS Sedan. Florida license B-four-two-HFU. Orange County.”
Disney World is in Orange County, Florida. I wonder if Mr. Ceepak works there. If he wasn't so tall, he could play one of the Seven Dwarfs: Boozy.
“We'll put this out there,” says the state police dispatcher. “Thanks for the tip. Sorry he's family.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. Subtext?
Me too
.
“Is Superintendent Insana available?” Ceepak now asks.
“Negative. He has the day off. However, I've been trying to phone you with a message … .”
Man—we so need new cell phones.
“ … the videotapes you requested will be delivered to SHPD headquarters by one PM. A courier is rushing them over to you now.”
“Ten-four. Please tell Art thanks when he comes in tomorrow. Appreciate the assist.”
“Will do.”
“Over and out.”
Ceepak slides the mike back into its bracket.
“Let's hit the house, Danny. The outdoor tapes may contain a more solid visual link to Vargas.”
I ease into the right-hand lane. “Maybe Vargas will be right there in the picture! In his janitor uniform, selling drugs to Smith.”
“Maybe. I sense it was the drug dealer's arrival that prompted Shareef to tell his sister his ‘friend' had arrived. And, as you might recall, Smith's vehicle was parked very close to one of those lampposts. The video image should be well-lit.”
Meaning we get a crisp, clean shot of whomever brought Shareef Smith his goody bag. Better evidence than a grainy image of a fuzzy blob pushing a fuzzier bucket.
“So,” I say, “even though you haven't seen your father in like a dozen years, you know what kind of car he drives and his license plate number?”
“He isn't the only one who knows how to locate someone. I've been keeping tabs on him for a while now. More so this week.”
“Is your mom at the Holiday Inn? The one where you had Starky take the Smith sisters?”
“Yes, Danny. Please tell no one.”
“Of course not. So, when did she get to town?”
“Very late Friday.”
“Ah-hah! That's why you were on the road!”
I earn a nod and small smile. “Apparently, I'm not the only ‘detective' in this car.”
“Hey, I had a good teacher.”
When we hit the house we get word that Starky radioed in to report “her cargo is secure.”
“What's that mean?” asks Reggie Pender, our desk sergeant.
“She delivered some items for me,” says Ceepak.”
“Well, this was delivered for you.” He hands Ceepak a digital tape cassette. “Anything good?”
“Porno,” I say, just to bust his chops.
“Really?” he busts back. “I thought it might be your recent appearance on Fox TV's
Wildest Police Car Wrecks
.”
While Pender and I rev up for round two of our snap-fest, Ceepak's ready to see what's on the tape.
“Danny?”
“Catch you later, Reg.”
“Later, Boyle.”
Ceepak slips the tape into the player. A black-and-white image fills our twelve-inch monitor. The screen is divided into quadrants.
“This must be the control room tape,” says Ceepak.
I do the math: “Must be four cameras in the parking lot.”
Ceepak taps the screen. “Two on the southbound side. Two on the north.”
“Smith was parked in the northbound lot,” I say. “He was coming up to Sea Haven from Baltimore.”
“Roger that. Focus on the top two boxes.”
“It'll be the upper right-hand corner. That's the light pole next to where he parked.”
“Good eye, Danny.”
“Should we scroll through? Advance to like ten PM?”
“Agreed.”
Ceepak works the remote. Takes us up to 21:50 in the digital time stamp.
We watch.
For ten minutes.
Cars move in and out. Their headlights flare when they hit a bump and bounce a beam directly into the lens. Security cameras can't really handle direct contact with halogens.
Twelve minutes.
More cars. Couple tour buses. People coming out with cardboard trays jammed with French fries and milk shakes. An early midnight snack.
“There!” says Ceepak. I check the time clock: 22:03. Three minutes after 10:00 PM.
Okay. This is creepy. It's the Ford Focus. We watch Shareef Smith's little car pull into the empty parking spot near the base of the towering lamppost.
“That's him,” I say, because I have to blurt out something. It's just too weird to know we are sitting here watching what will be the final moments in a young man's life. In less than half an hour, Shareef Smith will be dead.
For five minutes, he just sits there. At one point, the dome light inside his car comes on. Then it snaps back off. Maybe he was reading a map. Maybe that Yahoo! MapQuest deal telling him how to get to the party house. At seven minutes, there's another flash of light inside the Ford Focus. It only lasts for an instant.
“Cigarette,” I say.
Ceepak nods but doesn't say anything, his eyes glued to the screen.
“There! Who's that?” 22:09. Nine minutes past ten.
“His friend,” says Ceepak.
It's not the janitor. Not Vargas. The guy seen in silhouette is too tall.
He also has a limp.
Ceepak says it first: “Lieutenant Worthington.”

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