“Save it, John,” says Chief Baines, sounding kind of snippy, the way people do when their bosses order them to do crap they don’t really want to do. “The mayor, the town council … it’s been decided.”
Marty Mandrake struts over to Ceepak. “Officer, I understand your trepidation. But hell-Fun House is the number one show in America. The whole country is pulling for the four kids upstairs. We can’t let America down.”
Ceepak turns to Chief Baines, his eyes pleading for sanity.
The chief’s mustache wiggles like a queasy dust bunny. “I need you to head this thing up, John. Unfortunately, I promised some folks down in Florida I’d swing by before the end of summer. Can’t be here for the final shows. Wish I could. But, well, I gave my word. You know how that goes.”
Before coming to Sea Haven, Chief Buzz Baines ran a police department in the Sunshine State. Guess he needs to go home periodically to guzzle some O.J. or wrestle a gator.
“But-” is all I can stammer before the mayor gives me The Hand.
“Save it, Officer Boyle. You’re either with us or against us; and if you’re against us, well, you’re not who we want with us, are you?”
Mayor Hugh Sinclair does not like me or my partner very much, not since back in June when, thanks to our crack investigatory skills, the mayor’s wife found out what he’d been doing with a few of his curvier constituents in a hot tub.
“If we call off the show,” Sinclair continues, “the local economy will suffer an incredible blow, and, worst of all, the terrorists will win.”
Okay. He has completely lost me now.
Ceepak, too. “Terrorists?” he says, arching up both eyebrows.
“This death threat. Whoever delivered it is a terrorist, trying to terrorize us. Well, this is Sea Haven. We don’t cave in to terrorist threats.”
“Soozy wants to remain in the competition,” says Layla. “Her family could sure use the money. Her little brother needs an operation.…”
Geeze-o, man. What next?
“And the finale,” says Mandrake, “will raise tons of money for charity. Each contestant gets to pick their favorite. Whoever wins, their charity wins too! Big-time.”
“Papa John’s is donating pizzas!” says Mayor Sinclair. “Budweiser’s giving us beer!”
Fortunately, the radios on our belts start squawking.
“Unit A-12, this is base. Base for A-12.”
Ceepak is a faster draw than me, at least when it comes to angrily whipping a walkie-talkie up to his mouth.
“This is Ceepak. Go for A-12.”
“A-12, see the woman Becca Adkinson. Mussel Beach Motel. She says she has located the missing Mustang.”
25
The Mussel Beach is a two-story, horseshoe-shaped motel owned and operated by the family of my friend-since-forever Becca Adkinson.
Becca’s dad, Andrew “Andy” Adkinson, was and is his own general contractor for all renovations, which is why it took him five years to fix the crack in the swimming pool. He also handled the interior decorating, so most of the motel’s rooms come with a shellacked swordfish on the wall between two mass-produced-in-a-Chinese-factory seashore oil paintings. It’s also why the faux-marble counter in the lobby is a swirled blue you usually only see in bowling balls. I think they were having a sale at Countertops “R” Us.
As for the five-foot-tall stuffed Batman doll with its chubby legs splayed out in the lobby window, its limp body propped against the glass so the caped crusader’s pointy ears bump into the neon NO VACANCY sign, that’s Becca’s decorating touch. Her most recent boyfriend won it for her by squirting a water pistol into a clown’s mouth. That was during the first fifteen minutes of their date. Then Becca made the guy lug it around the boardwalk all night.
Mr. Adkinson is behind the counter when Ceepak and I enter the lobby.
“Hey, John,” he says to Ceepak, “is it true what I’m hearing on the radio? Somebody killed the killer you guys were looking for?”
Mr. Adkinson is pretty buff for an old guy (he has to be at least fifty). Works out every day. Keeps his silver hair cut short. Always wears one of those “Life Is Good” T-shirts with the stick-figure man playing golf with his dog or whatever. At the gym, he and Ceepak sometimes spot each other on the bench press. Or so I’ve heard. I don’t actually go to the gym enough to see these sorts of things.
“Andy, to be quite honest, we were never convinced that Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor, was responsible for the death of Paul Braciole.”
“Really? Wow. It just goes to show you, huh?”
Ceepak nods. I guess he knows what the heck Mr. Adkinson means, even if I don’t.
“They cancelling the show?” he asks.
“Sad to say, they are not.”
“Shut the front door,” says Mr. Adkinson, which is what he always says when he really wants to say something else. “Who’s the lamebrain behind that decision? Wait, don’t tell me-Mayor Hubert H. Sinclair.”
“Indeed. The mayor is eager to have Fun House continue filming, no matter what. Apparently, the program has been very good for businesses on the island.”
“Son of a biscuit. That arrogant idiot is gonna ruin this town.”
Ceepak actually nods. “It’s a possibility.”
Now Mr. Adkinson rummages around in a junk drawer under the check-in counter. He pulls out a clipboard with a sheet of paper clamped to it. Clicks a ballpoint pen.
“What’s on the clipboard?” asks Ceepak.
“My petition. I need two hundred signatures to get my name on the ballot for mayor this November. Somebody’s gonna have to clean up Sinclair’s mess. He’s had eight years to screw things up and, brother, that’s the one job he actually knows how to do. You two want to give me your autographs?”
Ceepak purses his lips. “Actually, Andy, as much as I would like to support your candidacy, I do not think it is wise for public servants, such as Danny and myself, to become engaged in partisan politics.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Sure, sure. I understand. No problem.” Adkinson tucks the clipboard back under the counter. “You have to serve to the best of your ability, no matter who’s running the show.”
“However,” says Ceepak, “should you or your campaign team find yourselves canvassing the area around the Bagel Lagoon, be sure to stop by our apartment and ask Rita to sign. I’m certain she would support your candidacy. Now then, the car?”
“Come on. Becca’s around back, guarding it.”
We head out of the office, scoot around the lip of the pool, and head through an arched breezeway with waves painted on the walls that takes us under the second-floor sundeck and out to the rear parking lot.
“Hey, Danny. Hey, Ceepak.”
Becca is dressed in a short shirtdress over her bathing suit, the better to show off her tan.
“Hey,” I say.
“Ms. Adkinson,” says Ceepak.
Usually, when the two of us drop by, Becca starts flirting like crazy with my partner because she has long been an admirer of the chiseled male physique. Today, despite her billowy shirtdress and funky ant-eyes sunglasses, she seems a little more subdued.
“There’s like a bullet hole or something in the door over there,” she says.
Mr. Adkinson drapes his arm over his daughter’s shoulder. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s head back inside. Let Danny and Ceepak do their jobs.”
Becca tries to smile. “Thanks, you guys.”
After the Adkinsons leave, Ceepak crouches down, peers through the open window.
“We better call Botzong,” he says. “Ask him to send over his best ballistics tech.”
“Right.”
As I’m reaching for my radio, a state police car comes crawling around the corner, crunching the tiny shells scattered across the asphalt.
“Guess they read our minds,” I say, re-clipping the walkie-talkie to my utility belt.
“Or they were monitoring SHPD transmissions, as they typically do.”
Okay. Or that.