“Of course.”
“We don't want our private investigation interfering with the normal flow of official police business, no matter how fascinating.”
“Right.”
Truth be told, Ceepak's a lot more charmed by the Case of the Buried Charm Bracelet than I am. But I don't let on.
He flips through his notebook and stops when he reaches a page near the middle. I lean over to see what he's looking at.
There, in the center, surrounded by a spiral of circles, is one word:
DOVER
I have no idea what it means. Maybe he wants to visit the white cliffs in England. Maybe he's thinking about fish for dinner tonight. With Ceepak, sometimes you just never know.
Chief Baines strides into the room. You could set your watch by this guy, which I go ahead and do since mine thinks it's eight P.M. on a Tuesday. I got it free from Sports Illustrated.
Buzz Baines has a chiseled, movie-star face and thick, fluffy hair. He's good at his job and even better at posing for pictures in the newspaper.
“Gentlemen. Ladies. According to the calendar, we're halfway through the summer and, so far, things have been dull, quiet, and boring.” He looks smugly around the room. “Let's try to keep it that way, shall we?”
We all answer dutifully, “Yes, sir.”
“Fine. Now. Not much to report from the night shift. At one A.M., Pete Turner noticed a car running without its lights. When he pulled the young man over it became readily apparent that the driver was unable to locate the headlights switch on his dashboard, or the nose on his face.”
Dutiful once again, we give a collective chuckle.
“All right, guys. Today starts a new week and a lot of well-earned vacations for our visitors. Ceepak and Boyle?”
“Yes, sir?” Ceepak answers for us.
“You're working the sand castle set-up over on Oak Beach?”
“Roger that.”
“Let folks enjoy the show but try to keep the kids a safe distance away from the heavy machinery.” Chief Baines checks his notes like he can't believe what he's reading. “They actually use backhoes? To make sand castles?”
“And bulldozers,” says Ceepak. He's done his homework again.
“Whatever happened to the old-fashioned sand bucket and plastic shovel?”
“They use those as well, sir. However, many of the master sand sculptors prefer nursery plant containers. The holes pre-cut into the bottom help drain away excess water while maintaining even pressure against the sand grains.”
Roger that. By now, everyone in the room is used to this sort of stuff from Ceepak.
“Oh-kay,” says Baines. “Thank you, Officer Ceepak. Now everyone get out there and keep Sea Haven a safe haven!”
I can't complain.
We've pulled a pretty cushy assignment today, basically sitting on the beach working on our tans. We've set up two folding chairs near the entrance to what will eventually become the Sand Castle Kingdom. It's a fifty-foot by two-hundred-foot plot of white sand situated between the high tide mark on Oak Beach and the sea grass up on the dunes. The Chamber of Commerce has roped off the area with white plastic chains strung between portable PVC posts sunk into the sand every eight feet or so. It's an outdoor, summer version of Santa Land at the mall.
Today, the heavy equipment is being off-loaded. Tomorrow, the sand sculptors show up and start to work. Wednesday, they finish up. Thursday, the public will come gawk at a gigantic sea dragon, a chess set with life-size kings and queens, and a ’57 Chevy convertible-all made out of sand.
It's now almost three P.M. The most exciting part of the day so far was when Ceepak told me to take five about an hour ago. I wound up helping this kid from Indiana learn how to ride his skim board. That's a flat wood disc you stand on, then slip and slide up and down the wet sand ahead of the waves. It should be an Olympic sport by 2012.
I'm glad Ceepak has settled into a groove here on the island. Over in Iraq, he saw even worse stuff than dead dogs blowing up by the side of the road. Somehow, my partner came out of it all with his soul intact. I think it was The Code that pulled him through. As long as he could hold on to that, he could hold on to who he is.
Anyway, it's good to see my man sitting in a folding chair, guarding the entrance to Sea Haven's First Annual Sand Sculpture Competition, smiling up at the sun warming his face. He's earned it.
I finish a quick stroll around the perimeter and plop down in my beach chair.
“Tough duty.”
Ceepak smiles. “It's all good.”
I reach into the small cooler we brought along and grab a bottled water.
“Officers!”
I squint. A hairy guy is huffing and puffing up the sand toward us. He's bare-chested but wearing a gold neck chain and several gleaming gold bracelets on both wrists.
“Officers!”
A chubby kid who has to be the man's son is following behind him.
“Is there some problem?” Ceepak is up and focusing fast.
“Yeah.” The dad catches his breath, props his hands on his hips. His heaving chest looks like a curly shag carpet. So do his arms. He could comb the tops of his shoulders. “Thief,” he pants. “Robber. Girl.”
“She tried to steal my wallet!” his son squeaks.
“Tell us what happened,” says Ceepak.
“Tell them, Max.”
“Okay. I was like on my boogie board and all, and when I came out of the water I saw this girl in a bikini and she was like looking inside our beach bags and so I like yelled at her and my dad, that's him, he came running up as fast as he could from the ocean and we both kind of like scared her away and stuff.”
“I almost nabbed her,” says the father. “Had my hand wrapped around her wrist but she slipped away. I'd been down in the surf, putting sunblock on my wife's back … “
Ceepak nods.
“ … so my hand was kind of greasy.”
“Did she take anything?”
“No,” says the boy. “She almost got my new wallet but Dad stopped her.”
“Can you describe this girl?”
“She had orange hair,” says the boy. “And….” He stops. Looks at his dad.
Ceepak sinks down on his haunches so he can look the boy in the eye.
“And what?” he asks gently.
The boy's eyes cut up to his father.
“Go ahead, Max. Tell him.”
Max still hesitates. “She had big boobs,” he finally says.
Ceepak nods. I try not to smile.
“I saw something else,” says the father.
Wow. Wonder how he managed that?
“What was it, sir?” asks Ceepak.
“She had this thing stamped on her hand. You know, like they do at Six Flags so you can get back in after you exit?”
“Yes, sir. What did this stamp look like?”
“It was a sun. An orange, smiling sun.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Ceepak reaches for our radio, which had been enjoying the shade underneath my folding chair.
“The Life Under the Son Ministry,” he says.
“The guys who run that booth on the boardwalk?”
“Roger that. They also operate a soup kitchen of sorts in the motel nearby.”
“The motel lets them do that?”
“The ministry owns the building. Has its offices inside. Rita volunteers there some mornings when she isn't busy at the bank. They serve a hot breakfast to anybody who walks in hungry, no questions asked. However, to gain access to the chow line, you need to have your hand stamped.”
“With a bright orange sun.”
Ceepak nods. “I'm going to radio in a request for the chief to relieve us, assign another team to this location.”
“So we can head over to the boardwalk and check it out.”
“10-4.”
• • •
Billy Trumble, the evangelist guy who does the early morning preach-a-thon Sundays on WAVY radio, also runs the Life Under the Son Ministry.
Their booth up on the boardwalk is staffed by born-again Christian kids who sit inside and reach out to all the young sinners happily strutting through life in string bikinis and Speedos. They'll tell you about the hell that awaits those who fornicate outside the sanctity of marriage- and they don't just mean the hell of having to wake up with each other after the beer goggles wear off. They'll even try to convince you not to gamble at the boardwalk arcades, to avoid the Wheel of Chance, which, if we're honest, is just another spin on roulette, and even the humble Whack-A-Mole, this game where you bop furry little critters on the head with a mallet while more moles pop up in the holes you're not whacking.