Ceepak ignores the boy. “Did you see anyone else at the museum, ma'am?”
“No,” says Mrs. Pepper. “We were the only ones inside. It's not a very popular spot. I can see why.”
“Did you see anybody coming out when you were going in?”
“No.”
“You're certain?”
“Positive. We ran in when the thunderstorm started. I told the kids they could look around. Nobody else was in the building until the old lady showed up.”
Ceepak nods. “Thank you, ma'am. Sir. Danny?”
He puts away his notebook and we head back to the parking lot.
“That was certainly helpful,” I say as we drive away. “They can go into the Witless Protection Program.”
“Now, Danny, you know that police work involves a lot of walking down trails that turn into dead ends. However, walk down them we must.”
Ceepak checks the time. It's nearly six P.M.
“Where to now?” I ask. “Any more dead ends we can get out of the way today?”
The radio on the drivetrain hump between us bursts with static.
“Unit Twelve?” It's a female voice. “This is Special Officer Diego. Over.”
Ceepak picks up the microphone. “This is Twelve. Go ahead, Officer Diego.”
“Where are you guys?”
“Seahorse Motel.”
Or more correctly, traveling down a dead-end street to Nowheresville.
“Can you swing by the house?” she asks. “Like right away?”
Ceepak snaps down the microphone button with renewed vigor. “Did you find something on Mary Guarneri?”
“Oh, not much. Just Miss Milk Carton's mother.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Chief Baines recognizes the significance of our recent finds,” says Ceepak, “and agrees that they warrant further investigation.”
We're huddled around Denise Diego's computer workstation: just the three of us.
“However,” Ceepak says, lowering his voice, “Chief Baines also requests that we keep this matter under the tightest operational security. We three are the only individuals he wants in the know on this. I will personally update the chief regarding our progress on a periodic basis.”
“Should we have like a secret handshake or something?” asks Diego. “I could work up a code….”
Ceepak smiles. “No need, Denise. Just don't discuss this matter with your fellow officers, friends, or family.”
She shrugs and buries her arm in a bag of Cheese Supreme Doritos. I think she's disappointed that the Sea Haven Police Department doesn't afford more opportunity for Dungeons amp; Dragons-type tricks.
“Whatever,” she says.
Diego is a little older than me. And a lot smarter. Her family is Cuban-the ones who said adios to Havana back in the ’60s when Castro came to town. She's got a sweet face and a cute figure. When she tries to talk tough, her big brown eyes usually give her away. She also likes to eat Doritos. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She told me once that Doritos are the perfect food. I called them “chemical chips” and she said, “Exactly! That's what makes them such an efficient fuel.”
“Tell us what you found,” says Ceepak.
Diego licks her fingertips and starts clacking on the keyboard.
“This one was pretty simple,” she says. “I did a quick history on those milk-carton pictures. They started putting missing children on the side panels in the late ’70s and early ’80s-after Etan Patz in New York and all those kids in Atlanta disappeared.”
Ceepak nods. Like I said-he's more of a forensics history buff than I am.
“Anyhow, I went to missing-kids-dot-com. It's run by the National Center for Missing amp; Exploited Children. They even have an 800 number: 1-800-THE-LOST. Creepy, hunh? Sounds like a vampire movie. But, then I realize-all the information about missing kids is centralized over at the FBI. So I tap into the NCIC….”
Even I know this one: she's talking about the National Crime Information Center, a computerized database filled with all sorts of info about fugitives, stolen property, and missing persons. The data is available to all federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.
“Anyway,” Diego continues, “I put in the name Mary Guarneri, and the computer spits out the next of kin who posted the original missing child alert: Martha W. Guarneri, 24 West Grove Street, Fresno, CA, 93706.”
“Fresno?” says Ceepak. “That's a long way from New Jersey….”
“Yeah. So, I checked her background. She used to live in West Pennsylvania. Erie. Up near the lake. No husband. Never married. You guys tell me her daughter left home and came to Sea Haven in the summer of 1985. Well, mom left Erie, PA, in 1992.”
“I wonder why,” Ceepak muses.
“You can ask her.” Diego hands him a purple Post-It note. “That's her phone number. She's sixty years old, and she should be home right now. She lives in a one-bedroom rental close to the Fresno Airport. That's why her rent's so cheap.”
Diego winks at me.
“You got all that off the Internet?” I ask.
“Yep. Took me almost an hour.” Another wink. “Be careful, Danny. Big Sister's watching you.”
I nod. I will.
“How do you know she's currently at home?” asks Ceepak.
“Well,” she says as her fingers play across the keyboard, “it's partially supposition on my part. We know she works the early morning shift at Country Waffles on Blackstone Avenue. She gets off at three P.M. and, according to her credit card bills, takes the FAX bus, that's the Fresno Area Express.” She glances at her wristwatch. “It's six fifty here, means it's ten to four out in Fresno. The bus ride takes ten to fifteen minutes.”
I give her a wrinkled brow of disbelief. How could our new Nancy Drew know that?
“Danny,” she says, “FAX posts its schedule online. I simply plotted the shortest route from her job to her home and factored in….”
Ceepak picks up a phone. “Awesome work, Officer Diego.” He glances at the number. “Let's give her a call.” He nods to a vacant desk. “Danny, pick up when I give you the signal.”
“10-4.”
“Denise?” he asks. “If you'd like to….”
“No, thanks.” She gives her Doritos bag a good shake. Crumbs sprinkle down to mingle with the crusty triangles already scattered on her mouse pad. “I need a refill. Can I get you guys anything?”
Ceepak cups his hand over the telephone's mouthpiece, shakes his head. Then he gives me the single-finger hand-chop point. I figure that's my “go” signal to pick up the phone, so I do.
“Hello?” says a tired voice.
“Hello, is this Ms. Martha Guarneri?”
“Yes….” Now she sounds suspicious. “Who's this?”
“Ms. Guarneri, my name is John Ceepak. I am a police officer in Sea Haven, New Jersey.”
There's this tense pause.
“Have you found her body?”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I hear Ms. Guarneri taking in a deep breath to steel herself.
Her voice trembles anyway. “I always knew this day would come. You'd find her body. I'd get a call….”
“Ms. Guarneri? We have not recovered your daughter's body. We do not even know if she is alive or dead.”
“I see. I see.” She heaves a deep sigh. Relief, I guess.
“We did, however, come upon what we suspect is her charm bracelet.”
“Her….”
“Ma'am, did your daughter wear a charm bracelet?”
“Yes, sir. All the time.”
“Do you remember any of the charms she had on it?”
“Sure. Some of 'em. Not all. They were pretty, I remember that. I bought her a couple whenever my tips were good enough. I worked at the Perkins Family Restaurant back then. In Erie.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Did she still have that one from New Orleans? I bought her that one. We went down to the World's Fair together in July 1984. I remember the trip. It was a good one. We drove all the way down to Louisiana in my beat-up Buick.” I hear a smile creeping into her voice. “It was real hot and muggy because it was right along the Mississippi river, near that French Quarter they have down there. I guess it was the last summer vacation we ever took together.”