“Is that so? Hunh. Well, I got to be honest-I don't remember any Mary Guarneri. When was this? Couple years ago or something?”
“1985.”
“1985? Jesus, Ceepak. That's freaking ancient history.”
“Agreed. However, the mother spoke with you several times over the course of that summer. Again right before Christmas. I thought perhaps….”
“Listen, Ceepak-I realize you're relatively new down here, but let me give it to you straight: we have moms and dads calling about their kids all summer, every summer. Sea Haven is a very popular destination for your juvie types. They figure they can head down here, hang out on the beach, sleep under the boardwalk-live the dream, you know what I'm saying? Nothing but sun, sand, and sex.”
“We have reason to suspect that this girl could have become the victim of foul play.”
“What reason?”
“Recently uncovered evidence.” Ceepak doesn't go into the grisly details.
“Hey,” Gus says with a shrug, “if her mom called, I'm sure we put her name up on the board with the rest of 'em. But I guarantee you we didn't bust our hump searching for this Mary Guarneri kid. Summers, we're crazy busy. You know that. Forty-some officers. Twelve men a shift. We never had the time or manpower to provide station house adjustments for every kid that comes down the shore looking for a good time without telling her parents about it first.”
“Did you write up an incident report when Ms. Guarneri called? Maybe if we re-examined your records….”
Gus shakes his head.
“You're not listening. There aren't any records, no paper at all. These runaway kids were never what you might call a ‘high priority.’ Most of them were druggies or worse. Now if this kid got into some kind of trouble, say she was ripping people off or, you know, dabbling in drug dealing or prostitution or what have you, then we might have something on her.”
“Do you have reason to suspect she might have been engaged in criminal activity?”
“Most of these runaways are troublemakers. I wouldn't be surprised if her parents kicked her out of the house, told her to take a hike.”
“This particular girl's mother was actively searching for her.”
“Then she's the freaking exception to the rule. Most of these kids, they're like the garbage you fling out your car window, you know what I'm saying? You're happy to be rid of it. Maybe somebody comes along and cleans up your mess, maybe they don't, but you don't really give two shits either way.”
Ceepak nods but gives Gus the sad eyes that say he could have and should have done better.
“I gotta go home.” Gus picks up his cooler. “Fran's waiting.”
Ceepak puts away his notebook, clicks his pen shut.
“Say ‘hello’ for me.”
“Yeah.” Gus shambles toward his car. Stops. Turns to face Ceepak. “You might ought to check with that Jesus freak on the boardwalk.”
“Are you referring to Reverend Trumble?”
“Yeah. Most of these runaways, sooner or later they get hungry or stink so bad they end up at his place for a hot meal and shower.” Gus shrugs. “Sorry I can't, you know, give you guys anything more.”
Ceepak smiles. “Don't worry, Gus. It's all good.”
Gus opens his car door. His lips twitch down into a frown. I get a feeling his fried fluke won't taste so good tonight, no matter how well Fran breads and spices it.
As his car crunches out of the lot, Ceepak turns to stare at the sun setting behind the skyline of boat antennae. The view kind of reminds me of this fake oil painting that's bolted to the wall in my apartment. My apartment used to be a motel room. Motels use bolts on all their works of art.
I hear Ceepak sigh.
“What's up?” I ask, because when he heaves a sigh like that, I always know something is.
Ceepak turns. Squints. It's not the sun that's causing his eyes to tighten. He's seeing something he'd rather not, something that happened in the past. Something bad.
“Antwoine James,” he says.
“Who's he?”
Ceepak stays quiet. Nods. Finally he says one word: “Exactly.” Then he repeats my question. Slowly. “Who is he?”
Okay. I think we're entering one of those Ceepak Zen Zones where the complexities of a cruel universe get boiled down to a single simple question that somehow answers everything. At least for him. Me? I've got nothing.
“Antwoine James was a good man,” he says. “A good soldier. Sixty-seventh Armor Regiment out of Fort Hood, Texas. He was riding in the deuce-and-a-half behind our Hummer … we were on point….”
He's back in the sandbox. Iraq. The day his topside gunner on the SAW, the Squad Automatic Weapon, took out a taxicab full of innocent civilians. The day the truck behind him was blown to bits by an IED, a roadside bomb.
“This was early in the conflict. Before we started doing hillbilly armor improvements. Sheet metal sides and firing ports. Of course, the brunt of this particular blast came up through the undercarriage. Side panels wouldn't have helped all that much.”
Ceepak stops. Water laps against the pilings. Happy gulls chirp in the sky. Soothing seashore sounds surround us, like the mood music you hear on New Age CDs in gift shops. I don't think Ceepak hears any of it. I think he hears exploding bombs and screeching metal and the screams of men who just lost both their arms or legs or worse.
“Private James did not make it. He died before the choppers arrived. Died with his head in my lap. They shipped his body home in a steel casket with a flag draped over the top. They shipped him home to Dover Air Force base. Delaware.”
Dover.
The circled word I saw in Ceepak's notebook.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, “Antwoine James had no family except the Army. No home except Fort Hood. He was a tough kid from the streets of Houston who joined the Army because he wanted to become something better. When his body arrived in Dover, no one claimed it. No one was allowed to see his coffin in the newspaper or on TV. There was no one to take his folded flag, the flag given on behalf of a grateful nation.”
Ceepak says the last two words with as much sarcasm as he ever musters. Then he turns to look me in the eye.
“I'm afraid the nation was too busy to show its gratitude for a young black soldier who grew up in the wrong part of town. He was considered ‘less dead.’”
Less dead.
And so, once again, Ceepak helps me understand the significance of solving the Mary Guarneri puzzle.
Dover. Private Antwoine James.
Sea Haven. Runaway Mary Guarneri.
In Ceepak's world, every life is worthy of honor and respect, no matter how shady the circumstances surrounding it. No man is less dead than any other. No child less missed.
“You hungry?” I say.
Ceepak blinks. I think I just shocked him out of his dark musings, which was exactly what I was hoping to do.
“I'm starving,” I chirp like one of those gulls tracking Gus's boat. “Maybe we should head over to Morgan's. We don't have to do the whole surf and turf deal but maybe we could grab some crab cakes or a bowl of chowder….”
I'm rambling.
I'm also not really hungry.
I just think my partner needs to be reminded of what's still good and decent in this world.
I think he needs a little Rita time.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Morgan's Surf and Turf is one of the few restaurants on the island that actually covers its tables with a tablecloth made out of cloth instead of paper.
And they don't give you a glass full of crayons to scribble on it, either.
When we got there, around eight P.M., Rita was working five tables. She looked pleased to see us, even if she was busy. Now we're sitting in a big booth at the back, right near the swinging kitchen doors where we can hear dishes clatter and bells ding and the cook yell in Spanish while we wait for our steaming bowls of Morgan's World Famous Clam Chowder to cool down. Only they spell it “Chowda.” All the restaurants down here do. Guess it makes New Jersey sound more like New England. Maybe Cape Cod.