“According to these maps,” says Santucci, “we'll find something buried up north near the lighthouse. Request permission to go dig it up, sir. Tray can handle things here.”
The chief looks confused. “Who the hell is Tray?”
“Summer cop. Tray can maintain security. Keep the looky-lous away from the skull holes. Maybe Officer Boyle can assist. He was pretty good helping old ladies cross the street last summer-before he hooked up with Ceepak.” Santucci shoots me a look that says I should still be working crossguard duty.
“I need Officer Boyle,” says Ceepak. “He knows the beaches on the South End.”
The chief shakes his head. “North End. South End. This guy is sending half the department off on a scavenger hunt….”
“One team will wind up back here,” says Ceepak. “Most likely Danny and I. We are following clues that predate the 1985 slaying of Mary a.k.a. Ruth. Of more importance, however, will be any evidence pertaining to killings which took place post-1985….”
Santucci jumps in. “Those are ours!”
Ceepak shakes his head. I know what he's thinking: we're trying to track down a serial killer. Santucci wants to play “first dibs.”
The chief plucks at his mustache. That's what he does whenever he's stressed.
“Ceepak?”
“Sir?”
“You and Boyle head south.”
Ceepak was in the military for fourteen years. He knows how to follow orders.
“Yes, sir.”
“Sergeant Santucci?”
“Sir?” He says it louder than Ceepak did. Wants to look like an even better soldier.
“You and Malloy head north. Have your auxiliary officer maintain security here. Did you show the backhoe people what you found?”
Santucci blinks. Tries to think. Come up with the right answer.
“They, uh, unearthed it, so to speak. So, naturally, they were somewhat curious as to its contents.”
“So you showed them?”
“I wouldn't say we ‘showed’ them, sir.”
Malloy tries to help out. “It was more like they watched us, you know, pull the skull out of the bowl and all.”
The chief presses his clenched fist against his gassy gut again.
“Okay. I'll call in more personnel. Cancel vacations. We can't have rumors running up and down the beach. We need to lock this down. Fast. Swear everybody inside the tent to secrecy. If they don't cooperate, we'll react accordingly. Jesus. Today's what?”
Santucci answers fast because he wants more brownie points. “July 17, sir.”
The chief shakes his head some more.
“Well, at least we had half a summer of peace and quiet.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
We spent the next two hours racing up and down the island like we're one of the treasure-hunting tribes on Survivor, hoping we don't get voted off.
Down south, we found our sixth skull. We did it without attracting any attention. The rich people whose beach we dug up weren't home. It's only Tuesday, so I figure they're up in the city working to pay the mortgage on their mansion.
The skull was labeled ZEBUDAH. Probably not the name her parents gave her. Her decomposed head came complete with the whole kit. The Bible quote, the date, the Before and After headshots, the maps to guide us to the next location.
And so we took off for Cherry Street, back up toward the center of the island. Our next X marked a spot near the public pier, close to The Rusty Scupper, where Aubrey Hamilton-the girl I might date sometime this century, when work slows down-waitresses.
When we arrived on scene and marked off the paces indicated, we realized something: this seventh chest was buried underneath the dock.
Fortunately, it was near a piling sunk into the dirt on shore, not permanently underwater. I didn't bring a change of clothes to work today. We dug up a big, mucky plastic box, some kind of watertight storage tub like they sell at Home Depot to stow tools in. It had a rubber gasket around its lip to seal the latched lid and keep the contents dry.
All the evidence inside, another complete set, had survived high tides for over two decades.
“Hey, Ceepak. What you guys doin’ down there?”
Ceepak closes the box. We crabwalk out from under the dock.
It's Gus Davis. This is the pier where our retired desk sergeant parks his boat.
“Retrieving evidence.”
Ceepak and I climb up to the dock.
“What kind of freaking evidence you find down there? Barnacles?”
Ceepak flashes a smile.
“How are you, Gus?”
“Can't complain. You still looking for that runaway from back in 1980-whatever?”
“Not really,” says Ceepak. He doesn't add, “We already found her. Part of her, that is.” He just stands there, waits for Gus to say something.
Gus tugs on the brim of his fishing cap. “Good,” he says. “You know why?”
“No. Why?”
“You ain't gonna find her down there!” Gus wheezes a laugh.
I notice he's carrying a tackle box. I also notice that the tackle box looks a lot like the plastic container we just pulled out of the dirt underneath the dock. The one big difference? Ours is black, his is yellow.
I glance at Ceepak. He nods. He sees it too.
“That your tackle box?” Ceepak asks.
“Yep. Kind of dinged up, hunh?”
“I'm sure it's seen a great deal of use.”
“Ain't that the truth? Used to keep it in my trunk, in case I ever caught a minute or two to hit the pier after my shift. Now, all I got is time, you know what I'm saying?”
“You earned it, Gus,” says Ceepak.
Gus adjusts his hat again. He gazes out at all the boats lined up along the pier. It's a little after two and the sun is starting its slow slink toward the west.
“You know,” he says, “you have too much free time, you maybe think too much, too.”
“I suppose so.”
“That's what I've been doing. Thinking. Ruminating, so to speak. Ever since you two mamelukes came by my boat and started giving me the third degree….”
“What's on your mind?” Ceepak steps sort of sideways so he's blocking the slanting sun and Gus's view of our muddy box.
“That girl you were hassling me about. The runaway. What was her name again?”
“Mary Guarneri.”
“Yeah. I've been thinking that if this Mary Guarneri got herself in trouble or whatever, maybe it was her own fault.”
“How so?”
“You've been here, what? A year?”
Ceepak nods.
“You meet any of these girls? These runaways?”
“A few.”
“Then you know what I know. They're tramps. Whores. There. I said it. These girls come down here looking for a good time. You gotta figure one or two of 'em are gonna wind up partying with the wrong type of individual.”
Ceepak's eyes narrow.
Gus doesn't notice. “So all I'm saying is-don't come around here blaming me. This girl got in trouble? Chances are, trouble is exactly what she came looking for in the first place.”
Ceepak stays silent.
“Nice bumping into you guys,” says Gus. “See you 'round. I got fish to catch.”
He shuffles up the dock, raises his fishing rod hand to signal goodbye.
“Do you think?” I whisper.
“It's a possibility,” says Ceepak. “Hopefully remote.”
“Yeah.”
“Let's take this box back to the car. Catalog the evidence.”
“Yeah.”
We don't want to scare the people on the dining deck outside The Rusty Scupper. The food the Scupper serves is already scary enough.
Secure behind the tinted windows of our patrol car, we re-open the box.
It's Lisa DeFranco. Killed in the summer of 1983. When I look at her Before Polaroid, I can see the LISA earring sparkling in her left ear lobe.
“It's the end of our line,” says Ceepak. He's been studying the map. “It leads us back to Oak Beach and the spot where the backhoe unearthed Mary Guarneri.”