Mind Scrambler (20 page)

“You know, I don't spend that much time worrying about Lady Jasmine. I truly am not that concerned about her.”

“Yesterday—”

“This is today, Officer Ceepak. No sense playing Monday-morning quarterback when we got us bigger fish to fry.”

Ceepak sighs again. It's like everybody we meet in Atlantic City is determined to keep us spinning around in circles underneath a dark dome.

“Are you a frequent visitor to an establishment known as Lucky Lilani's Stress Therapy?” he asks Rock.

“Lucky who?”

I help out: “Lucky Lilani's. It's a Chinese massage parlor on the boardwalk.”

“Now why the blazes would I go to a massage parlor? There's a Jacuzzi right over yonder, behind them palm bushes. If I get a crick in my neck, I can just go soak it in the whirlpool. Don't need no masseuse if you got you a Jacuzzi.”

“We might need to examine your credit card bills to verify your statement.”

“Fine. Just talk to David. He handles all the bookkeeping.”

“Then we'll ask him about your wife's credit cards as well. Particularly the one issued under the alias Janice Stone.”

“Sure. That there's the name Jessica uses when she needs to protect our privacy. Keeps the paparazzi from houndin' the kids.”

“It is also the credit card your wife used to pay for Mr. Pratt's motel room across the street at the Royal Lodge.”

“Uhm-hmm. Makes sense.”

“Why was she renting a room for Mr. Pratt?”

“Because she is a very compassionate woman.”

“Why didn't you or your wife tell us where we might find Mr. Pratt last night?”

“Because we didn't know where he was holed up.”

Ceepak arches an eyebrow. “You didn't?”

“No, sir. I know I sure didn't.”

“You both knew about the room. Across the street.”

“Yes. We sure did. But we didn't think he'd be there. See, Jake knew we knew about his room so he also knew not to go there.”

“But he did.”

“He sure 'nuff did. Reckon he outfoxed us. Won't happen again. Trust me.”

“Why did your wife think it was necessary for Jake Pratt to move into the Royal Lodge motel?”

“She heard tell that the fellow Jake was bunking with over at the Holiday Inn, this other dancer, Mr. Magnum, was a homosexual. Jessica didn't think Jake ought to be sharing a room with such a person, since the Bible says homosexuality is a sin. I reckon you can see why I love my Jessie so darn much. Good Christian woman. Been together fifteen years. Lookin' forward to fifteen more.”

Man, talk about oblivious. This guy's wife is across the street shacking up with one of his hunky Chippendales dancers and he buys her recycled Dr. Laura crap about saving Jake from the vast gay recruitment conspiracy?

“See, fellers,” says Rock, “Jake Pratt don't need any more sexual deviations like he might pick up from a radical-gay-type roommate. So my wife did the right thing, booked him a solo room across the street. She has what they call maternal instincts. Mother hens the whole cast—even the odd ducks like Jake Pratt.”

“Why didn't you tell us about Pratt's new accommodations when you discovered your notebooks were missing and you suspected Jake Pratt was the one who stole them?”

“I reckon we're just not as sharp as you fellers. But this morning, Kenny-boy finally put two and two together. That's how come he got the notion to go check out the room over at the Royal Lodge.”

“Why didn't you alert Detective Flynn, as you promised you would.”

“Promise? I know I never promised anything to Mr. Flynn.”

“Did you ever consider that the real reason your wife rented the room was because she and Mr. Pratt were romantically involved?”

Rock narrows his eyes. “You be careful, son, hear? You watch what you say about my wife and the sanctity of our marriage. Mrs. Rock has always been one hundred percent faithful. We made us vows. In front of Jesus and God almighty!”

I butt in: “Is Mrs. Rock at the ACPD building right now?”

“If that's where the jail is, that's where she and Dave Zuckerman went. I hope they spring Kenny-boy soon. I don't want to be babysittin' little Kyle all day long! Boy has a mouth on him.”

Ceepak gestures toward the composition book, now serving as a coaster for the suntan-lotion bottle. “Working on a new illusion?”

“Might. Never know when inspiration's gonna mule-kick me in the head.” He stands. Wraps his things up in a towel. “Now, if you two will excuse me, I best escort young Kyle up to his room so he can change out of them wet swimmin' trunks before his butt cheeks wrinkle up into a pair of prunes.”

Great. Another image I don't want in my head.

Maybe the new trick Rock's working on can make it disappear.

Just like his PI made Jake Pratt disappear before he could contradict anything anybody said about him.

 

 

 

 

 

I'm thinking
we should rent one of those Bosnian rolling-chair pushers for the day.

We came to Atlantic City on the Coast City Bus. We have no cop car. No motorcycles. We don't even have a trail bike like those two ACPD cops who showed up last night to guard the crime scene. The Atlantic City police department and jail are over in the Clayton G. Graham Public Safety Building on Atlantic Avenue, one of the yellow properties on the Monopoly board. I'm wondering if Ventnor Avenue and Marvin Gardens will be next door.

Anyhow, to talk to Mrs. Rock or David Zuckerman, we need to be a mile and a half further south, but first we need to find a casino exit, something the Xanadu makes extremely difficult because they don't want you to take your money down the street to somebody else's hot slots.

After a few false turns, we make it outside to the transportation
center—a concrete-and-pillars parking garage like you'd find in any New Jersey mall, except it's been classed-up with a rubber-backed red carpet and velvet ropes clipped to brass stanchions. Swanky. Except the place still reeks of wet concrete mixed with exhaust fumes.

We inch forward in the taxi line while Ceepak works his cell phone.

“So her story checks out?” He's talking to Cyrus Parker. “Roger that.” He covers the phone's mouthpiece. “Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Those dancers you met last night with Mrs. Rock's body double. Do you remember their names?”

I wrack my brain. “Jim Bob and Blaine.”

“Cyrus? Could you please check with Christina Crites, the stage manager, and determine the lodging accommodations for two dancers from Rock's show? Jim Bob and Blaine. Right. We're on our way to ACPD headquarters. Come again?” Ceepak grins. “Roger that.” He snaps his clamshell shut.

“What'd he say?” I ask.

“He verified Lady Jasmine's alibi. She was at the blackjack table from nineteen-thirty hours until twenty-thirty. Cyrus's team was then able to track her on a series of PTZ cameras as she moved from the casino floor to the Shalimar Theater. She and her entourage took no detours. He also confirmed our suspicions about the backstage camera. When viewed in super-slow motion, a slight visual glitch is noticeable at precisely nineteen-fifty-five, immediately after David Zuckerman passes underneath the lens.”

And goes around to the other side to flick the switch on that mirror contraption.

“So what'd he say that made you smile?” I ask.

“Cyrus requested that we inform Mr. Zuckerman that the Xanadu Hotel and Casino intends to bill ‘Rock 'n Wow!' for the
overtime pay due the extra security personnel he called in under false pretenses.”

 

 

In the taxi, Ceepak makes another phone call. Ohio.

“Thank you, Ms. Porter-Burt. Appreciate it. He pled guilty? Then it's all good. Come again?”

I can't hear what the prosecuting attorney is saying but it's making Ceepak clench his jaw.

“Does he have that right?” he asks as he white-knuckles his cell phone. “Very well. I'll expect to hear from him.”

He snaps the clamshell shut. Hard. I hope his brand-new LG unit came with hinge insurance. When he flipped it shut, it sounded like he was slamming a screen door made out of brittle plastic.

“Trouble?” I ask.

“According to assistant prosecuting attorney Lisa Porter-Burt, as part of his plea-bargain agreement, my father insisted on being granted the right to call me. Today.”

“And Porter-Burt agreed?”

“No. Her boss did.”

The rest of the cab ride is pretty quiet, unless you count the sound of Ceepak's jaw popping in and out of its socket. We pay the driver four bucks for hauling us the one and a half miles from the Xanadu to 2711 Atlantic Avenue.

Our deputy badges get us past security and into the processing room where Zuckerman is standing at a counter, signing papers.

“Mr. Zuckerman?” says Ceepak.

He grunts but doesn't look up from whatever it is he is so busy affixing his name to.

“Mr. Zuckerman?”

He turns around. When Ceepak uses that “don't-make-me-say-your-name-again” voice, folks usually listen.

“Yes?”

“Where is Mr. Krabitz?”

“Released on bail. Left me with all the paperwork.”

“Where did he go?”

Zuckerman sets his smirk on annoyed. “I have no idea. He is a private contractor.”

“Where is Mrs. Rock? We were told that she was here with you.”

“She was. However, since the Rocks are currently without a nanny, she went back to the Xanadu to make arrangements for ongoing child care. She also needs to sort out their new accommodations since their previous living quarters are currently considered a crime scene.”

“Very well,” says Ceepak. “We'll talk to her back at the Xanadu.”

“And why do you need to talk to Mrs. Rock?” Zuckerman snaps. “Surely she and her family have been put through enough in the past twenty-four hours. If you have any further questions, kindly address them to me.”

“Fine. Why did Mrs. Rock rent a room for Jake Pratt at the Royal Lodge Motel?”

“Who says she did?”

“The motel desk clerk.”

“Did he take her fingerprints?”

“Doubtful,” says Ceepak. “Why?”

“How can he be certain it was Jessica Rock and not Sherry Amour?”

“Who?”

“The body double,” I say. “Her first name is Sherry, remember?”

Ceepak nods.

“Put on the right wig,” says Zuckerman, “they could be identical twins. Miss Amour and Mr. Pratt were the ones spending time together at that sleazebag motel.”

“Mr. Rock told us his wife paid for the room,” says Ceepak.

“And I'm sure Jessie had her reasons for doing so. Probably to protect Sherry. The two women are, as you might imagine given their work relationship, close. Unfortunately, Sherry is an alcoholic and a sexual deviant.”

“What makes you say that?” asks Ceepak.

Zuckerman's lip sneers up toward his nose. “Did you watch any pay-per-view porno in your room last night?”

The hairs on the back of Ceepak's neck bristle. “Why is that relevant?”

“Check out the Classics channel. In her day, Sherry Amour was quite the adult movie star. A very talented and agile performer.”

“And now you're suggesting that she and Pratt were intimate?”

Zuckerman's still shooting us his snide I-know-more-than-you grin. “Such was my understanding. And now, he's dead and she's missing.”

“Missing?”

“Skipped town. Stage manager can't locate her. She's not in her room, not answering her cell. Listen, you're cops. You've seen this sort of thing before. Older woman. Younger man. He finds the relationship satisfying so long as the older women isn't grossly unattractive and has enough money to buy him gifts. But, being nineteen, Jake Pratt isn't going to remain exclusive to Miss Amour, not if he meets an attractive girl closer to his own age, a girl who's into the same kind of kinky sex he's into.”

“Katie?” I say—just to make sure I know whose reputation the sleazebag is sliming now.

Zuckerman nods. “Ask the kids. Talk to Britney. She'll tell you. Nanny Katie and Jake Pratt were hot and heavy. A classic backstage romance. Happens all the time when we go on tour.”

“I don't think that's what was going on,” I say.

“So?”

Guess Zuckerman doesn't care what I think. He turns to Ceepak. “The nanny was murdered during the Lucky Numbers routine, correct?”

Ceepak nods, somewhat reluctantly.

“Well, Miss Amour isn't onstage for that one. In fact, after the transportation scene, which usually goes up at eight-twenty-five, Sherry's done for the night, leaving her free to roam around backstage, maybe sneak into room AA-four and interrupt an assignation between her young male companion and her younger, more accommodating competition—Kinky Katie.”

I want to tell Zuckerman to stick a plug in his piehole but Ceepak shoots me a look. Shakes his head. Guess Zuckerman's still not worth it.

“Of course,” Ceepak says, “we have no way to confirm who was in the backstage hallways during last evening's performance because you activated the mirror switch to disable the solitary surveillance camera.”

“I sure did!” snaps Zuckerman. “It's imperative that our secrets remain just that. Secret.”

“Did you tell Cyrus Parker?”

“Of course not. If one's goal is to maintain security, you do not alert those who would spy on you as to your intentions.”

Ceepak changes his tack.

“Why did you request extra security in the auditorium last night when you were the one who invited Lady Jasmine to attend?”

“Who told you that?”

“Lady Jasmine.”

The smirk broadens. “And you believed her?”

“She has proven truthful in other areas of her testimony.”