Mind Scrambler (28 page)

“With Jake Pratt?” asks Ceepak.

“Hell, yeah. I knew all about it.”

“Yet you told us you weren't worried about your wife having an affair with the young dancer.”

Rock shakes his head. “I know I didn't say she was one hundred percent faithful.”

He disappears into his star dressing room.

Mind scramble alert.

Richard Rock flips and flops more than all those pancakes back home in Sea Haven.

At the far end of the hall, there's a blinding blast of white light as the
Authorized Personnel Only
door is shoved open.

“Did she come off this way?” It's Parker flanked by two ACPD cops.

“Negative,” says Ceepak.

“Where the hell is she, then?”

“Mr. Rock claims she refused to exit with him. Marital difficulties.”

Parker palms the top of his head. “Well, she didn't come out the door on the other side of the stage. And my guys in the basement didn't see anybody, either. Damn.”

Ceepak turns to Mr. Zuckerman. “Where is she?”

“Gone.”

“How?” demands Parker.

“I don't really know. However, Jessica Rock has been working in magic for well over two decades. Escape acts are her stock in trade. She does one onstage every night.”

“Wait a second,” I say. “You're telling us she magically transported herself out of the theater?”

“Perhaps.”

“Well, how'd she do it without her body double?”

Another smug shrug. “I couldn't tell you. I will, however, tell you the secret to any successful illusion.”

I take the bait: “What?”

“Preplanning.”

 

 

 

 

 

We're frantically
sending out search parties.

Coordinating with the video surveillance team.

And this is when Mr. Ceepak finally calls from Ohio.

We're still backstage, so we duck into that electrical closet for a little privacy. I go in with Ceepak because he gestures that I should.

He thumbs the speakerphone button on his LG cell so I can hear every rank thing his father has to say.

I think he wants a witness.

“Where'd I catch you, Johnny?”

“Where I am is of no consequence.”

“It is to me. See, I'm in a jail, Johnny. No windows. Can't see shit except bars, a bunk, a crapper, and this ugly-ass gangbanger who thinks I'm gonna be his bitch tonight. Fuck you, my friend. Get the fuck out of my face. Asshole. He's backing off. Fucking pussy.”

Ceepak closes his eyes. Drops his head.

I take the cell phone so his hands are free to cover his face.

“Can't talk long, Johnny. That assistant prosecuting attorney Lisa Porter-Burt might look hot 'n sexy in those tight suits she sashays around in but, I tell you son, the girl is one cold bitch. Only gave me five minutes to call my son.”

Ceepak lowers his hands. I aim the phone at him.

“The clock is running,” he says, slow and tight.

“You're down there in Atlantic City, hunh? How's that working out? You talk to that asshole Burdick, yet? You take his deposition, Johnny-boy? I'll bet that was fun.” Mr. Ceepak laughs up a chest full of mucus. “Hey, you see him again, tell him to go fuck himself. For me. Okay? Then tell him my good news: I'll be coming to see him. Soon.”

Ceepak stares at the phone.

“Yeah. That's what I wanted to share with you, Johnny. Guess how much the People and State of Ohio care about what I did all those fucking years ago? They could give two shits. Well, Porter-Burt might. She might give three or four. But her boss, this gray-haired geezer, he sure as shit didn't. He just wanted to push another pile of paper off his desk, clear his calendar, save the taxpayers the expense of a trial, wrap this sucker up.”

I cannot believe what I am hearing.

“Yes, sir, son—the criminal justice system proved most merciful and wise today. Lenient, even. The top dog realized I've served time in my own private prison, torturing myself for years about what happened. He could see how remorseful I was. How guilt-ridden and repentant. He's a father, Johnny, just like me, so he knows about the mental anguish I've been through, especially after I told him about Billy being raped by a priest and all. I admit, I laid it on pretty thick for the old fart, but, hell—a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do, am I right, Johnny?”

Ceepak doesn't respond.

“Hey, too bad you weren't here to contradict me, hunh? But, well—you're always somewhere else, aren't you? Always running off to do your duty for god and country. Iraq. Atlantic City. Always eager to lend a hand, aren't you, Johnny-boy?” Another phlegmy laugh. “Jesus, how can you be my son and still be so fucking dumb? You don't have to answer that, Johnny. Not right now. We'll talk about it when I come see you. We'll go grab a couple beers. You'd like that, wouldn't you, son?”

Mr. Ceepak pauses. Waits for his son to say something.

Ceepak doesn't.

“Guess you can't talk 'cause you're all choked up to hear how good my plea deal worked out, hunh? That's okay. We'll be together soon. What is it? October. Hell, with a little time off for good behavior, I figure I'll be out by Christmas. Tell your mother. I'll be home for Christmas—just like in the fucking song! If not Christmas, Easter for sure. Like I said, Johnny—this lead prosecuting attorney or whatever the fuck they call him? He's a father. He knows how much grief comes with two shitty sons.”

There's a knock on the closet door.

“Ceepak?” Parker. “We've got her.”

“Roger that.” Ceepak stands and gestures for me to hand him the cell, so I do.

He punches off the speaker button. Brings the phone up to his ear.

“Are you done?” He's standing at what I think the army manual calls
parade rest
with the phone cocked to his ear, waiting for his father to finish. “If any of what you said is true, trust me, sir—it is not going to play that way. You'll see. I'll hire lawyers.” Another pause. Ceepak listens. I can hear a rant of some sort reverberating out of the earpiece.

Ceepak glances at his watch.

“Sir?” Ceepak interrupts his old man. “I believe the prosecuting attorney's office granted you five minutes for this phone call. Your time is up.”

He slams the clamshell shut.

“Come on, Danny. Let's roll.”

 

 

For someone who magically disappears on a regular basis, Mrs. Rock doesn't remain invisible for long.

Parker's security team monitoring the eyes in the sky spotted her at a “Cops and Donuts” slot machine on the main casino floor. She was the only woman in the three-acre playing field wearing a sequined gown. Sure, some of the Irish ladies had sequined leprechauns on their baggy green sweatshirts, but Mrs. Rock was the only one out there in formal wear.

It's a little after 9:30
PM
when we follow Parker and two of his men into the crowded casino. The 8:00 shows and lounge acts just let out, so it's rush hour on the gambling floor. The place feels more crowded than an airport terminal in a blizzard when all the flights are canceled and everybody's already bored with the chicken-wings at the sports bar.

We're off the carpet, onto the shiny terrazzo tile.

“What'd your old man want?” Parker asks.

“Inconsequential at this juncture.”

Parker and I both nod. We've known Ceepak long enough to know that when he uses two words like that in one sentence, his emotions are shutting down so he can concentrate on the job.

So we silently proceed up the lane of “Cops and Donuts” slots.

There's about a hundred of the machines stretching toward the horizon and every one is currently occupied.

We see the glittering gown.

“Mrs. Rock?” says Parker, his voice booming. We pick up our pace, close in on her stool.

“Just a second.” She slaps her spin button again.

“Will you kindly come with me?”

“Hold on, hon. I get a bonus game.”

“Mrs. Rock?”

“Dadgumit!” Mrs. Rock's bonus spin ends up paying off exactly nothing. “This machine was hot until you boys came along!”

“Let's go upstairs, ma'am,” says Ceepak. He and Parker now look like polite bookends—both of them have their arms extended to the right to indicate which way Mrs. Rock should scoot off her stool.

“I can't leave. I have a fifty-dollar credit!”

“We will gladly issue you a voucher for the remainder,” says Parker.

“But somebody else will come along and win after I've been the one feeding money into this machine!”

“Actually,” says Ceepak in his robo-cop voice, “that is a fallacious assumption. Past wins or losses are not predictive of future wins and losses.”

Mrs. Rock smiles up at Ceepak. Now she's impressed by his brains as well as his brawn.

Ceepak, however, is not smiling back.

“This way.” He's still gesturing to his right.

“Fine.” Mrs. Rock swivels around to rub the spin button. “I'll be back, big boy. I'll be back.”

Yeah. She'll be back. In twenty or thirty years—if she gets time off for good behavior, like Mr. Joe “Six-pack” Ceepak.

 

 

 

 

 

We're in
Cyrus Parker's office.

It's not much. A ten-by-ten room with a metal desk and a telephone—the kind with too many throbbing lights on it. There's a corkboard on one wall with “persons of interest” posters tacked to it. Card counters. Pickpockets. I recognize the two guys Ceepak and I tussled with on the floor in slots, row 42.

“So, how'd you get past my guys?” Parker asks Mrs. Rock.

“Should I call David?” She shifts in her seat to show us as much leg as she can without showing us everything up where the legs end. This is my first interrogation of a suspect dressed in a slinky cocktail dress with a slit racing up the thigh. It adds to the intrigue.

“Is Mr. Zuckerman your lawyer?” asks Ceepak.

She grins coyly. “He is our family adviser.”

“We are not, at this time, pressing formal charges,” says Ceepak.

“Charges? All I did was skip one silly autograph session in the lobby. I just couldn't face my adoring fans. Not tonight.”

“How?” demands Parker. “How'd you slip out of the theater and into the casino without bumping into any of my men?”

“We have an exit.”

“Where?”

“Downstairs.”

“We had all the doors covered on the lower level.”

“Not this one. Besides, it's not really a door. In fact, it's more of a hidden panel. Very ingenious. Slides to the side. It also won't appear on any of your blueprints or building schematics.”

“Did you people put it in?”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Rock, slinking into cutesy-poo baby talk. “We people put it in.”

“Why?”

The grin grows more mischievous. “We needed it.”

“For what?”

“One of our world-famous illusions.”

Parker crosses his arms over his barrel chest and his bulging arm muscles almost rip through the seams in his shirt sleeves. “Mrs. Rock? I need to know specific details about this secret panel. . . .”

“For that, you will need to talk to Mr. Zuckerman. Unfortunately, I've signed several nondisclosure agreements.” She focuses on Ceepak, leans forward in her chair. Most guys would at least glance down to see how much more of her big boob valley the dip revealed. Not Ceepak.

Cleavage scheme foiled, Mrs. Rock aims for Ceepak's weak spot: “Surely you gentlemen wouldn't have me violate my word of honor?”

“What about last night?” asks Ceepak.

“I didn't skip out last night. But today, I had to! You see, I had
been playing that same ‘Cops and Donuts' slot machine earlier in the day and it had proved quite hot.”

Of course, when she says
hot,
she has to wiggle a little in her seat so we all take in the cheesy double meaning. But her cheesecake display isn't working on Ceepak.

Or Parker.

Or me, and I'm usually a pretty cheap date.

“I love ‘Cops and Donuts',” she coos. “Especially when they're hot. The doughnuts, I mean.”

Now I'm wondering if she's the one who rented the pay-per-view porno movie in AA-4. I think it's where she scrapes up most of her dialogue.

“Why weren't you onstage last night during the Lucky Numbers illusion?” asks Ceepak.

“Excuse me?”

“Last night. When your nanny was murdered. Your double was the one onstage.”

“Is that what Sherry told you?”

“No, ma'am,” says Ceepak. “It's what we deduced from your actions this evening.”

“Look.” Her back stiffens. Hands smooth out her skirt, closing up any visible slit. “I admit that I have something of a gambling addiction. Some nights the allure of all those machines whirling out in the casino is simply too much for me to resist. Especially after receiving confirmation that my husband has, indeed, been frequenting a cheap Chinese massage parlor where, I am told, one can have every part of one's body rubbed until it feels much, much better.”

“Why weren't you onstage last night when Ms. Landry was murdered?” Ceepak asks again.

“I can't believe you fell for Sherry's idiotic insinuations.”

“Again, I reiterate, we did not discuss this matter with Ms. Amour. In fact, we remain unable to locate her. However, during
last night's performance, you did not speak to the volunteer onstage. Tonight you did. In fact, you were quite verbose.”

Here comes that playful leer again. “You're very observant, Mr. Ceepak.”

“Would you care to explain?” says Ceepak. “Why the vast discrepancy in your two performances?”