Mind Scrambler (29 page)

“I was doing Sherry a favor last night. For whatever reason, she asked me to remain mute during that particular number. Heaven only knows why.”

Ceepak bristles. “We, of course, have no way to corroborate what you say. No proof.”

“Yes you do. Just look at the show tapes. We record every performance. There's a video camera up in the light booth. You'll see this.”

She wobbles her left hand, flashes her glittery engagement ring.

“I have one. My sister doesn't. She never married.”

“Your sister?”

“Yes,” says Mrs. Rock. “Sherry Amour is my sister. That's a stage name, of course. Our real family name was far too dull for her chosen line of work. Julia Pratt. Sounds dreadful, don't you think? Terrible porno name.”

“Pratt?” says Ceepak.

“That's right.”

“As in Jake Pratt?”

Mrs. Rock giggles. “Of course. Julia is Jake's mother.”

 

 

 

 

 

My mind
is way beyond scrambled now.

I think it's clotted. Poached. Hard-boiled. I know my head hurts.

“Jake Pratt is your nephew?” Ceepak presses on.

“That's right. As you may know, Richard has always insisted on making our show a family-friendly enterprise. It's why we put our own children in it. Why, the costume designer is a cousin. The set designer, too. Of course, Mr. Zuckerman isn't a blood relation, but he's been with us so long, we consider him family. It's the secret to our success. Family.”

“You did the show tonight,” says Parker, “even though your nephew was murdered this morning?”

“Of course. We did it for the rest of the family. The ones counting on us for their livelihood. It's what Jake would have wanted us to do. Julia—I mean, Sherry—too. We all believe in the unparalleled
power of the family bond. It's why I know I will eventually forgive my husband his weaknesses and wanderings. We made a vow. For better or worse. Chinese massage parlors? They're just part of the bad you put up with for all the good.”

Mrs. Rock slowly turns her sparkling diamond ring 'round and 'round her finger and I'm reminded of the flashing laser lights inside that mind scrambler ride back home in Sea Haven. I'm also reminded of how Mrs. Rock's rock, the size of a crystal salt shaker, nearly blinded me from the stage when the follow spot hit it last night.

“I find it hard to believe,” says Ceepak, “that your body double would not wear a similar ring. You people are master illusionists. The true magic is in keen attention to details such as that—no discernible discrepancies between the principal player and the body double.”

“I wouldn't allow it.”

“Come again?”

“This ring symbolizes the eternal commitment Richard and I share. I would rather expose an illusion's secret than compromise my most cherished family values.”

“I don't believe you,” says Ceepak.

“It's the truth.”

Bull. Shit.

I think it, don't say it. From the looks on Ceepak's face, he's thinking similar, if cleaner, thoughts.

Mrs. Rock, however, remains oblivious to our manure-filled minds. She spreads on a second layer.

“Of course, I can understand my sister being jealous of all that this ring symbolizes. My marriage. Our successes. Sherry's been something of a drifter all her life. Poor girl couldn't even tell you who Jake's father was. Seems there are several potential candidates for that dubious honor. When she got deeper into drugs and
the whole pornography scene, we were forced to take Jake into our home. When she finally cleaned up her act, we gave her a job, worked in some transporting illusions. Julia and I aren't twins, mind you. She's years older than me. But with some cosmetic surgery, serious work with a personal trainer, a top-notch wig designer . . .”

“You say you will eventually forgive Mr. Rock for his dalliances at the massage parlor,” says Ceepak.

“Yes. Eventually.”

“Has Mr. Rock forgiven you for your affair with Jake Pratt?”

Mrs. Rock goes rigid. Closes up everything she can without re-sewing her gown.

“What?” She spits it out.

“We have evidence suggesting that you and your nephew were lovers.”

“That is sick, Mr. Ceepak. Sick.”

“Did you not rent him a motel room across the street?”

“I did no such thing.”

“The desk clerk can identify you.”

“He's a filthy liar if he says I ever spent the night there with my nephew! That's incest, isn't it? You can't sleep with your nephew! It's against the law.”

“Wait a second,” I butt in. “Yesterday, you hinted that you were not immune to, what'd you call, ‘the allure of a younger man, especially one as attractive as Jake Pratt.' ”

“I hinted at no such thing.”

“I heard it. In your voice.”

“Then you have a very filthy mind.”

“Danny?” Ceepak shakes his head.

I shut up as suggested.

“Am I free to go?” Mrs. Rock asks, concealing everything she can because I'm totally skeeving her out.

“One of my men will escort you to the dressing room backstage so you can change into your street clothes,” says Parker. “He will then escort you upstairs to your suite where he will remain, posted outside the door. You're not to leave the premises, ma'am. We'll need to see those show tapes you mentioned.”

“Just ask David,” says Mrs. Rock, refusing to stand up from her chair until I look somewhere besides at her. So I shift my eyes over to Ceepak.

He looks worried.

I don't blame him. Maybe Mrs. Rock has another secret escape panel inside her dressing-room closet.

 

 

“What will be, will be,” mumbles Ceepak, channeling his inner Springsteen. “The more we listen to this cavalcade of lies, which can only be countered by those who have been silenced or remain unavailable for questioning, the more we are trapped inside their illusion.”

We're actually with Parker inside the security command center, but I catch his drift. Kim Hammond is still on duty, seated at her console dutifully tapping keys, calling up that archived video clip from the elevator ride.

We've already checked out the show tape: you can, indeed, see the big diamond ring during the Lucky Numbers bit. Ceepak also rolled the tape back to the transporting illusion. When you zoom in, you can see that Mrs. Rock goes into the booth stage right wearing a ring and reappears stage left without it.

“I can't help but think we are being duped,” Ceepak says. “Do we even know if Mrs. Rock and Ms. Amour are truly related? All we have is her word, which, in my opinion, is virtually worthless.”

Unfortunately, Ceepak can't force the rest of the world to adhere to his code. They can lie all they want. Right now, we have no
way of knowing what the truth is because it's been reflected through too many crooked panes of silver-backed glass by just about every person we've encountered since arriving in Atlantic City. The place is a fun house. Trick mirrors. Shifting floors. Losers who think they'll be winners after one more trip to the ATM.

“The ghost enemy,” says Ceepak, and from the look in his eyes, I know he has temporarily drifted back to Iraq. “The truth of any dynamic situation is extremely difficult to ascertain. Enemies hide among the innocents. Innocents stumble into the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I settle in against the edge of a desk. So does Parker.

“One night,” says Ceepak, “we were stationed just north of Ramadi, on the main highway, a road riddled with booby traps and improvised explosive devices. Late in the afternoon, we were handing out soccer balls and candy to a group of kids. You've never seen such smiles. It had been some time since these children had been able to come outdoors and play and they were making the most of it. So were we.”

A thin smile crinkles his lips for a half second before it evaporates.

“A Hyundai sedan comes up the road. Heads straight at our vehicle. No one is manning the gun in the turret topside. He's down, playing soccer with the kids. The car keeps coming. It's maroon.”

Of course he remembers the color of the car. Probably still sees it in his nightmares.

“I step into the center of the roadway, wave at the car, signal for it to come to a full and complete stop. The driver responds by accelerating. I hear the engine roar. I assume it's another car bomb.”

I nod. As if I have a clue.

“I was forced to make a split-second decision based only on what was readily observable: a maroon Hyundai racing toward the children and our military transport vehicle. Was it an innocent
family sedan or was it a suicide bomber with a trunk loaded down with artillery shells?”

“What'd you do?”

“I raised my weapon and listened to the engine whine. Standard procedure would dictate that I first fire a warning shot into the air, then a shot to the tires, and, finally, a shot through the windshield to take out the driver. However, this particular vehicle was approaching far too rapidly for me to observe established protocol. The kill shot would need to be the first and only round fired. So I waited. Perhaps longer than I should have.”

“What happened?”

“The Iraqi driver finally saw me. He slammed on his brakes, lifted both hands off the steering wheel, skidded to a stop. A moment later, he shifted into reverse and backed away. What I took to be an enemy combatant proved, in the end, to be a civilian driver who could not see me, our Humvee, or the children playing soccer due to the blinding glare of the setting sun behind us.”

“Wow.”

Parker nods in agreement. He served in the First Gulf War. “Perceptions and reality, Officer Boyle. The truth remains dynamic and all you can do is embrace the suck.”

“Yeah.” I have no idea what that last bit means but Ceepak's nodding so I figure it's military talk for coolly dealing with whatever crappy situation comes your way.

“Therefore,” says Ceepak, “we must redouble our efforts to separate illusion from reality. We must be certain we know what we are looking at, not what we
might
be looking at.”

“Here we go,” says Hammond, who has found the elevator scene on her hard drive.

“Please fast-forward to where the blonde whispers into Mr. Pratt's ear.”

“You got it.”

The digits streak forward. She clicks her mouse. Things slow down to real time as the blonde raises her hand and whispers into Pratt's ear.

“It appears Mrs. Rock is being truthful in regards to this particular incident,” says Ceepak.

“How so?” asks Parker.

Ceepak taps the screen with the blunt end of a pen. “Note how she brings up her left hand to whisper into Pratt's ear. The ring finger is bare.”

No dazzling diamond flaring up at the camera lens.

“So,” says Parker, sounding like somebody scrambled his mind, too, “this blond woman, the adult movie actress, is his mother?”

“On further viewing, it is safe to say we might have misinterpreted a mother's innocent hand-holding as something more lascivious. My wife, Rita, holds my stepson's hand from time to time. Not often and only when none of his friends are present.”

“Why's the double all dolled-up, looking like Mrs. Rock, riding the elevator in the middle of the day on a Sunday?” Parker asks Ceepak.

“Not knowing, can't say.”

Yeah. Me, neither.

“So,” says Parker, “Mrs. Rock didn't do it? She was onstage when Ms. Landry was murdered.”

“If,” says Ceepak, “any of the rest of what she just told us is also truthful. We need to talk to Ms. Julia Pratt.”

“That's Sherry Amour, right?” says Parker.

“Roger that.”

“Okay. Just want to be clear.” He shudders his head, trying to jangle his brain cells back into alignment. It's like whacking a TV to make the picture sharper. Sometimes, it works.

“Another
J
,” I say. “Julia.”

Ceepak nods. “Further complicating the true meaning of the
message written on the bathroom mirror.” His cell chirps. At least we know it's not Ceepak's damn dad. That man's five minutes are up.

I glance up at the digital clock spinning on one of the security-camera feeds: 2210. Ten minutes after 10:00
PM.

“This is Ceepak. Go. Yes.” He listens. Brings his hand up to his face so he can pinch his nose bone. Whatever he's hearing, trust me—it's all bad. “Remain in your room. Roger that. The police are on their way. We'll be there ASAP.”

He closes up the clamshell.

“That was Blaine and Jim Bob,” he reports. “The dancers. They have located Sherry Amour.”

“Where?” I ask.

“In her room. Upstairs at the Super Eight Motel. Jake Pratt's mother is dead.”

 

 

 

 

 

The medical
examiner says Julia Pratt, aka Sherry Amour, has been dead for over eight hours.

I don't want to mention the flies up in room 332.

It's 10:30
PM
. Dr. McDaniels is once more on the scene.

“Krabitz,” she says out on the third-floor terrace, which is crowded with cops, when one of the CSI techs shows her the slug they dug out of the bed inside the room. “Thirty-eight caliber. He came up here before you boys collared him downstairs harassing the dancers.”

That was this afternoon.

Sherry Amour was already dead when Ceepak and I were down below, storming the second floor on our ATVs, trying to stop Krabitz from kicking in Blaine and Jim Bob's door. The barrel of that gun I saw tucked into his pants was probably still warm.

“The dancers knew she was up here,” says Ceepak.

“Yeah,” says Dr. McDaniels, knuckle-punching him in the left arm. “So you two might want to go downstairs and talk to them about withholding evidence. Me? I've got another murder scene to process.”