Mind Scrambler

MIND SCRAMBLER

 

 

 

 

 

 

ALSO BY CHRIS GRABENSTEIN

 

The John Ceepak Series

Tilt a Whirl

Mad Mouse

Whack a Mole

Hell Hole

 

Thrillers

Slay Ride

Hell for the Holidays

 

Young Readers

The Crossroads

The Hanging Hill

 

 

 

CHRIS GRABENSTEIN

 

 

 

MINOTAUR BOOKS

NEW YORK

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

 

MIND SCRAMBLER.
Copyright © 2009 by Chris Grabenstein. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

 

www.minotaurbooks.com

 

“Magic” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2007 by Bruce Springsteen. Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

 

“Livin' in the Future” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2007 by Bruce Springsteen. Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

 

“Last to Die” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2007 by Bruce Springsteen. Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

 

“Long Walk Home” by Bruce Springsteen. Copyright © 2007 by Bruce Springsteen. Reprinted by permission. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.

 

ISBN-13: 978-0-312-38231-5

ISBN-10: 0-312-38231-6

 

First Edition: June 2009

 

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1

 

 

 

 

 

 

For my friends since forever
Ronny and Lianne,
who helped me on the long walk home

 

 

 

 

 

I want to thank . . .

Michael Homler, Hector DeJean, Andrew Martin, and everybody at St. Martin's Minotaur.

Bruce Springsteen for the use of his lyrics and the inspiration of his album
Magic.

Chief Michael Bradley of the Long Beach Island police department for technical advice on police procedures down the shore.

Lesa Holstine and librarians everywhere.

All the folks whose names appear as characters in this book because they made generous donations to charities.

My über-agent, Eric Myers.

Lynn Fraser and Rhys, Kathy and Dave, and Herndon—early readers extraordinaire.

My unbelievably beautiful, not to mention talented and supportive, wife J.J.

And that wonderfully generous slot machine in Trump's Taj Mahal that paid me $150 in exchange for my dollar bill while I was doing research down in Atlantic City.

 

 

 

 

 

I bumped
into my old girlfriend Katie Landry this afternoon. Six hours later, she was dead.

We met in the lobby of the Xanadu hotel and casino down in Atlantic City.

“Danny?” She had seen me first.

“Hey.” I was sort of surprised. I don't think Katie had set foot inside the Garden State for more than a year, not since she took off for sunny California.

As Katie walked across the extremely carpeted lobby, I noticed she still had a slight limp—a souvenir left over from her last summer in Sea Haven, the New Jersey resort town we both used to call home.

She kissed me. On the cheek. The way cousins do—except, you know, in Arkansas.

“It's so good to see you!” she said.

“Yeah. You, too.” Then I kissed her cheek and we looked French. Maybe Russian.

She stepped back and gave me the once-over. “Danny Boyle! You look great!”

“Thanks. So do you!”

She did, too. Katie had always been the most beautiful woman in the world, ever since we met in third grade. I think it's her eyes. They're emeralds—all green and sparkly. And her smile? The Mona Lisa gets jealous.

“Where's Ceepak?” she asked. “You guys still partners?”

“Yeah. He's across the street in the bus depot, dealing with the driver.”

John Ceepak and I are cops with the Sea Haven PD. It's early October, the off-season down the Jersey shore, so we're on a week of what they call administrative leave, taking care of some loose ends, helping with an out-of-state homicide trial.

“We came down on the Coast City bus,” I said. “The driver was doing seventy on the straightaways.”

“Is that a code violation?”

“Big-time. Posted speed limit is sixty-five from milepost eighty south to milepost twenty-seven.”

A former MP who served in Iraq, John Ceepak lives his life in strict compliance with the West Point honor code: He will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do. Speeding on the Garden State Parkway? Definitely cheating.

“He got married, you know.”

“Yeah. Olivia told me. Rita, right?”

I nodded.

Olivia Chibbs is one of our mutual friends back home. She used to work with Ceepak's wife, Rita, at Morgan's Surf and Turf, this classy restaurant where they fold the napkins to look like birds. Classy birds.

“So what're you doing in A.C?” I asked.

“New job.”

“Cool.”

“I was going to call,” she started.

“Definitely,” I said so Katie wouldn't have to further violate Ceepak's code and tell me another lie.

When last we spoke—oh, maybe fifteen months ago—Katie was working on her master's degree in elementary education at this college out in California. Before that, she had been a kindergarten teacher and worked summers at Salt Water Tammy's.

She had also been my girlfriend for most of August that last summer we spent together.

“So, what's the job?” I asked to avoid all the stuff I didn't want to talk about.

“Mary Poppins,” she said, hugging a stack of books close to her chest.

I wished I were a book.

“I'm the nanny and tutor for Richard Rock's kids.” She flicked her blazing red hair sideways to indicate an illuminated poster for a show called “Rock 'n Wow!” currently playing at the Xanadu's Shalimar Theater. Richard Rock, the star of the show, was a handsome dude in a tuxedo and cowboy hat.

“He's a magician,” Katie explained.

“Ah-ha.”

“Actually an illusionist.”

“Unh-hunh.”

A couple months ago, Olivia had told me Katie was dating some new guy out in California. That was fine by me. I had been doing the same thing.

With girls, not guys. Jersey girls. Nothing too serious, but then again, I'm twenty-five and there are plenty of fish in the sea. Jellyfish, stingrays, sharks, electric eels.

“They mostly do Vegas,” said Katie.

“Hmm?” I said because I'd drifted off on that whole fishing expedition.

“The Rocks. This is their first gig in Atlantic City. They're based out of LA. Hired me a couple weeks ago. Hey, you should come see the show. It's very wholesome. Good, clean family fun.”

Rats. I had been hoping for G-strings and feathered headdresses.

“I'd love to,” I said anyway.

“You busy tonight? I could score you guys a couple tickets.”

“Cool. I need to check with Ceepak first. We're working on this thing.”

“How come you're not in uniform?”

“It's an unofficial thing.”

“Undercover?”

“Nah. We're actually helping out a prosecuting attorney up in Ohio. Taking a deposition from an Atlantic City drifter who's on the witness list because he once shared a jail cell with the accused.”

“What's the charge?”

“Murder.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

And I left out the juiciest part: the defendant is this bitter old alkie named Joseph Ceepak—my partner's father. The guy we're deposing here in Atlantic City is a migrant con artist named Gary Burdick (aka Barry Gerduck, aka Larry Murdoch, aka various other lame aliases that all sound like his real name). Burdick once shared a drunk tank with Ceepak's old man on a night when Mr. C totally spilled the beans and bragged about how he got away with, well, murder. Burdick knows all sorts of incriminating details, enough to lock up Mr. Ceepak for life, which, trust me, would be a good thing for his son, not to mention the rest of us.

Katie took a quick glance at her wristwatch. If you want to know what time it is in Atlantic City, you need to carry a watch or a cell phone because there are no clocks on the casino walls and no windows to let you know whether the sun is up, down, or sideways.

“Katie?” a little girl hollered from behind a shimmering gold column. “Katie!” She popped out, then hid again. I think she was playing peekaboo. Either that or perfecting her obnoxiousness.

“I need to run,” said Katie.

“One of yours?”

“Yep. Britney Rock.”

Britney skipped-to-her-lou across the carpet. She was carrying a huge slab of peanut brittle with chomp marks in it—the kind cartoon dogs bite into people's pants. I pegged Britney to be eight or nine. Blond with a mouthful of braces.

“Hi,” I said, and gave her a little finger wave.

“Who's this guy?” she asked Katie.

“Danny Boyle.”

The nine-year-old made a rolling arm gesture to indicate she needed more information. “And?”

“He's an old friend.”

“He was never like your boyfriend or anything, was he?”

Katie didn't answer.

“'Cause Jake's cuter.”

“Jake?” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.

Katie shook her head. “He's this guy in the show.”

“He's a hottie,” said Britney. “Total stud muffin.”

I bent down to brat level. “Hey, you know what? Katie and I have known each other ever since we were younger than you!” I sounded so much like Mr. Rogers I should've been wearing a cardigan.

The kid crinkled her nose to let me know I had just totally grossed her out.