“You have a good weekend?” I ask.
“Roger that. We took my mother over to the mainland. She needed a new toilet bowl brush. Target has an interesting and wide selection.”
I nod. I’m used to Ceepak’s wild and crazy weekend adventures, especially since his mom moved to town. Of all the good sons in the world, John Ceepak might just be the best. Probably because he has to be. His father, Mr. Joseph Ceepak, is the worst excuse for a dad I have ever met. Mr. and Mrs. Ceepak are divorced even though Mr. Ceepak refuses to believe it. Especially after Mrs. Ceepak unexpectedly inherited two point three million dollars from her spinster aunt. When Joe “Sixpack” Ceepak heard about that, he came sniffing around Sea Haven looking for his ex-wife, who, at the time, was living in a “secure location” somewhere in Ohio.
You might wonder why Ceepak still lives in his dumpy one-bedroom apartment since his mom has all that money. I did. Until Ceepak told me, “I have not received financial assistance from either of my parents since I was sixteen, Danny. I do not intend to start now. It is her money. She should spend it as she sees fit.”
Ceepak’s dad, who never met a pile of money he didn’t want to mooch, has, so far, kept the promise he made to us when I saved his sorry life at the same roller coaster where Dominic Santucci lost his. He has stayed out of Sea Haven. But his son tells me we need to be “extra vigilant” and “stand guard” since neither of us would be surprised if Joe Sixpack returned to Sea Haven to harass his ex-wife.
“We hope for the best, Danny,” Ceepak likes to say. “But we prepare for the worst.”
Like making sure his mom lives in a condo complex with 24-hour security guards and has an armed escort (her son) whenever she goes toilet brush shopping at Target.
“So, how many rides do we need to check out?” I ask.
“All of them,” says Ceepak with a grin. “Might take all week.”
“Roger that,” I say, because, okay, I’ve been hanging around Ceepak for way too long. Plus, I’m happy to hear we’re going to be working together for a solid chunk of time.
My partner is dressed in his standard detective uniform. Khaki cargo pants, L.L. Bean Oxford cloth shirt, striped tie, and lightweight navy blue sport coat. He keeps his gold shield clipped to the front of his belt, his Glock in a small-of-the-back crossdraw holster hidden under the vent flaps of his jacket. His shoes? Sturdy black cop shoes except on the rainy days when he slips on his waterproof Army boots.
I don’t get to play detective every day, so I wear my shield on a lanyard around my neck. I keep my Glock at my hip, cowboy style. But since I don’t tuck in my blousy Hawaiian shirt, nobody sees it.
“What are you doing, Christopher?”
Phone call finished, Daddy Droid has returned to the booth next to ours. He looks furious.
“Drawing,” mumbles his son.
“On the tablecloth?”
“It’s paper.”
“I don’t care. You’re making a mess.”
“She said I could.”
“Who?”
“The lady.”
“What lady?” fumes the dad, grabbing up the kid’s crayons as quickly as he can. “I don’t see any ‘lady.’”