That’s when Ceepak’s other cell phone jangles like an alarm clock.
It’s his work phone. He always carries two; doesn’t want to blur the line, he says, between his professional and personal life.
While Ceepak tugs the thing off his belt, I’m wondering if Dr. Kurth already has our test results. If so, it’d be a new Indoor Forensics record.
“This is Ceepak, go.”
Yeah. That’s how Ceepak answers his work phone.
“Roger that. Call nine-one-one. We’re on our way.” He clips the phone back to his belt. “Danny?” He reaches behind his back, just to make sure his Glock is still in that cross-draw holster. I stand up and tap my hip under my shirttail to do the same.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Gatehouse.”
“Got you.”
We’re kind of talking in code. No sense scaring Ceepak’s mom by letting her know her ex-husband has come a’callin’.
We hop in my jeep.
“Is it your dad?” I say.
“Negative. His emissary.”
I think emissary means messenger and not a building full of foreign diplomats. I’ll look it up later. Right now, I slap the swirling red light on the hood of my ride. When he sees us coming, Mr. Ceepak’s “emissary” will know he or she just stepped into a pile of serious trouble.
We break The Oceanaire’s posted 15 mph speed limit and whip around the roads snaking back to the gatehouse.
Bruce Southworth, the young security guard, is out of his hut, his clipboard clutched in his hand, like he’ll use the thing as a weapon if he has to.
Young Benjamin Sinclair, decked out in his sloppy StratosFEAR uniform khakis and polo shirt, is straddling the seat of his motor scooter, holding a bunch of flowers wrapped in a cone of clear cellophane. One of the bouquets they sell at the Acme grocery store near the dairy department.
“Yo,” Ben says to Southworth. “Open the freaking gate, dude. Sun’s wilting the flowers, big time.”
“Mrs. Ceepak does not wish to receive anything from anyone associated with her ex-husband,” says Southworth, professionally and politely.
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, as we roll out of my Jeep and march over to the guardhouse.
“Yo!” says Sinclair. “Help me out here, po-po. Tell this clipboard monkey fool to step off and get out of my grill. I just be delivering flowers from your old man. They’re for your old lady.”
“She doesn’t want them,” I say because Ceepak is too busy trying to figure out what the heck Ben just said.