Free Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein Page A

proof?”
    â€œYes,” I say and try to think of something I could offer as evidence besides my hunch. But then I see Ceepak shake his head.
    â€œHe’s right, Danny. We have no proof.”
    This is when I wish Ceepak’s code allowed us to tell a lie every now and then. I wouldn’t do it all the time, mind you. Only when it was important or, you know, convenient.
    â€œSee?” says Shrimp. “You two ain’t got nothin’ !”
    Nichols tries to chuckle. “Heh. Heh. Heh.” It comes out slow—a dying lawn mower huffing out fumes as it runs out of gas. Mr. Shrimp leans into the cab of the truck. Yanks up on a wire. The music dies.
    â€œHowever,” says Ceepak, “this does not mean we intend to let this matter drop.”
    Nichols’s face shifts slowly from amused to puzzled.
    â€œI suspect Officer Boyle’s instincts are correct. I suspect you stole the CD changer from the trunk of Corporal Smith’s vehicle. I further suspect that you two forgot to exchange his CD collection for music of your own. However, my suspicions and suppositions aren’t enough. We will need to gather more evidence if we hope to convince the Burlington County prosecutor to proceed with a criminal case against you two.”
    â€œGood luck,” taunts Shrimp.
    â€œWe won’t need luck,” says Ceepak. “We’ll simply need access to all the evidence surrounding Corporal Smith’s trip to the rest stop last night and his supposed suicide.”
    Ah-hah.

    Long live the code.
    Ceepak just found our angle. Possession of stolen property here in Feenyville is definitely within our jurisdiction, so Saul Slominsky may be forced to share his forensic evidence with us. Who knows? Maybe these two knuckleheads are the ones who did it. Maybe they killed Smith then staged it to look like a suicide. Motive? I don’t know. Heavy metal envy.
    Okay. It’s a flimsy case. But, we officially have our foot in the door, or, more correctly, the toilet stall.
    â€œThank you for your time, gentlemen,” says Ceepak.
    â€œSomebody’s dead?” asks Nichols, his brain still locked in that time lag mode.
    â€œYes,” says Ceepak. “The man whose CD player we suspect you stole.”
    â€œSuicide?” says Shrimp.
    â€œSo someone would have us believe.”
    The way Ceepak says it? It sounds like Mr. Shrimp might be the someone he’s talking about.
    â€œDo you think they did it?” I ask when we’re back on the road, heading down Ocean Avenue toward the center of Sea Haven.
    â€œI suspect everybody until the last minute,” says Ceepak. I guess he’s been reading mystery books again. He does that in his spare time when he’s not watching forensic shows on the Discovery Channel or helping Rita run the catering business or coaching his stepson’s baseball team.
    Or sneaking around town in his wife’s car after 1:00 AM.
    We’re heading over to Kipper Street and Beach Lane. The party house. Ceepak made a few calls and found out from his state trooper pals that Smith’s vehicle was towed over to the rental house around noon. Since Slominsky figures it was a suicide and that Smith killed himself in the men’s room, not the front seat of a Ford Focus, the car is no longer of any interest to anybody connected to the case.
    Nobody, of course, except us. We need to investigate that trunk
some more. See if Nicky Nichols and Mr. Shrimp left any evidence behind when they tore out the dead man’s CD changer. Maybe a curly hair from the little one’s beard. Maybe DNA-rich drool from Nichols’s droopy lips.
    â€œWe’ll need to look at video footage from the parking-lot security cameras,” Ceepak says as we turn off the boulevard and cruise down the residential side street. “Try to locate witnesses.”
    â€œWhen do you think Nichols and Shrimp broke into the car?”
    â€œWhen Smith went