Ceepak and I climb out of the car. We stand in front of the chief.
“Noon tomorrow,” Baines says in this real tight whisper. “If you don't catch this kook, we're calling the other thing off.”
“Yes, sir,” Ceepak says.
“Call it off?” Mayor Sinclair pushes his Ray-Bans up his nose. “We can't just ‘call it off,’ Buzz—”
Baines cuts the mayor off in midbabble. “Noon tomorrow, John. That's it. Catch this creep, or we tell everybody to go home. We shut this island down.”
Good for Chief Baines. He'd rather lose his big new job than see anybody else lose a life.
“Buzz?” Mayor Sinclair doesn't give up easy. “Come on. Don't be rash. What about MTV? Kids all across America are counting on us! This is their beach party, too! And what about Bruno Mazzilli? He just unloaded ten tons of raw pork ribs off a refrigerated truck down by the boardwalk. You ever smell what happens to pork after it sits in the sun? It's worse than fish, Buzz. Worse than fish!”
Baines turns his back on the mayor and walks away.
“Buzz? Hold up. Wait a second.” Sinclair chases the chief up the street.
The chief climbs into his SUV and slams its heavy black door in the mayor's face. Sinclair, being a politician, is used to people slamming doors in his face. He's like one of those Jehovah's Witness ladies with the free magazines. He doesn't take it personally, he just runs over to his own car, hops in, and races after the chief so he'll be poised and ready to knock on his door again wherever the chief stops.
“What's our situation?” Dr. McDaniels comes over for an update.
“We have a deadline,” Ceepak says.
“Interesting choice of words.”
“Noon tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
“You found something?”
“Maybe.”
“Shell casings?”
“No. Our shooter is still quite tidy. However, he needs to watch where he walks. There was an oil stain on the garage floor across the street.”
“He stepped in it?”
“You can say that again. Size twelve. Converse All-Stars. Looks like he went for a little walk.”
“Where to?”
“Around the front of the vehicle, over to the passenger side. Reached the rear tires, stopped, turned around, walked back to the driver-side door.”
“You think he had a flat rear tire?” Ceepak asks.
“One possibility.”
“We should alert the service stations.”
“Yep. You really should.” McDaniels smiles happily. This could qualify as a break. If the sniper had tire trouble, he might've gone to a gas station after shooting Mook. We might be able to track this guy down, maybe even before noon tomorrow.
Ceepak radios Gus Davis back at the house and tells the desk sergeant to coordinate the service station sweep. Phone calls from police headquarters start going out the second Ceepak signs off. He turns to McDaniels, eager for more.
“Any tire tracks?”
“Oh, yeah. Whoever owns that house? They must have one hell of a leaky Mercedes. Puddles everywhere. Oil. Transmission fluid. We picked up several tire tread patterns that look similar.”
Ceepak nods. “The homeowner's vehicle.”
“Right. And one set that doesn't match any of the others. Very fresh.”
“Minivan?”
“That'd be my first guess. Need to run it by the lab. But they look like all-season radials. Maybe Bridgestone BT70s, which are pretty common on minivans.”
“You know your treads,” I say.
McDaniels shrugs off the compliment. “American, Japanese, German, and Italian. I need to bone up on my Chinese. Anyhow, I'd bet serious money it's our minivan.”
I'm thinking about Rick again, the trained sharpshooter with the white van.
“I'll ride to the morgue with the body,” McDaniels says, seeing the EMTs zip Mook up inside a black vinyl bag. “See if the late Mr. Mook can tell us anything else. You boys heading back to the house?”
“Negative,” Ceepak says. “Danny and I will remain in the field. We need to talk to some people. Fast. We have less than twenty-four hours now to grab our shooter. The clock is ticking.”
“Okay.” She waves to her team across the street. McDaniels climbs into the back of the ambulance with Mook's body bag. When she thinks no one is looking, I see her make a sign of the cross and say a quick prayer.
The ambulance and CSI car pull away from the scene. It looks like a very small funeral.
Adam Kiger, one of the cops who went up the street to hunt for witnesses, jogs down toward us.
“Ceepak?” he says. “I think we found somebody.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
If Kiger and Malloy have found a witness to go with our foot and tire prints, things are definitely starting to look up. Which is good. We need to catch our killer or else summer ends early this year in Sea Haven and may never reopen again.
Mark Malloy, another of our guys, is about ten yards behind Kiger. He walks alongside this very tan thirtysomething guy in khaki shorts and a King Putt T-shirt. King Putt is one of the many miniature golf courses on the island. They have the best logo: a pharaoh who looks pretty authentic until you see the putter in his hands where the staff of Ra should be.
“This is Mr. Goldstein,” Malloy says to Ceepak. “He and his family are renting for two weeks at Fifteen Oak. Sir, could you please tell Officer Ceepak what you told my partner and I?”
“Now? I have to be on a conference call with a very important client in, like, five minutes.”
“I'd like to hear your story,” Ceepak says. He towers over the witness. Six-two to five-two. I think the very important client can wait.
“Okay, okay.” The guy sighs like we're ruining his day. Murder will do that. “Like I told these two officers already, my boys and I went down to the beach this morning, came back early for lunch. Around eleven thirty. Anyhow, I saw a car parked over there.” He points to the garage where the CSI team has just wrapped things up. “Figured it was the Realtor, stopping by to check up on the place. The house has been empty all summer I hear. Guess they're asking too much. Overpriced it.”
“What sort of vehicle was it?” Ceepak asks.
“Minivan,” Goldstein says. “White. They pulled in backwards.”
“Excuse me?”
“They backed into the garage. The door was up and I could see the front end pointing forward. I remember thinking that was weird. You ever try to back up into a garage? Tough to do. You gotta work the side mirrors so you don't scrape against the walls.”
“Right.”
“Or you can back in too far. Bump into the wall, crush your golf bag, knock over your weedwacker.”
“Right.”
“I did it once. Backed into my garage. Put this big scratch down the whole side of my truck. Dinged the bumper. Of course, my truck is a lot wider and longer than a minivan. That's it up there. See it? The silver Lexus? The LX 470?” He points and takes a self-satisfied moment to give us enough time to admire his shiny boy toy and calculate his net worth. “It lists for sixty-five but I added some options. We left the Porsche at home this year. He gives us another minute so we can try to guess how much the options and Porsche must've cost.
When he has decided we're sufficiently impressed, he starts up again. “I remember thinking, why would you go through all that trouble to park your van butt in, nose out? It's easier just to pull in and back out, you know?”
“Yes, sir. Was anyone in the minivan?”
“No. Not that I saw. Could have been, but I didn't see anybody. Of course, I wasn't really looking for anyone, since I was heading home for lunch.”
“Was this red sports car parked where it is now?”
“No. Not when the boys and I came up from the beach.”
“And that was approximately eleven thirty?”
“Eleven thirty-two. I have one of those Atomic watches—syncs with the clock out in Boulder?” He wait
s for us to be impressed again. “They sell it at Hammacher Schlemmer?” Another pause. I just hope the watch didn't cost sixty-five thousand like the SUV.
“I remember checking the time right after I looked at the minivan,” he continues. “I phoned my wife from the beach, told her the boys and I would be home at eleven thirty-five. We were right on schedule. Anyhow, at eleven thirty-two, all I saw was the minivan and, like I said, I figured it was the real estate agent or maybe a maid brigade dropping by to dust off the furniture.”
“Why'd you think it was the Realtor?”
“The license plate was local. You know, one of those ‘Shore To Please’ jobs with the lighthouse.”
New Jersey sells ‘Shore To Please’ license plates to people who tick a box and donate a few bucks toward saving our seacoast from pollution. Most people here in town buy them. But, then again, so do a lot of other people all over the state who like visiting clean beaches for a week or two every summer and not worrying about stepping on hypodermic needles the tide dragged in.
“And,” our witness continues, “the van had a resident beach sticker on the bumper. You know, the green jobs? Little square with ‘Sea Haven’ written in that boring typeface? Helvetica. That's the lettering they use in airports.”
“Yes, sir.” Ceepak is smiling. I think he can't believe how lucky we are to have found a witness who actually saw and then remembered so many minute details. Most people don't see diddly or squat. This guy remembers typefaces. And don't forget, he has that atomic watch so he knows precisely when he saw them.
“Tell me, sir,” Ceepak asks, “do you work in the graphic arts?”
“Yeah. I'm an art director. Advertising. You know that commercial with the people standing on top of the yellow mountain and they all have arthritis?”
“Sorry. I don't watch much TV.”
“I'm sure you've seen it. It's a national spot. The field of yellow flowers? People dancing? They're wearing yellow gaucho hats?”
“Sorry.”
“The pill looks like the sun with yellow sunbeams glowing out the sides? Everybody feels better at the end and they play Frisbee with the yellow Labrador retriever? The Frisbee's yellow, too.”
“Sorry.”
“It's on the news every night. Usually right after the one for hemorrhoid cream. I did not do that one.”
“I'm going to look for it.”
“It's good. Very visual. Very yellow. Very sunny.”
“The hemorrhoid cream?” I ask.
“No. Mine. It's for Zolflam. The dawn of a new arthritis pain relief day. We bought that classic song Lemon Tree. I wanted Yellow Submarine or Mellow Yellow, but the price tags were too steep. Anyhow, the whole spot works like a mnemonic device for the warmth and comfort of this little yellow pill.”
“I see,” Ceepak nods like he knows what a mnemonic device is, which maybe he does. To me, it sounds like a jackhammer or something you fix sewer pipes with. “We have your contact information, Mr. Goldstein? In case we need to talk again?”
“Yeah. I gave it to Officer Kiger.”
“That'll work. Thank you. If—”
Ceepak stops.
Behind Goldstein, he sees what I see: a white minivan cruising slowly down the street, heading right for us.
License plate: AB494C7.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Danny? Get in the car.”
“It's Mook's ARMY buddy!”
“In the car.”
Ceepak nods at Adam Kiger.
“Mr. Goldstein?” Kiger says to our witness. “If you'll come with me.” Kiger practically drags the guy in the King Putt T-shirt down to the end of the street.
“That's not the van …”
That's all I hear Mr. Mnemonic say as he is hauled out of harm's way. Kiger has his arm wrapped around the dude's waist and is carrying him on his hip like a grocery sack stacked with six-packs.
“Officer Boyle?” His partner, Malloy, has his hand on my shoulder. “You heard Ceepak. Into the car. Now.”
I move toward the Ford, walking backwards so I can see what Ceepak is going to do, moving fast so I don't get hauled away like Goldstein.
“Move it, Danny.” Malloy puts his body between the minivan and me—and I'm the one wearing the bulletproof vest. “Hustle, kid. Into the car.”
I do what he says. I don't want Malloy babysitting me when he could be out there helping Ceepak.
I see the guys on our team reach for their weapons. Ceepak. Malloy. I look in the rearview mirror. Kiger has his semiautomatic out, too. He has Goldstein stuffed behind a beach bench and is kneeling in the sand at the end of the street, taking aim at the minivan's tires.
Everybody on this job has a gun except, of course, me. I just have a big bull's-eye pasted somewhere on my forehead.
I check the van's front bumper: no green “Sea Haven” sticker. So, I figure, it's not the one Mr. Goldstein saw at eleven thirty-two A.M. Ceepak, however, isn't taking any chances. His gun is out and aimed at the driver's head.
“Stop!” he says.
The van stops. Funny how a gun works. Even better than a stop sign.
This big, burly guy tumbles out of the passenger side door with his hands up over his head. He has a 7-Eleven Big Gulp cup in one of his hands so soda sloshes over the top when he hoists it up over his head.
Rick steps down from the driver's side, arms raised.
“We're cool,” he says. “We're cool.”
Two other passengers fall out of the sliding side door, like they had trouble jimmying up on the handle and lost their balance. All four now have their hands up over their heads. I recognize their faces from this morning with Mook in the diner. Rick, the ARMY guy, has on a new T-shirt: black with a sparkling gold front. It shows the bust of Julius Caesar, only he's wearing sunglasses. It's from a casino down in Atlantic City: Caesar's.
“On the ground,” Ceepak barks. “All of you. Now.”
The college guys do as they're told even if it means spilling the rest of their Big Gulps.
“Kiss the asphalt!” Malloy barks.
Ceepak kind of looks at Malloy, like he wonders where he learned that line. My guess? One of those Vin Diesel movies or some cop show that comes on when Ceepak's busy watching Forensic Files.
Since all the potential bad guys are lying in the street, I figure it's safe for me to step out of our cop car. I make my way up to the minivan.
“Danny?” Ceepak hears me coming up behind him. “Do you recognize these gentlemen?”
Kind of a funny question to ask right now, since all of them are sprawled facedown on the hot blacktop. But I saw them earlier when they tumbled out of the van like drunken clowns at the circus.
“Yeah. They're Mook's friends.”
“That's right,” the lanky one says, lifting his head, pushing his sunglasses back into place.
“Kiss it!” Malloy snarls. Lanky's mouth goes back to the blacktop.
“Mark?” Ceepak says.
“Yes, sir?”
“I think we can let them up.”
“Should I cuff them?”
“No need,” says Ceepak, holstering his pistol. “Am I right, gentlemen?”
“No need … we're cool.” The four of them mumble their agreement into the tarmac.
“Stand up. All of you.” It's Malloy. He likes giving orders.
Mook's pals haul themselves up off the asphalt, which is hot, and brush themselves off. I move around to the back of the van.
The bumper stickers are all still there plus a new one: I SCORED ROYALLY AT CAESAR'S!
“Where's Mook?” I hear one of them ask.
“Are you gentlemen looking for him?” Ceepak asks.
“Duh,” the guy says, maybe forgetting what it felt like back on the asphalt.
“He called us,” Rick, the ARMY guy, says. “From his cell phone. Said to meet him here. Oak and Beach. Said he'd just heard about this awesome party in Philly tonight but first he was going to score us some …” The guy remembers we're cop
s, decides to change the subject. “We drove up from Atlantic City.”
“Is that so?” Malloy moves in closer. He still has his weapon aimed at their heads. He flicks from one to another and back again, like he wants to make sure, should it become necessary, that he can personally mow all of them down with as few bullets as possible, like he's working out his shooting angles.
“It is,” says Ceepak. “They went to Caesar's.”
“Just because he has on the T-shirt?” Malloy sounds itchy, like he wants to shoot somebody soon. “You can buy those at the Qwick Pick, at the gas station.”
“They parked in deck four.” Ceepak taps on the minivan's slanting front windshield. Behind it, on the dashboard, is a small orange stub. A receipt from the Caesar's parking garage. Ceepak saw it from fifteen paces.
“Is Mook here?” Rick asks.
“No,” Ceepak says sort of softly.
“He told us he had this great parking spot. Free. Right near the beach.”
“He did.” Ceepak points to the empty red sports car tucked under the big house being built at the corner. “Real good spot.”
“Is Mook okay?” another friend asks.
“Did something happen?”
They suddenly sound sad, maybe scared. They also seem as if Mook really was their buddy, like he really used to be mine.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Harley Mook was murdered this morning.”
“Jesus,” the tall guy says. “Murdered?”
“Sniper,” I say, looking at Rick.
“Fuck.” He kind of gasps it. “Fuck, man.” He sounds truly upset.
Now I'm certain: Rick has never shot anybody in his life. Never wanted to either. He just went into the army to pay for college and see the world. He's not our guy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Ceepak nods his head like he agrees with Rick's assessment of the situation: it is totally fucked.
“Officer Malloy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Please escort these gentlemen back to headquarters. We need detailed statements.” Then Ceepak turns to the guys standing in the street, their hands stuffed in the front pockets of their shorts, shaking their heads, trying to figure out what the hell happened here this morning.
Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 16