Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Ceepak says. “I'm certain it will assist in our apprehension of Mr. Mook's killer.”

  Then he turns to me.

  “Wheezer, Danny. We need to find Wheezer.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  So now we know we definitely don't know who did this.

  We also know we're looking for a minivan, maybe one with a bum tire.

  And we're looking for a local.

  We have less than twenty-four hours. Unless, of course, our local sniper shoots somebody else before noon tomorrow. It was the chief who made the Sunday deadline. I don't think he consulted with the bad guy.

  Ceepak and I head back to the boardwalk. He wants to talk to T. J. again. While we're doing that, about a half dozen cop cars will cruise into service stations up and down the island and ask about flat tires and minivans.

  “When we finish with T. J.,” Ceepak says, “we need to talk to your friends about nineteen ninety-six. All of them.”

  Except Mook. And Katie. He's dead. She's still unconscious.

  “We'll meet them at the hospital,” Ceepak says. “Mainland Medical. Sixteen hundred hours.” It's a little after two P.M. He wants to meet my Marshmallow Crew at four. Jess and Olivia are still with friends on the mainland. I called and told them about Mook, asked them to think about “Wheezer.” The Avondale police will escort them over to the hospital for the meet. Jess said he wanted to drive himself. I told him no, he didn't.

  Next I call Becca, tell and ask her the same things. She freaks out for a second but pulls it back together pretty quick; she even volunteers to dig out her Nineteen ninety-six yearbook.

  “We'll send a cop car over to drive you to Mainland Medical,” I say.

  “I want Ceepak to drive me,” Becca says.

  “He can't. We're busy.”

  “Then send Riggs.”

  “Jim Riggs?”

  In the driver's seat, Ceepak smiles.

  “Excellent choice,” he says.

  Jim Riggs is this twenty-nine-year-old cop who spends more time on the locker-room weight machines than anybody else. If we did one of those “Hot Cops of Sea Haven” calendars, I guess Riggs would be the coverboy.

  We park near the boardwalk. The only reason we find a space is because, basically, we're in a cop car and can park anywhere we want. The place is packed. Twice as many half-naked bodies cruising up and down the sun-drenched planks as usual. The weekend weather is cooperating: 90 degrees with low humidity and a light breeze coming in off the ocean. The wind carries the scent of saltwater and taffy and Italian sausages and french fries. So far, not a whiff of gunpowder or hot steel. Like Ceepak says: it's all good. Good and greasy.

  “Take it easy,” Ceepak says with a smile.

  T. J. is wolfing down this entire tub of fries. We're at a concrete picnic table in the middle of a bunch of boardwalk food stalls. Ceepak bought three orders of fresh-cut fries from this booth where they take a whole potato and slice it into thick slats with one quick pass of a razor-sharp gizmo that sort of looks like a Popeil Veg-O-Matic.

  T. J. licks salt off his fingers, tries to pace himself.

  “Sorry,” he says. “I only get a fifteen-minute break.”

  We picked T. J. up at Lord of the Rings Toss, where people were throwing their money away left and right. Apparently, anybody who saw Ceepak demonstrate his “crouch-like-a-kid” technique earlier in the week has left town. All that's left now are the losers, guys spending big wads of cash in a mad scramble to win stuffed Sponge-Bobs for their heartthrobs.

  T. J. whacks the bottom of his fries cup with the heel of his hand, tries to dislodge the last potato wedge stuck down there, probably glued into place by coagulating ketchup.

  “Guess I was hungry,” he says.

  “Busy day?” Ceepak nibbles on a fry. I think he's only eaten, like, two while T. J. and I sucked our paper cups dry.

  “Unbelievable,” T. J. says. “Never seen the boardwalk so crowded.”

  T. J. and Ceepak seem to get along even though they make a pretty odd pair. Ceepak with his close-cropped military-style hair, big broad shoulders, neatly pressed uniform, and Boy Scout politeness. T. J. with his spiky blond dreads, wrist-to-elbow arm tattoo, droopy clothes, and slack-jawed whateverness.

  “We won't keep you long,” Ceepak says.

  “Whatever. I've still got ten minutes.”

  “We're interested in anything unusual you might have seen or heard at Paintball Blasters.”

  “I heard you kicked ass.”

  Ceepak smiles, saying only, “I had a pretty good day.”

  “Totally. I haven't been shooting much lately. Not for a couple weeks.”

  “How come?”

  “Well, like I said, I only get two fifteen-minute breaks. I usually grab something to eat on the first break and head over to Blasters on the second. Try to squeeze in ten minutes or so on the targets. It's my only chance to shoot, blow off a little steam.”

  “You don't have your own paintball gun?”

  “No. Can't afford it. Not with rent and all.”

  “You pay your mother's rent?” I say.

  “She doesn't charge me or anything. I just, you know, chip in.”

  “Admirable,” Ceepak says.

  T. J. shrugs.

  “My dad dumped her before I was born. We try to help each other out. Besides, it's pretty easy to find work around here. Especially in the summer. I do a night gig at Burger King.”

  Ceepak nods his head. I think he likes this kid.

  “So—you got the hots for my mom?”

  Before Ceepak can say anything, T. J. plunges ahead. “My mom. Rita? Are you, you know, interested or just stringing her along?”

  “Well, I'm … we only just met … the other night.

  “You ought to ask her out, man. She's cool, not so totally uptight like you might think when you first meet her. You should take her on a date or whatever. She's cool.”

  Ceepak's ears? Redder than red. I think they call it crimson.

  I step in to give him a breather.

  “So,” I ask, “have you noticed any unusual characters at the paintball place? Anybody stick out?”

  “No. Just your usual weirdos. Sandman. He's this skinny dude who always wears desert camo and one of those boony hats like they had in Vietnam. Then there's these two goth chicks. They dress all in black, even in the middle of summer. Black lipstick, too. Gemmy and Jackelyn. Gemmy's the one with the dog collar. They both like to shoot at the Britney Spears target. Take turns. Oh, then there's this dork I call Asswipe. He's the main reason I haven't shot much lately.”

  “Who is he?” Ceepak asks.

  “Asswipe? Older guy. Twentysomething. About his age.” T. J. points at me. “All last week, he hogged number three.”

  “What's number three?”

  “My favorite gun. I know how to sight it, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure.”

  “Anyway, Asswipe likes number three, too. I tell him it's my favorite and like I only have a couple minutes, and he tells me to go fuck myself. He won't budge. Keeps hogging the rifle even when there's four or five other guns nobody's using. Even when the dude behind the counter, Larry, tells Asswipe to cut me some slack, Asswipe just smiles and says shit like, ‘I paid, didn't I? I can use any gun I choose, can't I?’ Total asswipe.”

  “Is there anything special about weapon number three?” Ceepak has his pad out.

  “I dunno. It's just the best gun. I think the barrel is a little straighter or something. Maybe the rifle's a little newer. I know it's the one Larry uses whenever he challenges anybody to a shootout.”

  Ceepak smiles.

  “Roger that. I was on number four.”

  “And he was next to you on three, am I right?”

  “Right.”

  “Larry is so lame. And you still beat him?”

  “Tell me more about this guy.”

  “Asswipe?”

  Ceepak nods. Too bad. I wante
d to hear him say “Yes, Mr. Asswipe,” like that was the guy's name.

  “Let's see, he's kind of tall. Has this wavy, weird hair and a bushy little beard. Wore a pair of nerd glasses.”

  “Nerd glasses?”

  “Yeah. Old ones. Like he's had the same pair since high school or whatever. I got real tired of him pretty fast.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know—him acting like he was smarter than anybody on the beach, and being all happy ruining my day, taking my favorite gun away from me and everything.”

  “Any distinguishing marks? A tattoo perhaps?”

  “This guy? No way. He looked way too straight. Wore these color-coordinated pants and windbreaker, like his mom picked them out at Sears or wherever. I remember one day he had on this totally brown outfit. Brown pants. Brown zippered jacket. Who wears brown on the boardwalk, man?”

  “Only asswipes,” I say, thinking I'm being cute.

  Ceepak shoots me a look. So does T. J. I guess they both think I should stick to my grown-up words.

  “Have you seen this fellow lately, T. J.?”

  “No, sir. Not since, like, last Wednesday.”

  “Was he a local?”

  “No. At least I don't think so. His skin was pasty white. Like he lived under a rock someplace cold.”

  “Okay. Thanks.” Ceepak checks his watch. “We know you have to get back to work.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You want the rest of my fries?”

  “Nah. Thanks. I'm cool.”

  “Can I ask one last question, T. J.?”

  “Shoot.”

  “If you don't own a paintball gun, how did you attack The Pig's Commitment?”

  It's a classic Ceepak move: slip in the big question when the witness thinks you're all done.

  T. J. looks embarrassed. He also looks like he's tired of telling lies, like he figures he'll do better with Ceepak if he tells the truth. He's right.

  “Slingshot.”

  “I see.”

  “I borrowed paint balls from Larry.”

  “Borrowed?”

  “I didn't steal them. Larry gave them to me. It was his idea, kind of. Thought the blue balls on the sign would be funny. Larry basically hates black people. Hates Grace. Said somebody needed to knock her down a few notches, put her in her place.”

  “What about you?”

  “I just wanted to, you know, do it for a goof. Show him I could.”

  “You don't dislike Ms. Porter?”

  “Nah. She's pretty cool. We talked the other day.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I went by her place to tell her I was sorry. Told my mom, too.”

  “Good for you. What did Ms. Porter say?”

  “Said she was too damn busy to deal with me on account of the holiday weekend and I should come back Tuesday if I wanted to apologize so damn much.”

  Yep. That sounds like Grace Porter.

  “Then she made me breakfast.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Eggs, bacon, and biscuits with gravy.”

  “Did you try the scrapple?” Ceepak asks.

  “No way, dude. That stuff will kill you.”

  T. J. crumples up his fry cup.

  Ceepak smiles.

  “Thanks for your help, T. J. If you run into this fellow again, please give me a call.” Ceepak hands T. J. one of his cards.

  “No problem.” T. J. stands up from the table, his eyes drift to the side. He remembers something. “This guy Asswipe?”

  “Yes?”

  “This one time, he gave me a card. Like a bubblegum card, you know?”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Nah. I tossed it in the trash. But he gave it to me once when he wouldn't let me have gun number three. ‘Here you go, kid,’ he said. ‘Go home and whack off to this instead.’ ”

  “What was on the card?”

  “This blond superhero chick in blue tights.”

  “The Invisible Woman?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Maybe. It was like a comic-book cover only it was on a trading card. That was the same day he wore the gloves.”

  “While he was shooting?”

  “Yeah. Surfer gloves. You know—black neoprene. Totally weird. Nobody wears surfer gloves around here except maybe in the winter.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  You ever race through traffic with a siren screaming and roof lights spinning?

  Cars pull off to the side of the road to get out of your way. You fly across the causeway bridge. It's pretty cool. Until you remember why you're doing it: you're a cop on your way to Mainland Medical where one of your best friends lies unconscious after doctors dug a bullet out of her chest, a bullet that might've been meant for you.

  You remember that, and it's not so cool.

  My three other Marshmallow Crew friends are meeting us at the hospital. Ceepak thinks if we brainstorm about the summer of Nineteen ninety-six maybe one of us will remember who the hell Wheezer is and why the hell he might want to kill us.

  Meanwhile, back on the island, surf shops have been added to the list of places to go ask questions. T. J. is right. Nobody wears rubber surf gloves in the middle of August except maybe some rifleman who thinks the neoprene will hide his fingerprints. And to make sure he can still squeeze a trigger? He goes and checks himself out at the paintball arcade.

  Dr. McDaniels has called some folks over at the state Major Crimes Unit and requested a sketch artist to sit with T. J. A town the size of Sea Haven doesn't have a police sketch artist, so we need to borrow one from the state, unless, of course, we go grab one of those guys who draw caricatures down on the boardwalk. But if we do that, our suspect will have a big bubblehead, gigantic buck teeth, and wear some kind of dopey clown hat.

  Our guys have already tracked down a couple of minivans with flat tires, but none with that green beach-pass bumper sticker. The search continues.

  We'll find Wheezer.

  Especially if any of us can remember who the hell he might be.

  Mainland Medical operates what they call the Regional Trauma Center. If you get hurt real bad while you're on vacation, this is where they'll send you.

  It's about 3:45. Fifteen minutes before we're supposed to meet with Becca, Olivia, and Jess.

  “Can I go see Katie?” I ask the second we park outside the emergency room entrance in a no-parking zone.

  Ceepak checks his wristwatch.

  “That'll work.”

  I hop out and notice we're parked under this covered entryway, a concrete canopy. I guess Ceepak doesn't want to make me an easy target while I dash for the door. Once I'm safely inside, I'm sure he'll go find someplace to park that's legal.

  Katie has been moved to the Intensive Care Unit. They let me stand at a window and look in at her. Her red hair is tucked up underneath a pale green shower cap. A forest of metal poles with dangling drip bags surrounds her bed. A spaghetti tangle of tubes snakes down to her thin arm. I know Katie's heart is still beating because I can see her pulse playing on a TV set clamped to one of the poles. I watch the line move up and down and know she's still here even if she's gone.

  I wonder if Katie remembers Wheezer.

  I wonder if she'll ever wake up.

  Ceepak has commandeered the visitors’ room at the far end of the first floor for our brainstorming session. It's clean and tidy, filled with chalk-colored furniture. Pink. Teal. Blue. Even the carpet is a soft, soothing gray. The sofa is done up in splotchy pinks and purples that sort of match the mass-produced abstract art hanging on all the walls. The kind they sell at those Giant Art Expos at the Holiday Inn.

  It's the kind of art that's supposed to calm you down after you've seen a loved one lying unconscious with tubes stuck in her arms and up her nose.

  It's not working.

  Becca takes a seat in a chair underneath some speckled water lilies. She's wearing sunglasses, even though the room has no windows. She still has that shiner from where the paint ball wal
loped her in the eye. “Where's Ceepak?”

  “He went to the cafeteria to score some coffees.”

  Becca's chauffeur, Officer Big Jim Riggs, is guarding the door with two other cops—the guys from the Avondale PD who brought Jess and Olivia to the hospital.

  “I could definitely use a coffee,” says Jess. He helps Olivia creak her way down onto the sofa.

  “Thanks.” She moves stiffly.

  “Guess I'm the only one who hasn't been shot at yet,” Jess says.

  “Maybe because you're the one who's shooting at us!” Becca says in a blazing leap of logic.

  “What?”

  “You're a painter. We were hit with paintballs? Hello? I don't have to be a rocket scientist to put two and two together and get, you know, four or whatever.”

  “Becca?” I say.

  “What?”

  “Jess was with us. On the beach. Remember? He got splattered by a paintball, too?”

  “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

  Ceepak walks in balancing a cardboard tray jammed with six lidded cups of coffee. No doughnuts.

  “Let me help.” Becca is up and arranges cups on the coffee table in front of us. She does the morning breakfast buffet at her folks’ motel. The girl knows how to set up a coffee service.

  Everybody grabs a cup, and we all sip in silence for a second. We quickly discover it's cafeteria coffee. Thin and weak. It tastes more like warm Styrofoam soup than anything else.

  Jess dumps his full cup into a plastic-lined trashcan.

  “So, who's Wheezer?” he asks Ceepak.

  “That,” says Ceepak, “is the million-dollar question. Does the name ring a bell with any of you?”

  We all look at each other. “No” seems to be the unanimous answer, judging by the headshakes.

  “Sorry,” says Olivia. She grimaces, holds her ribcage.

  “I even checked all my old junior high and high school yearbooks,” adds Becca. “No Wheezer. I found a Grabber. He signed my book with these hearts and stuff. I forget who he was.”

  “Was Wheezer a friend of Mook's?” asks Olivia.

  “More likely an acquaintance.” Ceepak gives everybody the description T. J. gave us. Tall. Nerdy glasses. Wavy hair. Bushy goatee.