Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

  McDaniels agrees. “He could pop off his two shots, open the hatchback, toss in the weapon, and look like he got here early for hot ‘n’ fresh cinnamon buns.”

  “The night shoots were more complicated,” Ceepak says. “Might be a team of snipers. One man on the glow-in-the-dark paintballs, another on the M-24.”

  I speak up. “I saw about ten white vans in the parking lot this morning.”

  “And,” McDaniels says, with that leprechaun twinkle in her eye again, “Chief Baines tells me you two just ran down another one.”

  “Wrong vehicle,” Ceepak says.

  “So why'd the driver take you on such a merry little ride?”

  I field this one. “The girl in the van young enough to be the driver's daughter?”

  Dr. McDaniels frowns. “Let me guess-she wasn't?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Figures. Men. You just can't handle us more mature gals, can you?” McDaniels's eyes twinkle. “Come on.” She gestures to her two guys to scoop up the seven Derek Jeter baseball cards. “I need to see the rest of your card collection. I hear it's a doozy.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sea Haven has been steadily filling up.

  Every motel we pass on the way to police headquarters has the “NO” neon lit up next to the “VACANCY.”

  It's a little after 11:30 A.M. We know Mook is meeting his dealer at noon. We don't know where, but you can bet every cop car, fire truck, street sweeper, and meter maid is on the lookout for his little red convertible.

  Ceepak flipped on the radio when we climbed into the car. Not the police radio. The radio radio. Sometimes the music helps him think.

  They're playing an obscure Springsteen song that happens to be one of my favorites. I just didn't want to hear it today: Red Headed Woman. Mrs. Springsteen? She's a redhead like Katie.

  Tight skirt, strawberry hair

  Tell me what you've got baby, waiting under there

  Big green eyes that look like, son

  They can see every cheap thing that you ever done

  The part about the eyes? That's Katie.

  Well I don't care how many girls you've dated, man,

  But you ain't lived till you've had your tires rotated

  By a red headed woman

  I'm smiling. Not about getting my tires rotated. It's because The Boss adds:

  Well brunettes are fine, and blondes are fun,

  But when it comes to getting the dirty job done,

  I'll take a red headed woman.

  Me, too. They're feisty, those redheads. They don't give up easy. Katie will pull through. I know it. So does The Boss.

  “That's Bruce Springsteen,” the deejay chatters when the song ends. It's my buddy Cliff-The Skeeter. He plays the sound of this annoying mosquito whine whenever he says his name. Skeeter. “Hey-maybe The Boss will bop by the boardwalk on Monday-”

  Ceepak snaps off the FM box.

  “Let's hope Bruce will decide not to join us,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah. Then we'd have two million people on the beach instead of just one.”

  “Actually, given the presence of MTV, the chief estimates attendance might reach fifty thousand.”

  “Wow.”

  Ceepak shakes his head. I know what he's thinking: fifty thousand folks clumped together on the beach and boardwalk unless the chief shuts down the big show.

  Fifty thousand targets.

  We pull into the parking lot outside the police station. Dr. McDaniels and the two CSI guys are behind us in a government-issue Taurus.

  “The evidence is inside,” Ceepak says when everybody crawls out of the sedan.

  “Good,” McDaniels says, squinting in the white-hot sun. “If you stored it out here, it would melt.”

  We head into the house.

  In the lobby, above the gumball machine, we have this bulletin board. There are a couple of FBI wanted posters stapled to it, just in case any international terrorists decide to drop by Sea Haven for a little R amp;R. There's also this “Summer Safety Tips” poster with a fish riding a bicycle and wearing his helmet.

  My favorite item on the board? This thank-you note from the kids in Miss Simmons's second grade class. According to the letter, which is scrawled with red crayon on blue-lined paper, the best part of their recent tour was getting locked inside our jail cell.

  My favorite part of the letter?

  The school the kids go to: Holy Innocents-just like everybody who's ever set foot inside one of our jail cells. They all swear they're innocent.

  I grew up Catholic and did time at Holy Innocents Elementary myself. All in all, it was a great school. But I remember we had one of the world's oldest nuns come teach us religion on Wednesday afternoons. I think she was retired in a rest home on the island and the school let her drop by now and then to lend a hand. I also think she might have been senile. I know for certain she was crazy scary. First, she wore the old-fashioned black-on-white habit you don't see much any more. And she wore it in September when the thermometer was still hitting 80 and 90.

  One time, when we were studying our Catechism for First Holy Communion, she told us this story about our souls and how they were big jugs of milk and every time we sinned it was like dribbling black ink drops into white milk. When we went to Confession, said our Act Of Contrition, and were absolved of our sins by the priest in the booth, most of the black ink would be washed away.

  Most of it, but never all.

  Since we had sinned, our soul would never be as good as new, no matter how much Good Works Brand Bleach we poured in, no matter how many Hail Marys we said. Our milk jugs were forever stained like gym socks your mom can't make come clean.

  We walk past grumpy Gus Davis at the front counter and troop into the interrogation room, currently known as our command center.

  Dr. McDaniels moves to the wall and studies the two trading cards pinned there in plastic sleeves. The Phantom. The Avengers.

  She taps the comic book cover card with her pen.

  “These things are huge.”

  She's studying the superhero lady's chest. I guess everybody's eyes go there first.

  She moves down the wall to the Phantom card.

  “I remember that movie,” she says.

  “Excuse me?” Ceepak is interested. “A movie?”

  “Yeah. That's Billy Zane. He played the Phantom. The girl behind him? She's, you know, that actress. What's-her-name.”

  “Interesting,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah. It was pretty good. As a boy, the Phantom sees these pirates murder his father, and then he falls overboard and washes up on this beach near the jungle and swears an oath of vengeance to fight pirates and injustice … you know … the usual.”

  “Interesting,” Ceepak says again and moves closer to the wall so he can stare at the two cards. “Then the Phantom is tied to The Avengers by the common theme of Revenge.”

  “Maybe so. Very powerful motive, revenge.” McDaniels looks at me. “Were you ever a pirate, Mr. Boyle?”

  “No.”

  “Didn't think so. These things are never that easy. The two cards have another common link: the lead characters are wearing tights. Leotards. Doesn't necessarily mean our shooter is a ballerina.”

  “What about all the Derek Jeter cards?” I ask. “What's up with that?”

  “That's the key,” McDaniels says. “The Jeters will help us decipher these first two cards. It's why the guy left seven of them.”

  “Does he want to get caught?”

  “No. Usually, they just like to show off. Let us see how damn clever they can be.”

  One of the CSI guys lays the seven baseball cards out on the table. Different poses. Different card makers. All Derek Jeter.

  Ceepak sees something.

  “Dr. McDaniels-when did this movie debut?”

  “The Phantom? I forget. It was in the summer. You know, they always bring out the superheroes in the summer.”

  “Do you remember the year?”

&
nbsp; “No. Back in the nineties, I guess.”

  “I suspect it was nineteen ninety-six.”

  “You do?” She curls her lip and nods. She's impressed by whatever logic train Ceepak is riding on. “How come?”

  “These baseball cards? They're all different yet the same. They're all from Jeter's rookie year with the New York Yankees.”

  “Nineteen ninety-six?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “What about the other card? The Avengers?”

  “I have a hunch. Come on.”

  We follow Ceepak out the door and down the hall.

  We're off to see Denise Diego, Sea Haven PD's resident computer nerd.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Diego has a plastic Legolas Greenleaf action figure taped to the top of her terminal.

  That's the character Orlando Bloom played in Lord of the Rings. The hunky elf with the arrows. As I said: Diego rules when it comes to computer research. And, like all her cybergeek brethren, she's got a pretty heavy thing for LOTR.

  “You think this guy is sending you a message?” she asks as she taps some keys. Her fingers dance across the keyboard like she could type a hundred words a minute on an accordion if she wanted to. “Is this some kind of code?”

  “It's a possibility,” Ceepak says.

  “Awesome. Yesterday, I downloaded a Zip file of a program package that can crack most monoalphabetic substitution ciphers.” She's tapping keys the whole time she's talking except when she grabs a Nacho Cheese Dorito out of the vending machine bag she's having for a late breakfast along with her Mountain Dew.

  She's Googling “Marvel Masterpiece Trading Cards.” She recognized the Avengers card as coming from the Masterpiece series. I guess she knows people who collect these kinds of cards-guys she meets at Lord of the Rings fanfests.

  Google now sends us off to some comic book Web site.

  “Crystal,” Diego mumbles.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ceepak asks.

  “I think the red-haired chick on the card is called Crystal.” She clicks on a link. “She hangs out with all the other Avengers.”

  The screen switches and there she is. Red hair. White leotard. Extra-strength cleavage.

  “It comes from the nineteen ninety-six Marvel Masterpiece trading card set made by Fleer,” Diego reads us the information she and Google dug up. “They also have the Human Torch, Invisible Woman. I'm curious …” She clicks the Invisible Woman link. “Thought so. She's wearing blue tights. Why does she need to wear anything if she's supposed to be invisible?”

  Diego clicks her back button and we're with Crystal again.

  “Nineteen ninety-six,” Ceepak says.

  “Yes, sir. I can print this out if you want it.”

  “That'll work. Be good to know the mythology surrounding this Crystal character.”

  “I think she used to date the Human Torch. They were hot and heavy.”

  She doesn't know she's making a joke. I think she thinks this comic book stuff is actually true. That Crystal really did date the Torch.

  “Then she moved to the moon and married this mutant named Quicksilver. They had a baby. Luna.”

  I'm beginning to wonder whether Diego spends too much time alone in this darkened room, staring at her screen, talking to the little plastic elf.

  “What about this movie,” Ceepak says. “The Phantom?”

  Diego taps a few more keys and hits return a couple times. Once again, Google comes through.

  “Release date: June seventh, nineteen ninety-six.”

  “Nineteen ninety-six.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  Diego points to something on her screen.

  “Catherine Zeta-Jones was in it. Must've been before she was, you know, Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Nineteen ninety-six.”

  It's dark in here, but my eyes have slowly adjusted. I can see Ceepak staring at me. McDaniels is staring, too. I figure they both want to ask the same question.

  Ceepak goes first.

  “Danny-what happened in nineteen ninety-six?”

  “Think, Mr. Boyle.” McDaniels moves in closer. “Nineteen ninety-six.”

  “You mean like in history?”

  “No,” Ceepak says. “In your life.”

  “I dunno. Nineteen ninety-six. I was, what? Fifteen.”

  “What about in the summer?”

  McDaniels takes another step forward. “We've got Derek Jeter, one of baseball's ‘boys of summer.’ We have The Phantom, a summer movie.”

  It hits me.

  Duh.

  “Nineteen ninety-six is the summer we all met. The summer we started hanging out.”

  “Who?” McDaniels doesn't know about National Toasted Marshmallow Day.

  “Me, Jess, Katie, Becca, Olivia, and Mook.”

  “Our primary targets,” says Ceepak. “And our possible shooter.”

  “Okay,” McDaniels rubs her tiny hands together. “We're getting someplace.”

  “Officer Ceepak?” A young cop from the radio room is at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you guys still looking for a Harley Mook?”

  “Roger that,” Ceepak says.

  I glance at the clock. Twelve ten P.M.

  “Has he been spotted?” Ceepak's ready to roll.

  “No. He just called in.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He just called nine-one-one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sea Haven's cellular service is pretty technologically advanced.

  We have something called E911 for Enhanced 9-1-1. That means our cell towers can tell our 911 operators where you're calling from, thanks to some sort of GPS technology Ceepak probably understands but I never will.

  It's the only way we have to find Mook. He never told the operator his location. No address, no landmarks. According to the transcript, the call went something like this: OPERATOR: This is nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?CALLER: He fucking shot me.

  That's it.

  The call stayed connected but Mook didn't say anything more, which isn't like Mook at all. Usually, the guy never shuts up. Not when we were fifteen, not now. They know it was Mook on the line because the caller ID system at 9-1-1 told them that, too.

  E911 is sending us to Oak Street near Beach Lane. Probably a house. It's close to the public beach where Jess had his lifeguard chair in ’96, the beach where I used to hang out with my best bud and casually bump into the bathing beauties who were always there because Jess looked like one of those tanned weight lifters in red gym shorts from Baywatch. Jess was only one man, so there was no way he could flirt with all his fans. I took care of any spillover.

  We're almost there. Couple more blocks.

  The operator added a note to the transcript: While the line remained open, I heard a faint pop in the background. Possible gunshot.

  Makes me think somebody “fucking shot” Mook twice.

  We swing off Ocean Avenue and head down Oak Street. No sirens, no lights. Mook called us so he's not going to run away-especially if he's wounded. If the shooter is still in the vicinity, we don't want him to know we're coming.

  The state CSI crew is close behind us. Malloy and Kiger will come up Beach Lane to provide backup. An ambulance is on the way, too, because we figure Mook is going to need one. Now all we need to do is find exactly where on Oak Street near Beach Lane he is.

  I squinch my eyes and look for a little red sports car. It's not parked in the street, and, for the first time since this thing started, I don't see any white minivans, either. The people on Oak prefer SUVs. Range Rovers. Expeditions. GMCs. Even one of those civilian Hummers. This single block would suck a gas station dry if they all hit empty at the same time.

  “There,” Ceepak says.

  He does his three-finger point to a million-dollar reconstruction job. The rich people who own the houses closest to the beach are always tearing them down and starting over.
That's what we see at number 2 Oak Street. A huge, three-story beach house with Tyvek-wrapped walls ready for the vinyl siding neatly stacked in the gutted front yard. Some of the windows upstairs aren't in yet; the ones that are have Anderson stickers covering the panes. The house is sort of built on stilts-concrete piers that form a shaded carport underneath.

  That's where Mook parked his Miata.

  Ceepak coasts up to the curb. I check my bulletproof vest to make sure it's snug in case the shooter is still in the neighborhood, waiting for me to make my big entrance.

  “Hang back,” Ceepak says.

  This is an order.

  He won't let me out of the car until he determines whether or not it's a sniper trap. He's probably thinking what I'm thinking: this Wheezer character lured Mook here with the promise of primo weed, then took a potshot at him. He might want to do the same to me. Mook could be the bait the sniper's using to pull me into his trap.

  McDaniels and her crew park behind us. Ceepak hops out, stays low, and hugs the side of our car for cover. He flips up the palm of his hand at the CSI guys. Nobody is allowed out except him. I check the rearview mirror. McDaniels nods her head. She's okay to wait until Ceepak says it's safe to come out and do her job.

  Ceepak pulls his pistol out of its holster, lets the gun hang loose at his side, does this crouching dash to the carport. He moves in a zigzag pattern, ducks behind piles of cinder blocks, then a cement-mixing drum. No straight lines, nothing to give anybody an easy shot. If you want to take down John Ceepak this afternoon, he's going to make you work for it.

  He reaches the Miata. Squats. Duck walks around to the driver side. Looks inside.

  He reholsters his weapon. Shakes his head. He's not in a hurry anymore.

  Poor Mook. He must be dead.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  It's one P.M.

  Malloy and Kiger and about six other cops have swept the surrounding area, searching for possible perps. They must all think the shooter fled the scene, because Ceepak finally gestures that it's okay for me to crawl out of our car. I feel like a little kid, like the adults had to make sure it was safe before I was allowed to go outside and play. I'm also extremely glad they did so.