Mad Mouse js-2

by Chris Grabenstein

“Where?” Ceepak barks.

  Weese smiles.

  “Waiting for a phone call.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Shall we cut to the chase, gentlemen?”

  Weese leans forward, brings his hands together.

  “My father and his Chamber Of Commerce cronies must immediately transfer ten million dollars to an offshore bank account, the number of which I will provide to you. Their deadline is two P.M. When certain friends of ours, certain-oh, how shall I put this? Certain Russian mobsters? When these gentlemen advise me that the transfer is complete, I will instruct them to contact Natalia on her secure satellite phone with orders not to shoot a single sunbather.

  “Once the money matter is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport, where I will board Aeroflot flight fifteen to Moscow. Tomorrow, when I have arrived safely and have no Russian police or KGB or CIA following me-and we'll know if they are because, as I said, we have several financially interested, high-powered friends-when I reach my undisclosed location in the motherland, Natalia will lay down her weapon and depart from these shores.”

  Weese has a faraway look in his eyes. Like he's been waiting ten years for this one moment. It hits me: he's the Mad Mouse. A timid, mousey guy we made so mad one day that now he's ready to wipe out an entire boardwalk full of innocent kids like maybe he used to be.

  “By the way, you will never catch Natalia before she slips out of the country. She will not book passage on Aeroflot, so don't waste your time with amateur airport theatrics. Just know that she and I will one day reunite on a Baltic beach to split our share of the ten million dollars. Perhaps we'll even nibble caviar and sip vodka. Everything will be hor-a-show. That's Russian for hunky-dory.”

  Weese sighs.

  “You gentlemen should know that Natalia's sniper post is well stocked with provisions. Food. Water. She can remain hidden for quite some time now that I have kept you engaged long enough for her to properly secure her position.”

  “What about your children?” asks Ceepak.

  Weese shrugs. “My father wanted grandchildren so damn much, he can keep them. They're loathsome little creatures, actually. Filthy.”

  The lawyer nervously twists his ear lobe. “I'm not certain the town fathers can raise ten million dollars in under two hours.”

  “Of course they can,” scoffs Weese. “I'm not asking for actual cash. It's all electronic banking, counselor. We can do it online. Don't forget, my father is a mortgage broker with access to all sorts of lenders willing to provide money at very reasonable rates, or so he constantly claims in his annoying advertisements. The other merchants will surely chip in because-let's face it. If Natalia starts shooting, this town will never recover. Never. Two incidents in one summer? ‘Welcome to Sea Haven. Have a Sunny, Funderful Day-Unless You Get Shot First.’ Not a very catchy slogan. I fear it would make a dreadful bumper sticker.”

  “Your wife is setting you up,” Ceepak says. “She's working for the Russians. The mobsters.”

  Weese ignores him.

  “Mr. Ceepak, you have heard our demands. Ten million dollars. If the transfer is not completed by two P.M., Natalia will start taking out targets. Scores of them. Hundreds! Why, she might even break Lyudmila Pavlichenko's world record. Trust me. My little wife packed a great deal of ammunition.”

  The lawyer looks like he's lost all his tan, like it all drained down to his underpants. His face is pale and white.

  “Ten million dollars?”

  Weese shrugs again.

  “It's what the D.C. snipers asked for. Who knows-perhaps we should ask for more. The town fathers can certainly afford it. Besides, Natalia and I? We're much more lethal than those two Negroes down in D.C. Much smarter, too.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Natalia Shevlyakova Weese rented another white minivan from the Avis in Avondale.

  Makes sense. It's the vehicle they practiced with. Guess they'll dance with the one who brought them to the party. George Weese was right about one thing: he and his wife are pretty smart. They keep us looking for needles in haystacks-a boring white minivan in a town full of boring white minivans.

  Natalia rented the white Plymouth Voyager with burgundy interior from Avis last Tuesday. Almost a week ago. So she's had ample time to find herself a prime parking space and stow her rental vehicle down by the boardwalk. She beat the crowds. Smart again.

  “Will she shoot from the van?” I ask Ceepak as we drive down the block from headquarters to the municipal garage.

  “Don't know. She's probably handpicked her ideal sniper post. Could be anywhere. A motel balcony. A water tank. Some other elevated spot on the boardwalk, maybe even another roller coaster. There's no way of knowing.” Ceepak shakes his head. I can tell he's mad at himself. “We should have kept her under surveillance. I let her drop off my radar.”

  “Weese did his job,” I say. “He wasted our time, didn't say a word until he knew it was too late for us to do anything, too late to shut down the beach party. He did his job.”

  “Roger that. Now it's time for us to do ours.”

  We park beside a garbage truck and hustle inside the municipal garage to see if the first minivan has anything more to tell us.

  “The wife, huh?” Dr. McDaniels rolls out from under the van on a mechanic's trolley. “That would explain that.” She nods toward one of her guys who's holding a plastic Baggie with a single strand of curly black hair. “Found it in the rear cargo bay. There's more on the passenger side headrest, but that only proves that Mrs. Weese was in the car with her husband.”

  “Find anything else?”

  “Just some Cheerios and Cheez-Its ground into the carpet. Under the seat cushions, too. Kids.”

  Ceepak nods.

  I notice two child safety seats. Guess George's son and daughter won't be throwing food at each other in this van again anytime soon.

  “We need to focus,” Ceepak says, checking his watch. “We have less than two hours.”

  I wonder if he sensed my mind wandering off to the land of crumbled Cheerios and Cheez-Its.

  “It's the same old story, same old act. One step up and two steps back.”

  Ceepak's quoting Springsteen again. Forcing himself to concentrate.

  Dr. McDaniels hauls herself up, dusts off her shorts.

  “Okay,” she says, like a professor rallying a drifting class discussion, “we know Who. We know Why. Now all we need to determine is How and, most important, Where Next.”

  “The van,” Ceepak says, staring at the bland white automobile, trying to will the sheet metal to surrender its secrets.

  “Just your typical kidmobile,” McDaniels says. “Did I mention the half-empty juice boxes I found in the back seat? The chewed crayons? Doesn't matter. They don't give us diddly.”

  “Mrs. Weese purchased the vehicle for her son. Mr. Weese provided the resident beach pass bumper sticker to encourage frequent visits from his grandchildren …”

  He trails off.

  “How firm are your trajectory numbers?” Ceepak suddenly asks Dr. McDaniels.

  “Firmer than your butt. We reworked them. Ten times. Our best projection comes from the parking lot outside Saltwater Tammy's because we had those two definitive points to work with. The entry hole in the plate glass window, the second hole in the bin of Red-Hots hearts.”

  “We have our straight line,” Ceepak says.

  “And our angle of impact.”

  “Right.”

  “The line took us straight out to that empty parking space. The angle took us up to an elevation of six feet, eight inches at the front end of the rectangular parking space and climbed up to six-nine-point-five at the rear.”

  “Suggesting the minivan had been parked there prior to the shooting.”

  “Only empty space in the whole damn lot,” Dr. McDaniels says. “And it wasn't there earlier when Officer Boyle went hunting for a spot.”

  “We can surmise the shots were fired from this vehicle. The pe
rpetrator then drove away while Danny and I tended to Ms. Landry's wounds.”

  “I'm certain of it,” McDaniels says. “The shot came from this goddamn minivan. There's a little bit of an oil leak underneath. We could go back to Schooner's Landing, take samples of any fluids pooled in that parking space.”

  “No time. Won't help.”

  “Yeah. I know. Got my shorts dirty for nothing.”

  “What about the roof?” Ceepak suggests.

  “The van is six-six.”

  “The bipod would add another two inches.”

  “Six-eight.”

  “She could have stood on the rear bumper,” Ceepak says. “Rested her rifle on the rooftop.”

  McDaniels nods. “Steadied her shot.”

  We all walk around to the back of the van.

  “Maybe,” McDaniels says, shaking her head, disappointed at what she sees. “Maybe not. Be damn difficult.”

  There's a bulky bike rack rigged to the rear of the minivan. Maybe the older kid brought his tricycle with him down the shore. Maybe George and Natalia have his-and-hers trail bikes. The rack's arms poke out at least two or three feet and spread sideways. They'd get in your way if you wanted to stand on the rear bumper and squeeze off a few rounds from a rifle resting on the roof.

  I think about those two screaming kids back at the Weese house. They're going to have a lot more to scream about if they wind up being raised by their grandparents when mom and dad are locked up in the state pen, that's for sure. Not only that, they'll grow up knowing their parents were cold-blooded killers.

  “Poor kids,” I mumble aloud. “That's a lot of crap to carry around.”

  “Danny, what did you just say?” Ceepak demands.

  Busted. I feel like I'm back in grade school: if you have something to say, Mr. Boyle, why don't you share it with the whole class?

  “Nothing. I was just thinking. My mind kind of drifted.”

  “Danny, just repeat what you said.”

  “I'm sorry. I know I should be focusing on the task at hand.”

  “Danny-what did you say?” Ceepak isn't fooling.

  “‘Poor kids. It's a lot of crap to carry around.’ That's all. I figure their two kids will have-”

  “Crap. Kid's crap,” McDaniels echoes, sounding like she's in some kind of trance. “Carrying it around.”

  “Suitcases.” Ceepak sounds like he's in the trance with her. “Collapsible crib, playpen, stroller …”

  “Bingo!” Dr. McDaniels hollers. “Guys?” she calls out to her CSI crew. “We need a ladder. Pronto! I need to be taller!”

  The two CSI guys root around in the garage, push aside rakes and shovels. Something heavy and metal crashes to the floor.

  “Whoops. Sorry.”

  More rummaging. Steel scrapes against concrete.

  “Here we go.”

  One of the guys digs out a three-step aluminum ladder from behind this clump of signs and poles.

  “That'll work,” Ceepak says.

  The guys set it up alongside the minivan.

  “Doctor?” Ceepak offers McDaniels the first look.

  “You do it,” she says. “I'm afraid of heights.”

  Ceepak climbs up the three short steps, puts his hands on his hips, looks up and down the roofline.

  “You were right, Danny.”

  “How tall is Mrs. Weese?” Dr. McDaniels asks up to Ceepak. “The Russian one, I mean.”

  “Five-two, five-one. Short. Maybe four-eleven.”

  “Good thinking, Boyle.”

  I have no idea what I've said or thought that deserves so much praise.

  “It explains the foot steps,” she continues. “Why Weese got out at Oak Street, walked along the side of the vehicle. Probably checking up on her.”

  “Definitely,” says Ceepak. I still have no idea what the two of them are so excited about. “Weese seemed to have a vast knowledge of the D.C. sniper case.”

  “So he knew how the shooter, usually the kid Malvo, hid in the trunk,” McDaniels adds. “Had that special rifle hole bored through the rear of their Chevy Caprice.”

  “Affirmative. Weese also intimated that he and Natalia were smarter and potentially more lethal than the D.C. team.”

  “He could be right,” McDaniels says. “This is pretty damn clever.”

  “What?” I have to say it.

  Ceepak climbs down off the stepladder.

  “Take a look.”

  I climb up. Look at the roof. It's got a rack on it. Black bars running up the sides, two adjustable struts spanning the width. You could put lumber or a Christmas tree up here and tie it down with bungee cords.

  “Look closely, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Examine the details.”

  Okay. Fine. I look closer. I see dust splotches. Rain stains. The roof looks like my windshield does after a thunderstorm, speckled with dirt splats, the residue left behind when the raindrops dry. The top is freckled like a leopard skin of spattered sand-dust.

  Except on one side. The passenger side.

  Over there, there's a clean patch, a rectangle that covers most of the roof. The front edge is somewhat rounded at the corners.

  I lean back. Take in the big picture.

  Kids’ crap.

  Somebody used to have a cargo carrier lashed down up here to haul all the suitcases and cribs and stuff they couldn't jam into the wayback or hang off the bike rack over the bumper.

  “A cargo carrier?” I say.

  “Roger that.” Ceepak is beaming. “Nice call, Danny.”

  “Any idea what make, Officer Boyle?” McDaniels asks.

  “No. I've never, you know, really studied-”

  “I suspect a Thule or Yakima,” Ceepak says. “Judging by the rounded nose up front. Perhaps the Thule Cascade model, which is one of the largest on the market: seventeen, eighteen cubic feet. Opens on the side.”

  “Could our Russian friend fit inside?” McDaniels asks.

  “Easily. The Thule box I'm thinking about is almost six feet long, maybe three feet wide, a foot and a half tall. She'd be cozy inside but quite capable of operating her weapon system in an efficient manner-with plenty of room left over for ammunition and provisions. Water. Food.”

  “Which might be why Weese walked up the side of the car on Oak Street,” McDaniels says. “He wanted to make sure his honey wasn't baking inside the plastic casket while they waited for Mr. Mook. Maybe George brought Natalia a cold Coke. The sweet bastard.”

  “The sniper was up here?” I say. “Hidden in a cargo holder?”

  “Quite clever,” Ceepak says.

  McDaniels agrees. “Yep. Young Mr. Weese and his wife built themselves a handy-dandy gun turret on top of the family van.” No admiration in her voice this time, just disgust. “Completely innocuous. Seemingly harmless. Just another minivan with a box strapped on the roof. Only, this minivan turns out to be a minitank.”

  “More like an armored personnel carrier,” Ceepak says.

  McDaniels shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”

  I climb down.

  “It also explains why we never found any shell casings,” says Ceepak. “They ejected from the rifle, hit the sides, stayed inside the box.”

  McDaniels nods.

  I wonder if this is why Natalia, the sniper with the real bullets, missed us on the beach and outside Morgan's. Maybe firing from inside a cargo carrier takes some getting used to. Maybe she was still getting the hang of it on Wednesday and Friday and only got her groove going Saturday morning at Saltwater Tammy's. By Saturday afternoon, she could place one in the center of Mook's forehead.

  “I'm certain they've now attached their customized cargo carrier to the top of the rental van. Well done, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Excellent work.” He says that, but he looks worried. So does Dr. McDaniels.

  They're both go completely quiet so I speak up again.

  “What if Natalia has something up there other than an M-24 sniper rifle? What if she has a machine gun or a grenade launcher or something?” />
  Ceepak nods grimly.

  “Exactly.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  W're working on the money,” Chief Baines says over the radio.

  Ceepak and I are driving toward the boardwalk. We don't know exactly where to go, but we know we need to be there now. It's one fifteen. Before we left for the World's Biggest Beach Party, we swung by the house. Ceepak wanted a few things: a recording of our interrogation with Weese, which a tech burned onto a CD so we could listen to it in our car; a pair of small, high-power binoculars; and the paintball gun he ripped off the counter at Paintball Blasters. I have no idea why he grabbed it, but it did come in handy when he nailed Weese up on the Mad Mouse.

  “You think the damn kid is bluffing?” Baines says, his voice edgy. Every time he opens the microphone at his end I can hear a rowdy mob and snatches of music.

  “No, sir. I think Weese is dead serious.”

  “His father thinks the boy's bullshitting us. Says Natalia is long gone and George is too much of a wuss to do anything himself.”

  “I don't think Mr. Weese knows his son very well or what sort of man he has become.”

  “Okay. Fine. What do we do?”

  “Search the parking lots for any minivans with cargo carriers up top.”

  “Which parking lot?”

  “All of them.”

  “Jesus, John! Have you seen this place?”

  “No, sir. We are currently en route.”

  “There's cars parked everywhere. Half of them are damn minivans!”

  “We'll try to narrow it down for you, sir.”

  “There's about a jillion people-men, women, children, dogs. They're crawling all over the boardwalk and the beach.”

  “Roger. I understand, sir. Check for open lines of fire. Clear shots from the parking lot to the boardwalk. Openings between buildings. Gaps. Concentrate on the most crowded sectors. The target-rich environments.”

  “What's your ETA? What's your twenty?” It sounds like the chief has a head start on a panic attack.

  “Northbound on Ocean,” Ceepak says flatly. “Approaching Kipper. Turning now. We should arrive in under a minute.”