Mad Mouse js-2 Page 16

  “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 waits 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 cops, 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.

  “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 lo
oks 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.