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

by Chris Grabenstein

  “Exactly. I can see this no-parking zone from the kitchen window. I guess I should've called you guys. Told you to bring your tow truck. People shouldn't park in no-parking zones.”

  “Sir, do you happen remember the type of vehicle you saw parked out here?”

  “Wednesday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Because people park there all the time even though they're not supposed to. Maybe you guys need a bigger sign or more tow trucks.”

  “What sort of vehicle was parked there Wednesday night?”

  “One of those minivans. I don't know the make or model. They all look pretty much the same to me.”

  I agree. Try finding one in a mall parking lot. Try finding mine. I never can.

  “Do you remember the color?”

  “White.”

  Just like mine. Just like half the vans in Sea Haven.

  “Anything else?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “There's one thing,” I say.

  They turn to look at me, surprised.

  “I didn't park there.”

  “You drive a minivan?” The guy stares at me like I've got a big “L” pasted on my forehead.

  “That wasn't your van?” says Ceepak.

  “Couldn't be.”

  “You're certain, Danny?”

  “Hey—I'm a cop. I saw the sign. You think I'd do something illegal? Besides, I couldn't afford another ticket.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Awhite minivan?” The chief shakes his head. “Well, that certainly narrows things down, now doesn't it?”

  It's close to two A.M. We've set up a war room at the house. It's actually the interrogation room in the back part of the police station, but since we don't have any suspects to chat with right now we're using it as our situation workroom. Ceepak has stuck these big paper sheets on the walls, keeping track of what we know or suspect.

  I cringe every time I see “Danny Boyle + Friends = Targets?” scribbled up there in one of the columns.

  The chief and Santucci were already here when we came back. They're pulling an all-nighter, going over their Labor Day security plans for about the ten millionth time. I think they even have helicopters flying down for the day. And they're borrowing the airplanes that usually buzz the beach towing banners advertising the New Jersey State Lotto.

  “We can't put out an APB for white minivans,” the chief says. “They're like seagulls. Too many to count.”

  “Roger that,” says Ceepak. Then he places the plastic sheets holding the shooter's two different “calling cards” on the table in the center of the room. The two recovered bullets are sitting on the table in labeled evidence envelopes next to folders lined with digital photographs detailing the site of each slug. I've never seen so many close-ups of a shattered lamp or a hole in the sand. Some of the photos have black lines and angles drawn on them, like they've been used for geometry homework.

  “Did you reach Dr. McDaniels?” the chief asks.

  “She'll be here at noon tomorrow to help us make positive matches on the slugs and determine more exact trajectories.”

  “Nothing official?”

  “She understands. I'm also hoping she can give me her opinion on these.”

  “What about them?” The chief leans down to study the two trading cards.

  “They're similar, but different.” Ceepak points to the Phantom card. “Here we have a photograph. An actor or model costumed like the comic book hero posing with this woman.”

  “Is that Lois Lane?” the chief asks.

  “No, sir. Lois Lane is a character from the Superman stories. This is the Phantom.”

  “Well, she's got that Lois Lane look, you know?”

  “Note also how she is standing behind the Phantom, peering over his shoulder,” says Ceepak. “I wonder if that is psychologically significant.”

  “Could be,” the chief says. “You never know with these nutballs.”

  So much for sophisticated psychological analysis.

  “This second card,” Ceepak says, “has a more traditional comicbook look. It appears to be a cover illustration.”

  The chief peers at it.

  “Why is one card an illustration, the other a photograph?” Ceepak asks rhetorically. “I'm hoping Dr. McDaniels might offer a theory.”

  “Fine. Maybe she can lift some prints off those things, too.”

  “Possible. But doubtful.”

  “Yeah. This guy hasn't made a lot of mistakes, has he?”

  “They all make mistakes, sir. For instance, he parked in a no-parking zone. But the biggest mistake thus far committed is the violence he and/or his accomplice have perpetrated against our citizens and their property.”

  “You really think there could be two shooters?”

  “It's a possibility.”

  “Yeah.”

  It's one of the questions Ceepak listed on the Post-it sheet labeled “Unknowns.” We also don't know what kind of sniper rifle he or they used: an M14, M21, M24, or M40A1. The army has a lot of M's.”

  “So, Boyle,” the chief says, “we know who your friends are. Some of them, at least. Now we need to think about your enemies. Who hates you enough to try to kill you?”

  It's weird to hear him say it out loud like that, even though I've been asking myself the same question.

  “I didn't know I had any enemies.” I'm not kidding. I really didn't.

  “Anybody spring to mind?” Baines sits down. “Anybody at all?”

  Nobody leaps out.

  Until yesterday, I thought I had only friends. Lots of them. I grew up in Sea Haven. Lived here my whole life. I've always been kind of laid-back, never too ambitious, never a claw-your-way-to-the-top type. Springsteen tells us, “Everybody wants to be the man at the top.” Not me. I'm happy in the middle. That's where the crowd is. And where there's a crowd, there's usually a party.

  “Anybody at all?” Baines asks again.

  “Well, there was this crazy guy on the boardwalk,” I say. “Remember him, Ceepak? The skinny dude in the desert-camo?”

  “I remember him.”

  “Remember how he said he could take us down? Take me down? Then there were these college guys at Schooner's Landing.”

  “What about them?” The chief sounds excited, thinks maybe I'm onto something.

  “They were playing rough with this kid in a wheelchair. I intervened. Remember, Ceepak?”

  “Yes, Danny. I recall the incident. Thursday afternoon.”

  “Yeah. Ceepak came by. These guys, and they were huge, like football players, like the whole front line, they told me to watch my back.”

  “They did?”

  Ceepak nods.

  Of course, those five New Jersey Giants don't know who I am. They also don't seem to be the sort with attention spans long enough to remember I pissed them off. This sort of logic doesn't slow the chief down. He's happy to finally have a list of possible suspects. He's jotting notes on a legal pad. Whole paragraphs—with circles and arrows.

  “These football players. Are they locals? Visitors?”

  “I'm not sure. Never saw them before.”

  “Well we need to find them.”

  “Then there's the ring toss guy. T. J.'s boss. And Bones—the skinny dude. He was there, too. At the Lord of the Rings Toss. He flipped me the finger.”

  “Slow down.” The chief starts scribbling on a second sheet of paper.

  “Danny?” Ceepak says it in a soft way that makes the chief look up from his notes.

  Ceepak shakes his head.

  The chief lays down his pen. “What?”

  “The incident on Tangerine Beach took place Wednesday—before we met up with any of these individuals.”

  “Oh. Yeah.”

  He's right. I've got nothing.

  “Well,” the chief says, thinking a moment. “What if crimes one and three aren't linked?”

  “They are,” I say.

  I glance at the two pointy bullets. They look like id
entical twins, only one's a little more smushed—the one that hit the lamp instead of sand.

  “Ceepak's right. It's got to be somebody else.”

  The chief sighs. Rubs his eyes. “I'm not sure you should remain active on this investigation, Officer Boyle.”

  “I feel he's safe until tomorrow night,” Ceepak says. “Danny's the key to identifying motive, which will, I'm certain, eventually lead us to our perpetrator.”

  The chief looks me in the eye. “You okay with this, Boyle?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He checks his watch. “What's your plan for tomorrow, John?”

  “It's falling into place, sir. Do my sniper background checks. Work ballistics with Dr. McDaniels. Swing by the boardwalk. Get T. J. to own up to the Pig incident so we can take it off the board. See who else might stick out in the paintball crowd as a sharpshooter-level player. Ask if anyone's been spending an inordinate amount of time at the range honing their skill set. I'd also like to run these trading cards by an expert. Find out where they come from, who sells them, who buys them. I might need logistical support for some of this legwork. There are a lot of questions to ask of quite a few people.”

  “I'd like to see Katie tomorrow morning,” I blurt out.

  “Miss Landry?” The chief knows her last name because it's on the Possible Targets list. Danny Boyle. Becca Adkinson. Olivia Chibbs. Jess Garrett. Harley Mook. Katie Landry.

  “I think I should warn her.”

  “No,” the chief says. “You can't do that.”

  “Sir?” It's Ceepak.

  “I'm sorry.” The chief stands up. “We have to play this thing by the book. No leaks. No dissemination of unsubstantiated information, even perceived threats.”

  “You want me to pretend like I don't know what's going on?” I ask.

  “No. I want you to act in a professional manner, Officer Boyle. We never discuss ongoing investigations except through officially sanctioned channels.”

  “I think Danny has a duty to tell her the truth,” Ceepak says, his back getting stiffer. “She may be in serious danger.”

  The chief's spine goes ramrod straight, too. “We don't know what the truth is, John. Not yet. We have some evidence. Maybe a theory or two about a military sniper. But what we really have are merely half-truths. Half-truths encourage rumors, rumors incite public panic. Besides, if your shooter or shooters get wind of what we suspect, he or they may simply skip town in something other than a white minivan.”

  “We could be putting Danny's friends, all of whom are innocent civilians, in jeopardy.” Ceepak refuses to back down. “We should encourage all four individuals to leave town or at least take precautionary measures.”

  “No. If we blow our chance at catching our perp, we're not really protecting Danny's friends or anybody else, are we?”

  What's going on here? Is the chief really doing what's best for the investigation, or is he more concerned about protecting Sea Haven's public image for the Chamber of Commerce types who sign his paycheck?

  I can't tell.

  “Sir, I'm sorry,” Ceepak says, “but this makes no sense to me.”

  “Listen, I'm simply telling you and Officer Boyle to follow established protocol, as well as the proper chain of command. Am I not making myself clear enough?”

  Ceepak takes a minute, then finds his answer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Boyle? Talk to Miss Landry in the morning. Let her know you're okay.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But if you two had any plans for tomorrow night—cancel them.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It's two thirty in the morning when Ceepak tells me to go home.

  “Get some sleep. We both need it.”

  He's right. We won't be much good stumbling around town zombiefied.

  “I'll meet you at Schooner's Landing,” he says. “When will you be seeing Miss Landry?”

  “I guess around eight. She has to open everything up because her boss is taking the day off.”

  “Then I'll see you around eight thirty. I'd like to talk to T. J. on the early side.”

  “Too bad you didn't get her number.”

  “Whose number?”

  “His mom. Rita. You don't even know her last name, do you?”

  “Lapczynski. She's never been married. Works days at a bank, nights at Morgan's. They live in Avondale.”

  “On the mainland?”

  “The Wilcox Court Apartment complex. Eleven-oh-five Wilcox Boulevard.”

  “When did you … ?”

  “While you were in the men's room.”

  “You old dog.”

  “See you tomorrow, Danny.”

  I drive south on Ocean Avenue. My apartment is pretty far from the center of Sea Haven. I guess that's why I can afford it. It's actually an old motel they converted to an apartment complex when the owners realized they wouldn't have to work so hard if their tenants paid by the month instead of the week. Of course, it's not my fantasy version of living in a motel. At the Sea Village apartment complex, we have no ice machine, no cellophane-wrapped toothpaste cups, no free HBO, no nothing. They even filled in the swimming pool and planted shrubs in the hole, most of which have already died. Too much chlorine in the soil, I guess.

  There's a twenty-four-hour diner on Ocean Avenue on the way to my place. It's an old-fashioned railroad car set up in a parking lot near Tidewater Street. We're way past the streets named after trees. Down here they just sort of named them after whatever sounded watery.

  Anyhow, I'm not really hungry when I reach the diner, but I see Mook's car parked out front. He drives this flashy Mazda Miata, a tight little red convertible with an intercooled turbocharger. I only know this because he tells me. All the time.

  His Miata is parked next to a white minivan.

  I pull into the otherwise empty parking lot. If I start freaking out every time I see a white minivan, I'll go nutzoid before noon tomorrow. But I figure I should stop because I haven't seen Mook since he flipped me off back on the boardwalk. I know I can't warn him—that would be against the chief's rules. But I can make sure he's okay. He may be an asshole now, but he was my friend first.

  The Shore Liner Diner is all silver and chrome outside. Inside, it's done up in about fifty different shades of blue. The booths have blue vinyl seats, the counter stools are baby blue, and the blue walls are covered with bad art—oil paintings by some local artist, with price tags taped to driftwood frames. Still-lifes of pink seashells. Panoramic views of make-believe lighthouses on cliffs near foamy surf. Sickly pastel seaside cottages like the ones that guy Kincaid sells at the mall, only these are even worse. Sometimes, all three artistic ideas are combined and you get pink seashells near a cozy cottage with a lighthouse on the far horizon. I think the painter is related to the Shore Liner's owner. Actually, it might be his wife.

  The only people in the diner are Mook and his buddies. I see them crammed into a booth near the back. Six of them. All guys. All laughing and rattling ice cubes around in their big blue Pepsi cups. Mook is the center of attention. I call them his college buddies because most of them are wearing different versions of Mook's business school T-shirt.

  Except this one. He's tall and looks strong and has on a gray T-shirt with ARMY printed in block letters across the chest. Ceepak has the same shirt, and this guy is showing the same kind of muscles Ceepak shows when he wears it. I think they all buy the shirt two sizes too small on purpose.

  The ARMY guy looks a little older than the rest of Mook's crew, as if he did his hitch, got out, and went to grad school. But he's kept the scary military buzz cut: shaved sides ringing a thick patch on the top of his skull.

  “Hey, Mook!”

  “Detective Danny!”

  When he says that? The other guys get real quiet. Nobody's laughing anymore. They just rattle ice or jab french fries into ketchup pools on their plates. ARMY sizes me up with squinty eyes.

  “Where'd you get that dorky shirt?” Mook as
ks.

  I forgot. I'm still wearing the Morgan's Surf and Turf tee Rita gave me when my blue oxford got splattered.

  “Morgan's,” I say.

  “Morgan's? You actually eat there, dude?”

  “Tonight I did.”

  “Jesus, dude. How were the canned green beans?”

  “Limp and salty. How you doing?”

  “Bored shitless.” Mook jiggles his knee up and down like he's had way too much Pepsi. “We're blowing this piece-of-crap tourist trap. Heading south.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Hitting the big A.C.”

  Atlantic City, about fifty miles south, has legalized gambling and glitzy casinos to do it in.

  “I'm definitely up for a little blackjack action,” says Mook.

  “And some primo pussy,” adds one of his pals. “The skanks up here are colder than shit, bro.”

  “Totally.” ARMY agrees.

  “A.C. is the place for me,” Mook chants, and the guys all knock knuckles, do finger-shakes, and basically run down a hand-flapping ritual I've never seen before. Not that you'd ever catch me doing one.

  I'm happy to hear Mook plans to head out of town. That way I won't have to worry about him.

  “Well, have fun,” I say. “It was cool hanging with you again.” Oh, if Ceepak could hear me lying like that, he'd wash my mouth out with Scrubby Bubbles toilet bowl cleanser. “See you next summer.”

  “What you doin’ up so late?” Mook asks.

  “Working.”

  “Fuck, Danny Boy. Here we are, coming up on the real deal. Labor Day weekend. An official, government-approved holiday. Means you don't work.”

  “Yeah. Well, I gotta run.”

  “Hey, hang with us. Have a Pepsi.”

  Mook's knee shakes so much under the table, it rattles the dirty plates and silverware. I wonder how many he's already had tonight, and, in fact, if Pepsi's all he's on. It would be no big news if he and his crew had scored some other stimulants. My guess would be speed—methamphetamine. It's cheaper than Ecstasy, and Mook has always been a little on the tight side.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “Gotta head home, grab some z's.”

  “Hey, I saw your boy shoot.”