“Bad move, Baines,” Mr. Weese says. “A one-month job never looks good on a résumé.” He is peacocking around the living room in bright-yellow shorts and a sky blue polo shirt. He's also got on golf shoes so I think we more than likely interrupted his Sunday plans. His socks match his shirt and pants. Vibrant. I guess so the other golfers can see you coming from two tees away.
“George would never do such a thing.” Mrs. Weese is indignant. “Never. I know my boy.”
The two kids in the playpen break some kind of indoor world record and scream even louder.
“Natalia? Jesus!” Mrs. Weese turns to their mother, who's sitting slumped in an armchair. “Take them upstairs, please. Now!”
“All right,” her daughter-in-law says with some kind of thick, grumbling accent that makes her sound like one of the bad guys in a billion spy movies. She could be Russian. She has dark hair and a sour face.
Natalia Weese marches across the living and scoops up her two squealers.
“Malloy?” Ceepak now says.
Mark Malloy nods. “On it.” He follows the younger Mrs. Weese and the screaming kids out of the room. No one is being left alone where they can whip out a cell phone to let George know people are looking for him.
“Perhaps you should arrange for someone to help out with your grandchildren,” Ceepak says to Mr. Weese. “We'll want to interview all of you, including George's wife.”
“Good luck,” Mr. Weese says with a curl of his lip. “She's Russian. None too bright, either. Still having a tough time with English, even after she's been here, what? Three years?”
“Lies!” Mrs. Weese now screams at Ceepak, as if shouting might make it true. “This is all a pack of lies! You don't have any evidence!”
“Yes, ma'am, we do,” Ceepak says. “Your son fits the description of a young man who recently purchased seven Derek Jeter baseball cards at Aquaman's Comix and Collectibles.”
“Wrong. George never played baseball.”
“He never played any sports,” Mr. Weese adds.
“He played those computer games.”
“Those are not sports!”
“He had that soccer one!”
Mr. and Mrs. Weese scowl at each other. Then they swivel so they can scowl at us, too.
“What's with the baseball cards?” Mr. Weese asks Chief Baines.
“The sniper placed the same cards your son bought at Schooner's Landing,” Baines says.
“So? Maybe he stole them from George!” Mrs. Weese says. “You ever think of that?”
“Aquaman's Comix?” Mr. Weese says. “That's Dan Bloomfield's shop. He's with the Chamber. If he's spreading lies about George …”
“He's leasing that space.” Mrs. Weese sucks down some hot smoke. “We can raise his rent …”
“We sure as shit can!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Weese?” Chief Baines interrupts. “Please. Where is your son?”
There is no answer. Mr. Weese shakes his head in disgust. I'm not certain, but I get the feeling he's been disappointed with his son for some time. I say this because my dad used to give me the same kind of headshake—usually right after I did something totally stupid.
Ceepak turns to Kiger. “What about the tires? On the minivan?”
“They match.” Dr. McDaniels walks into the room.
“Who's this?” Mr. Weese demands. “This is my house … all these people … traipsing in and out …”
“Dr. Sandra McDaniels.” She extends her hand. He doesn't take it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“What's this about tires?”
“The tread pattern on the minivan in your garage matches those we found over on Oak Street.”
“So? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means your son is the primary suspect in the killing of Harley Mook.”
“Who did you say you were?” Mrs. Weese sounds even angrier than her husband.
“Dr. Sandra McDaniels. New Jersey State Police Major Crime Unit. I'm not really here.” She holds up a big plastic baggie. “But I did find these in the back of your son's minivan, right next to the paintball rifle. Do either of you folks surf?”
Inside the baggie? Two neoprene surfer gloves.
“No,” Mr. Weese answers, not quite getting that McDaniels's question was basically what they call rhetorical. “I golf. Helen gardens.”
“Where's your son's toothbrush?” McDaniels asks.
“His toothbrush?”
“I need to collect some DNA. Lift his prints off the handle. Maybe his bathroom cup. Pretty fertile forensic fields, bathrooms. Find all sorts of human detritus. Unless, of course, your son wore gloves while he brushed his teeth, too.”
Somehow, Dr. McDaniels entrance has made Mr. and Mrs. Weese realize we mean business.
“His bathroom's on the second floor.” Mr. Weese suddenly sounds defeated.
“Go get what you need,” Chief Baines says to McDaniels.
She winks at Ceepak and ambles up the staircase.
“Franklin?” Mrs. Weese put her hand on her chest and sighs. “I feel faint.”
“Then sit down.” Which he promptly does himself. She follows suit.
“We need a recent photograph,” Ceepak says.
“Of George?” Mrs. Weese looks ready to cry. Instead, she lights another cigarette.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“This will work,” I say, reaching for a framed wedding photo on an end table.
“No. Not that one.” Mrs. Weese takes it from my hands. “He looks terrible there. His mouth hanging open like that. Let me get you a better one. From my bedroom …”
“Adam?” Ceepak cocks his head to send Officer Kiger wherever Mrs. Weese goes.
“Ma'am?” Kiger steps forward to let George's mother know she now has an official police escort.
“What? You think I'm going to call George?”
“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says because he always tells the truth. “That photograph? We need it immediately if not sooner.”
“Oh, take whatever you want. It doesn't matter.”
I hang on to the wedding shot.
Ceepak's cell phone rings. He rips it off his belt, flips it open.
“This is Ceepak. Go ahead.”
We all stare while he nods, then nods again.
“Right. Thank you.”
He snaps the cell phone shut.
“What?” demands Chief Baines.
“Friend of ours down on the boardwalk.”
“Who?”
“T. J. Lapczynski.” Ceepak turns from the chief to face Mr. Weese. “He's played paintball with your son.”
“So?”
“George is on the boardwalk right now, heading for the Tower of Terror.”
“Let's go,” Baines says.
“Possible ten-eighty-eight.”
“Jesus, he has a gun?”
“Not certain. However, T. J. says our suspect is carrying a duffel bag.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Tower of Terror is that 250-foot-tall ride in the middle of the boardwalk.
It looks like the Seattle Space Needle—a steeple of steel girders and diagonal tie beams stretching up to the sky. On all four sides are these chairs you pay good money to sit in to be scared out of your wits. There are six chairs on each side with seat belts and padded shoulder harnesses. Twenty-four folks get hauled up to the top. Twenty-four folks get dropped about 240 feet before the brakes come on. It's like paying five bucks to ride an open-air elevator and have somebody snip the cable.
I only rode the Tower of Terror once, and I think my stomach is still somewhere up there, about halfway down.
From the top, before they drop you like a rock, you do, momentarily, get this incredible view—all the way up and down the beach. You can see the boardwalk below, the ocean off to the side. On a clear day, you can see all the way out to the Ship John lighthouse on the north end of the island. If George Weese makes it to the top of the Tower with an M-24 Sniper Weapon System,
he could definitely rain down all sorts of terror.
“Shut it down!” Chief Baines issues the command into his radio microphone. We run down the sweeping staircase outside the Weese house. “Shut the Tower down, now!”
Fortunately, we have plenty of guys patrolling the boardwalk on account of the big holiday crowds. Dominic Santucci, the hardass of all hardass cops, the guy who constantly busts my chops, is in charge down there. He'll get the job done. In fact, I'm sure the Tower of Terror is already frozen in mid-hoist, stranding confused thrillseekers in their seats with nothing to do but dangle their feet and check out that view.
“Lights and sirens?” Ceepak asks the chief as we slide into our vehicle and the chief jumps into his.
“No. No noise. Just haul ass. Flashers only.”
“Ten-four.” Ceepak slams his door shut and snaps on the roofbar. The lights swirl their reds and blues to request that anyone driving in front of us kindly get the hell out of our way.
Malloy and Kiger will stay here with the Weeses. McDaniels and her techs will swab George's bathroom. Ceepak, the chief, and I?
We shall proceed to haul ass.
“The ride is shut down,” our radio cackles. “Repeat. Tower of Terror is shut down.”
“Good work, Dom,” we hear the chief reply.
We're doing about 75 mph up Ocean Avenue. Ceepak grabs the radio mic. Now he's doing 75 one-handed. “Any sign of Weese?”
“Not here,” Santucci comes back. “Not at Tower of Terror.”
“Do you know what he looks like?” the chief asks over the radio.
“Sort of.”
On the radio, we hear the chief's curt reply. “Not good enough, Sergeant Santucci!”
Ceepak gestures for me to take the George Weese wedding photo we grabbed out of its frame.
“Dom, do you have your computer up?” he says into his hand mic.
“Ten-four. Up and operational.”
“Danny's going to e-mail you an image.”
I use our in-car digital video camera to grab a still frame of the wedding photo. It shows an open-mouthed George wearing the same glasses he wore when he was fifteen—at least the same style. His bride, Natalia, at his side looks impassive. Kind of glum. George's own expression is difficult to read.
I squeeze off a freeze frame, punch a few keys, and zap the image off to Santucci.
“Brace yourself,” Ceepak says.
I brace my hand against the dash. Inertia thrusts me forward. It'll do that when your partner goes from 75 to zero in ten seconds.
Another sloppy parking job for Ceepak. We're right near a flight of steps leading up to the boardwalk. We hop out and start running.
“Excuse me. Pardon me.”
Ceepak is polite even as we shove our way through the crowd. It is a total teeming mob scene. Thousands of kids. Teenagers. College girls. Bare skin and bikinis everywhere. The place is packed. There's so much coconut oil on the breeze you can't even smell the Italian sausage sandwiches.
“This is Two,” a voice crackles off our walkie-talkies. “Suspect spotted. Headed south. He is carrying a black duffel bag.”
The Tower of Terror is north. George must've changed his mind when he saw the crowd of cops converging on that ride, realized the elevator wasn't going up to the top anymore.
Ceepak scans the horizon. I follow his eye line. The Tower of Terror pokes up against the cloudless blue sky to the north. We swing to the south. I see the Ferris wheel and the Paul Bunyan–size statue of a Muffler Man someone repainted to look like a giant pirate holding a treasure chest. In front of us is the Atlantic Ocean. Behind us the shops—the mile-long row of arcades, food joints, tattoo parlors, T-shirt places.
“There!” Ceepak does his three-finger point to the south and east. The Mad Mouse roller coaster. “That'd be my fallback position.”
I see what Ceepak sees. The Mad Mouse is the second-tallest steel structure on the beach. The twisting track is at the end of a short pier that juts out across the beach and over the ocean. The turns on the track are tight, sharp. The track itself, narrow. It's steep in places, but you could run up it like you were running up a ladder leaning against the side of your house, no need to wait for a seat like back at the Tower of Terror. You could hop the line, knock over the kid taking tickets, scamper up the track, and be at your sniper post in no time.
There's jagged, light-bulb letters up top spelling out the words “MAD MOUSE.” Each of the Ms is at least six feet tall. Weese could slip behind one, prop his rifle in the giant Ms V-shaped crotch and start picking off targets down below.
“Excuse me. Pardon me. Coming through.”
We play Ceepak's hunch, work our way through the mob and head south, over to the Mad Mouse.
I see Ceepak touch his pistol. He doesn't unsnap the holster, doesn't want to start shooting, not when we're surrounded by this tight a pack of innocent bystanders. But he wants to make sure it's still there in case he needs it.
“This is Four. We've got him.” Another one of our foot soldiers has spotted Weese.
“Go, Four.” It's Baines. He's in his car somewhere, coordinating.
“Suspect … south …”
Unit Four's broadcast breaks up, but we catch the gist.
“Middle of crowd … now east … Swirl Cone.”
Ceepak stops in his tracks. Tries to get his bearings.
“All units,” Baines voice comes over the radio. “Move south. Surround suspect.”
“This a drug bust?” This chubby guy in a Speedo blocks our path. He licks an orange-and-white ice cream cone, stands with one hand nestled against the belly roll where his hip should be.
“Sir, where did you purchase that?” Ceepak asks him.
“Why? Is something wrong with it?”
“No, sir. Where did you purchase your cone?” Ceepak sounds like he really, really wants softserve ice cream.
“Over there.” The guy gestures with his cone and it drips down his pudgy fist.
“Danny?”
“Sand Castle Swirl Cones. I know it.”
“Is it near the Mad Mouse?”
“Yeah. Top of the pier. Fifty feet from the roller coaster.”
Swirl Cones. We heard the words in Unit Four's call. Ceepak's hunch was right. We need to hustle.
“There,” I say, pointing to the glowing orange-and-white swirl cone turrets poking out from Sand Castle's roof. We weave our way down the boardwalk, reach the top of the pier.
There's a commotion by the Mad Mouse ticket booth. A wave ripples through the line like somebody is pushing and shoving everybody else.
“Watch it, asshole!” Someone screams. Whoever she is, she has a mouth on her. “Fucking asshole is cutting the line!”
“There.” Ceepak points to a silhouette of a skinny man lugging a duffel bag. He is climbing over coaster cars and scrambling up the track. He's only a silhouette against the bright morning sky, but I recognize the loping gait. It's definitely Wheezer.
Now what?
Ceepak punches his radio's shoulder mic.
“This is Ceepak. Suspect is scaling Mad Mouse.”
“All units, this is Baines. Move in. Move in. Mad Mouse. Mad Mouse! Move!”
Ceepak stays calm.
“Suspect appears to be carrying his weapon concealed in a duffel bag,” he says into the radio. “Repeat. His weapon is still cased, he is not currently armed.”
“All units, all units. Move in on the Mad Mouse. Take him down!”
The screams at the base of the ride grow louder. The people don't yet sound scared, just mad.
“Get off the track, asshole!”
The ride they've been standing in line for has all of a sudden been shut down because some idiot with a suitcase is climbing up the tracks.
“We've been waiting!” One of them shouts. “It's our turn!”
So far no one suspects anything worse than a jerk with a gym bag.
Weese stumbles on the steepest hill of the track. Slips. Almost drops the d
uffel bag. He pulls himself back up, holds on to the guardrails like he's climbing a gangplank, checks his grip on the bag, and continues toward the top. He's heading for those blinking Ms.
Ceepak stops. Looks left. Right. Assesses our options.
“Backtrack,” he says. I have no idea why. He pivots and heads west. So instead of running toward the Mad Mouse we're heading back up the pier toward the boardwalk shops and lemonade stands and …
… Paintball Blasters. The booth is right in front of us.
Ceepak dashes up to the counter like he wants to take a quick break and pop off a few shots at that cardboard Saddam.
He grabs a rifle, yanks it hard.
“Hey!” It's the old guy in the sleeveless T-shirt. Guess he's running things this morning.
“Is this weapon loaded and charged, sir?”
“Yeah, but you can't—”
Ceepak doesn't listen. He rips the gun off its anchor chain, pulls up a chunk of plywood and a screw.
“You break it, you buy it! You hear me?”
Ceepak twists around, lifts the rifle to his eye, squints, lines up the nose notch, squeezes the trigger.
Pop.
A paint ball smacks Weese's wrist. He drops the duffel but quickly lurches forward to grab it before it falls through the track.
Pop.
The second ball bops him in the right butt cheek, knocking him off balance. The duffel falls through the space between track ties, bounces off braces and crossbeams, tumbles down to the pier below.
Pop. Pop.
Paintballs three and four splatter Weese's shins. Left then right. He spins sideways, pants wet with paint, his feet slip out from under him, he flops onto the track, slides and wobbles down the hill like one of those battery-operated Penguin roller coasters.
The Mad Mouse crowd cheers when Weese comes tumbling down.
“Line jumper!” One guy yells. “That'll show you!”
Cops swarm the ride. Two guys crouch in the little mouse cars, use the ears up front to steady their pistols and take aim at Weese.
Santucci crawls under the girders to retrieve the duffel. Another one of our guys storms up the track, weapon drawn. Weese sits on his butt, his paint-slickened hands held high over his head.
Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries) Page 20
