Chris Grabenstein - Rolling Thunder

“It’s the shotgun SWAT teams use,” I add, because I got to fire one the last time I was on the range.

“This is Ceepak for Detective Botzong,” he says into his handheld radio.

We wait for Botzong to respond.

“Give me the goddamn phone,” Mr. O’Malley snarls at the lawyer. “I’m going to tear that boy a new asshole.”

Ceepak holds up a hand. “No phone calls, sir.”

The lawyer actually nods. Wow. He’s on our side?

“You don’t want to tip him off, Patrick,” Rambowski mumbles. “Let these gentlemen take care of it.”

“He tried to make it look like I killed that girl and my wife!”

“Let them handle it.”

There’s a burst of static out of the radio. “This is Botzong.”

“John Ceepak.”

“What’s up?”

“We require further forensic assistance at a new location.”

“Where?”

“Ocean Avenue at Oyster Street. Miniature golf course called King Putt. We’re on our way there to apprehend a prime suspect in the murder of Ms. Gail Baker.”

“Who?”

“Mr. O’Malley’s son Skippy.”

“When do you need us there?”

“As soon as we secure the location.”

“Okay. We’ll stand by.”

“Quick question: Would the signature of the rake used to cover up the footprints near the garbage cans where the two suitcases were discovered correspond to the tines on a sand trap rake?”

“Probably. We know it wasn’t a leaf rake. Teeth were too far apart. I’ll check with Carolyn Miller. She’ll be on the go team to the golf course.”

“That’ll work. Hang tight. We hope to be back to you in five minutes.”

“Ceepak?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

“Roger that.” He clips the radio back to his belt. Sticks his head out the door. “Forbus? Bonanni?”

Officers Jen and Nikki, gun belts jangling, hustle into the room.

“Sir?” says Jen Forbus.

“Stay with these gentlemen. They are not to make any phone calls or leave this room until we confirm that we have our suspect in custody.”

“We’re gonna make the collar?” I ask.

“We’ll call for all available units, but I’d like to be the first unit on the scene, Danny.”

Right.

The golf course. King Putt.

The place where T.J. and his buddies went for that Farewell to Sea Haven party.

“Lights and sirens?” I ask.

“Negative.”

Yeah. I didn’t think so.

We’re peeling wheels out of the parking lot, spewing a flume of gravel back at all the guys’ personal cars lined up behind us. Ceepak’s at the wheel. I’m riding shotgun as we race off to apprehend Oedipus Skippy, who actually has a shotgun, a tactical shotgun, one with ghost-ring sights for easy acquisition of targets at short distances, not to mention the ability to dump a full magazine of seven rounds before the first empty shell casing hits the ground.

We don’t want a man pumping that kind of shotgun to know we’re coming because we blared our siren and swirled our roofbar.

We stopped by the locker room on our way out of the house. Pulled on our level III body armor before we jumped into the car-heavy vests that go on over our shirts and have POLICE written across the front and back with reflective yellow lettering, I guess to turn us into light-up targets.

“All units, all units. Code eight.” On the radio, Dorian Rence, our dispatcher, is putting out the call for backup. “Ocean Avenue and Oyster Street. King Putt Golf. Suspect is considered armed and dangerous.”

She could’ve added the word “extremely” in front of both armed and dangerous.

We fly the nine blocks up Ocean Avenue from police headquarters.

I work my personal cell. Call Ceepak’s house.

“Rita says the guys finished their game, went across the street to grab a burger at The Pig’s Commitment.”

Ceepak nods. His immediate family is safe. Now he just has to save the rest of the world.

He slides the vehicle into an empty parking place near the entrance to the pink pyramid. For the first time in his life, he’s parking in a handicapped space.

We’re both up and out of the car. Fast.

“Office,” says Ceepak, going for his sidearm.

Mine’s already up and aiming at the door. I use the two-hand cup-and-saucer grip-wrapping the nonfiring fingers around the back of my firing hand. I get more bull’s-eyes that way.

Ceepak does a series of hand signals that, after working with the guy for a couple years, I finally understand. He’ll kick open the door. I’ll cover him.

He kicks.

The front door flies open.

“Down!” I shout.

Three kids, about eleven years old, picking out their putters, hit the deck. Three colorful golf balls bounce like bouncy kangaroos across the wooden floor.

“Clear!” shouts Ceepak.

Skippy is not behind the counter, but a row of blinking chargers and cell phones sure is.

I’m also figuring one of the hundred or so putters lined up in the wooden racks along the walls might be the “blunt force impact” weapon Skippy used to bash in Gail Baker’s skull. He puts it back in the rack, we’d never find it. Be like trying to find one particular needle in a needle box. And, if we do, it’s covered with a week’s worth of teenaged boys’ fingerprints.

A second patrol car screeches into the parking lot.

“Murray,” says Ceepak.

He strides out the door.

I talk to the three kids lying on the floor. One’s whimpering, one’s breathing hard, and the third guy’s horrified eyes are about to gumball out of his head.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell them. “We’re just looking for someone.”

“Did he do something bad?”

Figuring “Well, duh!” would be an inappropriate answer, I go with, “Yeah. Just keep down.”

Ceepak returns with Dylan and Jeremy Murray, the only brother act currently serving on the force in the Sea Haven. Guess Santucci, Murray’s usual partner, is working his side job, running Italian Stallion security for Mr. Mazzilli at the grand opening of the roller coaster.

“Secure this area,” Ceepak says to the Murrays, chopping the air with his hand as he spells out the master plan. “We’ll direct any golfers still on the course down to this location.”

“Got you,” says Dylan.

“Watch those windows.”

Jeremy Murray nods, takes up a defensive position at the plate glass window overlooking the course. As he crouches down, I scan the horizon. I can see the River Nile and Victoria Falls-a sculpted mountain with foamy blue water bubbling up out of the peak-but no Skippy.

Just a tumbling ribbon of blue, blue water.

“Ceepak?” I say.

He cocks an eyebrow.

“He did it here!” I say. “In the river.”

Ceepak peers through the window. “Why is that water so blue?”

“They probably dye it,” says Dylan Murray. “To fight algae and weeds. My uncle has a pond up in Pennsylvania. He dumps in this stuff called Aquaclean. The blue blocks the sunlight.”

“Thank you, Dylan.”

“No problem.”

“We’ll call our supposition into the medical examiner,” says Ceepak, adding, “as soon as we get a chance.”

“Roger that,” I say. Holding a locked and loaded pistol always makes me talk much more militaristically.

“We need to clear the course, Danny.”

“You want to split up?”

“Swing right, I’ll head left. Any golfers you encounter send them down here to the Murrays.”

The pink pyramid is about to become Fort Apache.

We dart through the back door, the one that takes you out to the first hole.

“We’ll want to search inside that utility shed,” says Ceepak, head gesturing toward the smaller pyramid tucked behind a clump of fake palm trees. “Later.”