Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

Ceepak nods.

“She's strong, Danny.”

“Yeah.”

“Real strong.”

“Yeah.”

“John?” It's Chief Baines. “Inside.” He does a quick head tilt toward the candy shop. “Now!”

Ithought you said this guy only attacked at night?”

“Yes, sir. Until this morning.”

The chief looks flustered. Ceepak looks like his mind is twirling as fast as those helicopter blades. The shooter just changed the rules of the game. Ceepak needs to adjust. Anticipate the next move.

“And why the hell did you call in the chopper? The state police are going to start asking questions. Medevac is state!”

“I assessed field conditions and determined the airlift to be the most prudent course of action given the severity of the situation.”

“Jesus, John. You could've called an ambulance. Or isn't an ambulance dramatic enough for you?”

“Drama did not enter into the equation, sir.”

“Well, what the hell were you thinking?”

“Sir, holiday weekend traffic patterns suggest the causeway will be gridlocked at this time on a Saturday morning. Even with an ambulance's siren, flashing lights, and a bridge full of cooperative motorists, the land route would have taken too long. We are in what search-and-rescue teams call ‘the golden hour.’ How quickly Ms. Landry receives thorough medical attention will determine her chances for survival.”

Jesus. Survival?

“I see,” Baines says, sucking in a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Good call, John. Good call.”

I hear brakes squeal outside and see the police department's flatbed truck pull up in front of Tammy's. It's the truck we use to haul parade barricades and detour signs and stuff like that around town. There are six guys in the back with a tall stack of full plywood sheets. The guys lower the tailgate and slide off the first twelve-foot panel. I see the cop in charge pointing to Saltwater Tammy's plate-glass windows, one of which now sports two bullet holes. One for me. One for Katie. The guys outside will seal off the scene of the crime. Hide it from public view. Keep what happened in here a big, fat secret.

“We need to keep the evidence chain clean for Dr. McDaniels,” Chief Baines explains to Ceepak when the crew leans the first sheet of plywood against the plate glass windows. “Need to discourage the looky-lous from congregating outside, contaminating the crime scene.”

“Right,” Ceepak says. I don't think he's even listening to the chief. I think he's thinking, working the mission. I also think Chief Baines may have his own mission. He wants to stop anybody from guessing what really happened in here before he has a chance to spin the story the way he wants it to go.

“The shooter has undoubtedly fled the scene,” Ceepak says. “We need to immediately canvass all potential sniper sites.” He does his three-finger hand-chop in the direction of all the possible locations.

Tammy's is situated in a valley shadowed by the shopping center's three-tiered boardwalk, the fake lighthouse up on the third floor, and the crow's nest atop that schooner's mast. Plus, there's a water slide across the street and about a hundred balconies being built onto condos across the parking lot at that construction site. Potential sniper sites, all.

“You think he left another calling card?” the chief now asks.

“Yes, sir. Unless he's changed that part of his M.O., too.”

“Mook was upstairs,” I say.

“Come again?” Ceepak says.

“Who the hell is Mook?” The chief is a step or two behind.

“Mook did this.” I have everybody's attention now. “Him and his friends. He was upstairs at the coffee shop. He has a buddy who's ex-army with a white minivan. A sharpshooter.”

The chief jams his hands against his hips. “How do you-?”

“Last night,” I interrupt the chief. I'm probably not supposed to do that but I'm new on the job. “I ran into Harley Mook at the diner. He's someone I know. He said his friend was a better shot than Ceepak. Mr. Mook also gave some indication he was jealous about the nature of my relationship with Ms. Landry.” I'm trying my best to say it like Ceepak would say it.

“Where did you see him, Danny?” Ceepak asks. “Where was he this morning?”

“Sun Coast Coffee. Upstairs.”

I point out the front window. I never had any reason before to notice that you can see the tops of Sun Coast's caf, umbrellas from down here, that Saltwater Tammy's was a stone's throw away from the coffee shop upstairs.

A stone or a bullet-take your pick.

Ceepak and I walk purposefully up the boardwalk ramps to the third level. Other cops are scouting all the other possible sniper locations. We're only walking when we'd rather run because the chief specifically ordered us not to run, not to draw any “undue attention” to ourselves.

“Where was he?” Ceepak asks.

“Over there. That table. Closest to the door.”

I notice Ceepak's eyes scanning the horizon. I do the same. Mook is long gone.

“Was the other one here?” Ceepak asks. “His soldier friend?”

“No. Not that I saw.”

We reach the café table and do a quick visual survey of the scene. No plastic-wrapped trading cards. Ceepak feels around underneath the table.

Stops.

“What's wrong?”

“I forgot to put on my gloves.”

Ceepak pulls his hands out from under the table, reaches into his cargo pants, pulls out a pair of white evidence gloves, slips them over his hands, and goes back to work, patting under the bottom of the circular table.

He finds something, drops to his knees, fishes out his tweezers. He peels whatever it is from the underside of the table.

“Baseball card.” Ceepak shows me his tweezered treasure. “Derek Jeter. New York Yankees.”

“Excuse me? Officers?”

We look over. It's this guy wearing a chef's apron and bow tie. He has colorful buttons pinned up and down his apron straps. I recognize the costume. It's what the waiters wear at The Chowder Pot. I check out their outdoor dining deck. If you kneeled behind the wooden railing, you'd have another clean shot down at Saltwater Tammy's windows.

“I was setting up tables on the deck, and I think somebody might've lost this. Sorry it's wet. The sprinklers must've hit it this morning.” He holds another baseball card with water beads dotting its plastic sleeve. “It's Jeter's rookie card. 1996. Could be pretty valuable. Figure I better turn it in.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ceepak uses his tweezers to take it from him. “Thank you for doing the right thing. This card might prove very valuable, indeed.”

Thirty minutes later, the municipal brain trust from the Sea Haven Chamber of Commerce and the mayor's office is assembled inside Saltwater Tammy's.

Good thing the candy shop has bright fluorescent bulbs. Because the plywood walls the police crew propped against the windows have totally blocked out any natural light. Two cops are posted in front of the makeshift door-a sheet of plywood that wasn't screw-gunned into place with all the others. Tammy won't be very happy when she sees what we've done with her place.

Mazzilli is behind the counter. He helps himself to free malted milk balls. Mayor Sinclair is next to him nibbling nervously on a foot-long gummi worm, taking it in a centimeter at a time, like Bugs Bunny working his way down a carrot. I'd write them both up for shoplifting, but we're kind of busy.

“I still feel we can safely assume no immediate threat to the general population,” Baines says, mostly to hear himself say it.

“You're right,” Mazzilli says and pops another malted milk ball in his mouth. “It's some kind of vendetta against one young man and his friends.” He points at me. There's melted chocolate smeared all over his fingers.