Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“Where's Mook?” I ask.

“Off chasing the bad guys.”

“You saw who did it?”

“No. Mook just ran up the road screaming, ‘Come back, you motherfuckers.’ ”

“Yeah. That usually works.”

“What seems to be the problem, fellas?” This bald guy stands in a driveway near the ambulance. He's what cops call a looky-lou-wants to take a look at whatever brought swirling roof lights to his street at twelve fifteen A.M. “Is somebody hurt?”

“Minor beach accident,” I say.

“Friend of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, try to keep down the noise.” The guy is probably fortysome-thing. Balding. He's wearing a T-shirt, shorts, and sandals. With socks. He's one of those dads who have to wake up in five or six hours when his kids start heaving Cheerios at each other. He shuffles back toward his rented beach house. “Some people are trying to sleep around here!”

Yes, and other people are trying not to go blind.

Jess and I hurry back down to the beach.

Becca lies down on the stretcher. The two burly guys from the rescue squad get ready to carry her away.

“I feel like Cleopatra.” She notices the one paramedic's muscles. “What's your name?” she asks, half sitting up.

“Becca?” says Katie. “Down, girl.”

The patient obeys. Olivia takes one hand. Katie grabs the other.

“And don't touch your eye,” says Olivia.

“It hurts,” Becca moans.

“I know, honey.”

“You're going to be okay,” Katie says. “Okay?”

“Yeah. Happy Toasted Marshmallow Day, everybody.”

“Should we go find Mook?” I ask Jess.

“Fuck Mook,” he replies.

“Better you than me,” Becca groans. We all trudge slowly up the sand to the sea grass and the dunes and the pressure-treated boards that lead down to the dead end of Tangerine Street.

“Danny?”

It's Ceepak. He climbs off his eighteen-speed trail bike.

“I heard the call come in. Heard Becca's name.”

“Hi, Ceepak.” Becca sounds woozier.

Ceepak has a police scanner in his apartment. It's his favorite form of entertainment when he's not watching Forensic Files or listening to Bruce Springsteen CDs.

“Is she badly injured?” he asks.

“Eye trauma,” Olivia says. “Possible hyphema.”

Ceepak nods. “You noted a reservoir of blood in the anterior chamber?”

Olivia nods back.

“She needs to see an ophthalmologist. Stat.”

Ceepak turns to the paramedics who have just secured Becca inside the back of their boxy ambulance.

“Guys? Light ‘em up.”

“Will do, Ceepak,” says the muscle man. I think everybody in town who wears any kind of uniform or badge has heard about Ceepak. Knows he's a standup guy.

Ceepak gives them one of his famous two-finger salutes. “Appreciate it.”

The paramedics hop in, spin their flashers, and race away.

I dig into my shorts for the van keys.

“We should follow.”

A cop car crawls down Tangerine Street. No lights. No siren. Just the soft crunch of seashells under tires.

“Danny,” says Olivia, “maybe you should stay here. Tell the police what happened.”

“Yeah.” I turn to Jess. “You good to drive?”

“Yeah.” Jess never gets plotzed. Besides, the paintball incident was pretty sobering. I toss him the keys. They all hop into my van and take off after the ambulance. Ceepak and I will hang here because we speak Cop.

Well, Ceepak speaks it better than me, but I want to make sure we nail whoever the hell did this to my friends.

Probably juveniles,” Chief Baines says after taking a quick survey of the crime scene.

Everybody has a flashlight swinging around except me. The beach looks like it's hosting some kind of sand crab movie premiere.

“Punks with paintball pistols,” Sergeant Dominic Santucci shares his opinion.

“More likely a rifle,” says Ceepak.

“Because of the range?” asks Baines.

“Roger that. We can assume the shooter or shooters were positioned up there.” He points to the road. “They knew no one would hear them approach.” He points to the paint-spattered boom box lying dead in the sand. “The music was turned up to full volume.” Now he indicates the footprints circling the charred remnants of our campfire. “Danny and his friends were oblivious to any intrusion because they were busy dancing.” I haven't told Ceepak what we were doing. He can see it all in the sand.

Baines smiles. “Good work. I like the way you read a crime scene, John.”

I still can't believe the new chief is the one who caught this call. Apparently, he was riding along with Santucci on a routine night patrol as part of his “orientation process” when the ambulance call went out.

“Who do we like for this?” Baines asks Santucci.

“Well, there are these punks who hang out on the boardwalk. You know: tattoos, skateboards. Weird haircuts.”

Santucci isn't much of a profiler. He's just described half the guys who cruise up and down the boardwalk all summer long.

“There's a paintball place on the boardwalk,” I offer. “They might have a few names for us.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Baines thinks a minute. “The girl injured badly?”

“Blunt-force impact,” Ceepak says. “Possible hyphema.”

The new chief nods and thinks some more.

“Okay. Here's how we need to play this thing. Quiet. Almost like it didn't happen.” Baines flashes his Ultrabrite smile my way when he sees my jaw drop. “Take it easy, son. We'll catch the bad guys. But summer's officially over in five days. We don't want or need any more headlines, not this year. So, we all do our jobs, but-we keep it quiet.”

Baines is probably right. No need to stir up another panic. In the few weeks he's been in town, he's done a pretty incredible job of restoring faith in the local forces of law and order. Most folks, especially the visitors, have already forgotten what happened here back in July. I think that's why the town fathers hired Baines: He looks and sounds like he should be on TV telling you the truth, the handsome hunk sitting in the anchor chair. It's also why, from what I've heard, they're paying him a small fortune.

“Sergeant Santucci's theory is most likely correct,” Baines continues. “I suspect we're dealing with some bored kids who think they're being funny.”

Santucci points at my Hawaiian shirt. It looks like the flowers have exploded with neon-colored pollen.

“You got to admit, it is kind of funny.” He snaps his gum, does his donkey laugh. “Especially on Boyle there.”

Santucci has been busting my chops all summer long. If I go full time with the force, he can torment me daily, seven-to-seven, the whole twelve-hour shift. Longer if I pull any overtime.

“Chief?” says Ceepak. “We could look into this tomorrow. Both Auxiliary Officer Boyle and I have the day off. Might prove a valuable field training exercise. Help our minds stay active, help us keep our investigative techniques sharp.”

Baines nods. “But you'll keep it on the q.t.?”

“Right.”

Baines puts his hands on his hips and sniffs in some salty air.

“You sure you guys don't mind? Working on your day off?”

“I look forward to it, sir,” says Ceepak. “I welcome the challenge.”

I nod. “Me, too, sir.”

“Fantastic. Here's how we play it: Ceepak and Boyle investigate. Meanwhile, we alert all units to be on the lookout. We see a bunch of kids crammed in a car looking like they're looking for trouble, we pull them over.”

“That'll work,” Ceepak says. “Provided, of course, we have probable cause.”

“Oh, we always have probable cause,” Santucci sneers, like he thinks the whole Bill of Rights is a lousy idea dreamed up by a bunch of dead guys with their faces on coins.