Chris Grabenstein - Mad Mouse

“I need to take a break now.”

“No,” Ceepak says.

“I need to take a break!”

The lawyer suddenly realizes his client is actually asking him to do something.

“We need to take a break,” the lawyer says.

“No.” says Ceepak. “No breaks.”

Weese folds his arms across his chest, settles back into his chair.

“Uh,” the lawyer says, “I think, we, you know … I think George is done talking … for a while.”

Ceepak surrenders.

“Fine. Fifteen minutes.”

“I need an hour.” Weese says

“We need an hour,” the lawyer echoes.

Ceepak looks at his watch. I look up at the clock on the wall. It's almost eleven. Weese won't talk again until noon.

Right when the party's getting started on the boardwalk.

Clever bastards,” Dr. McDaniels says with just a hint of admiration. “Handed us one guy on a silver platter so the other guy could run free, ready to rock.”

We're in the empty office with the evidence. McDaniels just finished on the phone with the state ballistics expert who did the tests on the M-24 found in Weese's duffel bag.

“Is it our weapon?” Ceepak asks.

“Of course,” McDaniels says. “But that only means Dude Number Two has Rifle Number Two. Probably another M-24. They gave us the gun from the first attacks, plastered Weese's prints all over it, made us think our work was done, that we could go pig out on the beach. Bastards.” Again, just a touch of grudging respect.

I also notice that the good doctor is wearing shorts and a tee shirt with some kind of Save the Dolphins art airbrushed on the front, like she was thinking about hitting the big boardwalk shindig herself since her work here was basically done.

“So, Ceepak,” she says, “what do the bastards want?”

“Not knowing, can't say. However, I suspect we'll learn more at noon.”

“You're gonna talk to Weese again?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. Poke him in the eye once or twice for me.”

“Will do.”

“How can I help?”

“The van.”

“It's secure in the garage.”

“Let's take a second look. It might be the only place where our two shooters were together. Perhaps there's something inside we didn't catch on the first pass. Something outside.”

McDaniels nods. “We'll double-check every nook and cranny. Might find some fibers. A stray hair. Something that'll help identify Bastard Number Two.”

“Thanks. We'll join you the minute we're done with Mr. Weese.”

“Right.” McDaniels shakes her head. “Two shooters. One on the paintball gun, the other on the M-24. One to plaster the trading cards all over the place, another to do the serious shooting. Good thing they had a van. Sounds crowded.”

We're back in the interrogation room at 11:58.

Weese sits silent

We wait.

When George Weese says “noon” he means noon.

When the big hand and little hand are finally facing skyward, he sighs.

“Touché, Officer Ceepak,” he says. “Touche! Perhaps you aren't quite the ignoramus I assumed you to be. That bit with the trajectory? That was good. Hadn't expected that one.”

“Who is your partner?”

“I enjoyed our little pas de deux. Did you?”

“Who is he?”

“You mean my friend? Once upon a time, when I was younger, this obnoxious beach bully sprayed grape soda on my swim trunks. He warned me not to tell anyone. Said he had friends who would get me even if he couldn't. Friends such as Daniel and the buff lifeguard, Jess, who, one would think, should have been duty-bound to come to my assistance that day.”

“I want a name. Who is he?”

Weese shakes his head.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, Officer Ceepak. Shame. Are you really such a male chauvinist pig? Remember: behind every great man, there is a woman. Why, I believe … yes … I believe I even handed you several clues that should have pointed you in that general direction. Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities. The Phantom card? The first one?”

“Yes?”

“Why, I believe there was a woman standing behind the man. And card number two? The Avenger? Why, look-another woman, wreaking revenge. Third card? Another from The Phantom and our hero is standing with another woman. And, if you look carefully, which is something I suggest you do the next time someone so graciously drops evidence into your lap, you will notice that, yes, indeedy-the woman is standing behind the man!”

Weese has this shit-eating grin on his face like he's oh-so-fucking-clever.

“But none of that really matters now does it? It's high noon. All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”

“Who is she?”

“Someone quite capable of doing her job as well as I have done mine. You see, Mr. Ceepak, I did everything I could to help you catch me so you'd drop your guard and open the big Boogaloo BBQ on schedule. What a stupid name. Boogaloo BBQ.”

“Who?”

“Tell me-when you were with the army, did you study much military history? Specifically, Russian military history?”

“Some.”

“Then you must know about the legendary Lyudmila Mikhailovna Pavlichenko, the greatest female sniper who ever lived! I'm certain you've heard of her fabled exploits, how, during World War Two she single-handedly killed hundreds and hundreds of Germans.”

“Your wife?”

“Did you know that the Russians still encourage their little girls to become snipers? Oh, yes. Quite a proud tradition of it, actually.”

“Your wife?”

“I met her on the Internet, you know. Russian Brides Dot Com. The new world order of mail-order brides. My father helped, paid for everything. He was rather desperate for grandchildren but feared I couldn't bed a wife on my own, not given what he perceived to be my overwhelming lack of manliness. So, he bought me a wife when I graduated from college. Some children get a year in Europe, other a flashy sports car. Me? I got a Russian virgin.”

Ceepak heads for the wall phone.

“Natalia Shevlyakova Weese,” Weese continues, his eyes glazing over.

“Gus? Ceepak.”

“Oh, she's no beauty, I'll grant you that.”

“We need to find George Weese's wife.”

“Squat. Homely. Rather dour. But then again, the poor girl grew up in Kemerovo. It, I assure you, is a squalid armpit even more dreadful than fetid Sea Haven.”

Ceepak concentrates on the phone, blocks out Weese. “Malloy was with the wife yesterday,” he says to Gus.

“All she was looking for, like so many Russian girls these days, was a ‘nice, generous, American man.’ Translation? She wanted money. Preferably, cash. Hard currency. U.S. dollars.”

“Have Kiger check to see if any of the Weese family vehicles are missing.”

“Now, that would be stupid, Officer Ceepak, and Natalia is not stupid. Ugly, yes. Stupid, no.”

“Have them run her photo past any and all rental car agencies within a twenty-mile radius.”

“We're actually quite smart. Brilliant, really. You'll see. Natalia's tough, too. Scrappy. Resourceful. And, as you might suspect, she's also very heavily armed.”

Ceepak hangs up the phone.

“Where is she?”

“So much of this was her idea-a way to make our American fortune while simultaneously wreaking revenge on my childhood tormenters and my father. Natalia is something of a tactical genius.”