“Danny, what did you just say?” Ceepak demands.
Busted. I feel like I'm back in grade school:
“Nothing. I was just thinking. My mind kind of drifted.”
“Danny, just repeat what you said.”
“I'm sorry. I know I should be focusing on the task at hand.”
“Danny
“‘Poor kids. It's a lot of crap to carry around.’ That's all. I figure their two kids will have-”
“Crap. Kid's crap,” McDaniels echoes, sounding like she's in some kind of trance. “Carrying it around.”
“Suitcases.” Ceepak sounds like he's in the trance with her. “Collapsible crib, playpen, stroller …”
“Bingo!” Dr. McDaniels hollers. “Guys?” she calls out to her CSI crew. “We need a ladder. Pronto! I need to be taller!”
The two CSI guys root around in the garage, push aside rakes and shovels. Something heavy and metal crashes to the floor.
“Whoops. Sorry.”
More rummaging. Steel scrapes against concrete.
“Here we go.”
One of the guys digs out a three-step aluminum ladder from behind this clump of signs and poles.
“That'll work,” Ceepak says.
The guys set it up alongside the minivan.
“Doctor?” Ceepak offers McDaniels the first look.
“You do it,” she says. “I'm afraid of heights.”
Ceepak climbs up the three short steps, puts his hands on his hips, looks up and down the roofline.
“You were right, Danny.”
“How tall is Mrs. Weese?” Dr. McDaniels asks up to Ceepak. “The Russian one, I mean.”
“Five-two, five-one. Short. Maybe four-eleven.”
“Good thinking, Boyle.”
I have no idea what I've said or thought that deserves so much praise.
“It explains the foot steps,” she continues. “Why Weese got out at Oak Street, walked along the side of the vehicle. Probably checking up on her.”
“Definitely,” says Ceepak. I still have no idea what the two of them are so excited about. “Weese seemed to have a vast knowledge of the D.C. sniper case.”
“So he knew how the shooter, usually the kid Malvo, hid in the trunk,” McDaniels adds. “Had that special rifle hole bored through the rear of their Chevy Caprice.”
“Affirmative. Weese also intimated that he and Natalia were smarter and potentially more lethal than the D.C. team.”
“He could be right,” McDaniels says. “This is pretty damn clever.”
“What?” I have to say it.
Ceepak climbs down off the stepladder.
“Take a look.”
I climb up. Look at the roof. It's got a rack on it. Black bars running up the sides, two adjustable struts spanning the width. You could put lumber or a Christmas tree up here and tie it down with bungee cords.
“Look closely, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Examine the details.”
Okay. Fine. I look closer. I see dust splotches. Rain stains. The roof looks like my windshield does after a thunderstorm, speckled with dirt splats, the residue left behind when the raindrops dry. The top is freckled like a leopard skin of spattered sand-dust.
Except on one side. The passenger side.
Over there, there's a clean patch, a rectangle that covers most of the roof. The front edge is somewhat rounded at the corners.
I lean back. Take in the big picture.
Somebody used to have a cargo carrier lashed down up here to haul all the suitcases and cribs and stuff they couldn't jam into the wayback or hang off the bike rack over the bumper.
“A cargo carrier?” I say.
“Roger that.” Ceepak is beaming. “Nice call, Danny.”
“Any idea what make, Officer Boyle?” McDaniels asks.
“No. I've never, you know, really studied-”
“I suspect a Thule or Yakima,” Ceepak says. “Judging by the rounded nose up front. Perhaps the Thule Cascade model, which is one of the largest on the market: seventeen, eighteen cubic feet. Opens on the side.”
“Could our Russian friend fit inside?” McDaniels asks.
“Easily. The Thule box I'm thinking about is almost six feet long, maybe three feet wide, a foot and a half tall. She'd be cozy inside but quite capable of operating her weapon system in an efficient manner-with plenty of room left over for ammunition and provisions. Water. Food.”
“Which might be why Weese walked up the side of the car on Oak Street,” McDaniels says. “He wanted to make sure his honey wasn't baking inside the plastic casket while they waited for Mr. Mook. Maybe George brought Natalia a cold Coke. The sweet bastard.”
“The sniper was up here?” I say. “Hidden in a cargo holder?”
“Quite clever,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels agrees. “Yep. Young Mr. Weese and his wife built themselves a handy-dandy gun turret on top of the family van.” No admiration in her voice this time, just disgust. “Completely innocuous. Seemingly harmless. Just another minivan with a box strapped on the roof. Only, this minivan turns out to be a minitank.”
“More like an armored personnel carrier,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I climb down.
“It also explains why we never found any shell casings,” says Ceepak. “They ejected from the rifle, hit the sides, stayed inside the box.”
McDaniels nods.
I wonder if this is why Natalia, the sniper with the real bullets, missed us on the beach and outside Morgan's. Maybe firing from inside a cargo carrier takes some getting used to. Maybe she was still getting the hang of it on Wednesday and Friday and only got her groove going Saturday morning at Saltwater Tammy's. By Saturday afternoon, she could place one in the center of Mook's forehead.
“I'm certain they've now attached their customized cargo carrier to the top of the rental van. Well done, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Excellent work.” He says that, but he looks worried. So does Dr. McDaniels.
They're both go completely quiet so I speak up again.
“What if Natalia has something up there other than an M-24 sniper rifle? What if she has a machine gun or a grenade launcher or something?”
Ceepak nods grimly.
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
W're working on the money,” Chief Baines says over the radio.
Ceepak and I are driving toward the boardwalk. We don't know exactly where to go, but we know we need to be there now. It's one fifteen. Before we left for the World's Biggest Beach Party, we swung by the house. Ceepak wanted a few things: a recording of our interrogation with Weese, which a tech burned onto a CD so we could listen to it in our car; a pair of small, high-power binoculars; and the paintball gun he ripped off the counter
