Whack A Mole

freedom of religion, yadda-yadda-yadda.”

“Be that as it may, I sense Life Under the Son is the key to all of this.”

“Why? Because the nut job's mash note had a few ‘shalts’ and ‘thous’ in it?”

Chief, were you even listening? I want to say. He spelled it out, right there in the middle of his THANK YOU card! He lives his life under the Son? Duh. Buy a vowel, big guy.

But I don't say any of this because I've become sort of accustomed to receiving a paycheck on a regular basis. Besides, Ceepak will say it better than I ever could. He knows how to remain professional in all circumstances. Even on days when the boss forgets to pack his brains.

“Sir-were you listening to what I just read?”

Okay. Maybe Ceepak's had enough, too. Who could blame him?

The chief slants down one eyebrow, squints up the eye underneath it.

“Come again, John?” Hey, I think he's miffed.

“Sir, the note writer clearly states, ‘I continue to live my life under the Son.’ An odd choice of words unless, of course, he is referring to Reverend Trumble's ministry. A group that, as I have said, I believe our killer has had some prior association with.”

“Maybe,” says Baines. “However, you might also consider….”

“Danny?” Ceepak heads for the door.

I follow.

“Where do you two think you're going?”

Ceepak stops. Turns. “To catch a killer.

We haven't much time. Less than five hours.” We walk out the door.

Behind us I hear the chief say, “Dismissed.”

Guess it makes him feel better.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The Bagel Lagoon at 102 Ocean Avenue is closed.

Nobody's in the mood for ethnic doughnuts at seven-thirty P.M. The sun has pretty much slipped down in the west, out over the bay. If I were at The Sand Bar, I'd be out on the deck settling in with a cold brewski and a basket of peel-and-eat shrimp, all set for another spectacular show. Sunset. Happens every night but never at the same time. Keeps things interesting.

I'm parked on Ocean Avenue, right in front of a fire hydrant. My buddies on the volunteer fire squad tell me that's how they know where to find a hydrant: just look for where the cop cars are parked.

Ceepak went upstairs to his apartment to talk to Rita. We didn't actually discuss it, but we both silently decided it would be better if he went up there alone.

I was sort of surprised that we came to Ceepak's place to find Rita. I don't think they're living together but I guess they planned a whole bunch of overnight adult activities for the week her son is up in NYC.

I wonder what's keeping Ceepak. He's been upstairs a while.

Guess he's still explaining our situation. Rita will definitely tell him the name of the friend who looked out for her when she was pregnant and scared and all alone at Reverend Billy's. This person who is now one of our town's most prominent citizens and probably doesn't want anybody else to know she once did time at a boardwalk sanctuary for unwed mothers.

Rita will reveal the name to Ceepak because she promised she would-if and when we really needed to know it. Rita always keeps her word. She's like Ceepak that way.

I crank up the radio. The one with the FM dial, not the official one straddling the drive hump. That radio's powered on and squawking but I'm not really paying attention to cop chatter because WAVY is spinning a live version of Springsteen's “The Promised Land.”

We're almost at the chorus. The part with the sha-la-la's I do so well.

I let Bruce handle my intro, set me up:

“Mister, I ain't a boy, no I'm a man. And I believe in a Promised Land.”

Then he goes on about how he's done his best to live the right way, how he gets up every morning and goes to work each day. I can relate.

Okay.

Here we go.

Sing-along time.

“All units. 10–49.”

It's the other radio. The Motorola Spectra police radio.

“Repeat. 10–49. Shots fired. 10–50. Corner of Oak and Ocean. The Seafood Market….”

10-49 means urgent. 10–50? Use caution.

Oak and Ocean is where Mama Shucker's is located. I know it well. It's this huge, open-air steam bar and seafood market.

“Request all units respond. Officer Malloy is reporting more shots fired….”

Malloy. His partner Santucci is probably the one doing the shooting.

We need to roll. Ceepak needs to be down here. Now.

I lean on the horn.

I flip on the siren.

I hit the horn again.

Here comes Ceepak. He's moving fast. He's taking the steps two at a time like a man running down an up escalator. He probably wishes he had installed a Batpole outside his kitchen window for emergency situations such as this.

I see Rita with the dog, standing outside the door up on the second-story landing. Barkley is living up to his name. Barking like mad. Guess he thinks I'm making too much noise. I lay off the horn.

I lean across the front seat and yank open the passenger side door to save Ceepak a second or two.

“10–49,” I yell to him. “10–50! Shots fired!”

Ceepak nods. “Got it.”

He hops into the passenger seat, practically rips the seat belt off its pulley tugging it down.

“Let's roll.”

I flick on the light bar. The siren keeps screaming.

“It's Santucci and Malloy,” I say. “Seafood Market. Mama Shucker's. Ocean and Oak.”

Ceepak nods. I see him pull his pistol out of its holster. Pop out the magazine. Check his ammunition. Slap it back in.

I stomp on the accelerator and jerk the Ford into the middle of Ocean Avenue. Traffic moves out of my way. The Ford is shimmying. I swerve and weave between lanes.

We pass The Pancake Palace. Pudgy's Fudgery. We reach Jacaranda Street. The roads in this part of town are named after trees and go in alphabetical order. Kumquat will come next. Oak is four after that. We pass Santa's Sea Shanty.

“That's her store,” says Ceepak.

“Who?”

“Sarah Byrne. The woman who took care of Rita. The one from Life Under the Son.”

But we can't stop now. Sarah Byrne will have to wait. As much as we'd like to talk to her, we can't go see Santa until after we see Santucci.

And Santucci has a gun.