they stumble a little-to pretend they’re drunk and weaving their way home, which would explain why they’re walking in the middle of the road, coming up on the driver side of the car.
“Paulie’s behind the wheel. Maybe fiddling with the radio. Adjusting mirrors, trying to figure out where everything is on this girl’s car. When our doer gets to the window, he or she whips up their pistol in two seconds flat. They aim and fire-one shot that goes clean through Paulie Braciole’s skull and embeds in the far door.”
“Your hypothetical killer is quite skilled,” says Ceepak.
Detective Wilson nods. “The best.”
“You’ve seen this sort of killing before?”
“Once or twice. It’s a quick and clean execution technique perfected by a rebel group in the Philippines called the National People’s Army. They used to target U.S. troops and diplomats. The assassin walks up to your car window while you’re waiting at a stoplight, whips out their rod, and bam. You’re dead before red changes to green.”
This makes no sense.
“So,” I say, “we’re looking for somebody from the Philippines?”
“Doubtful,” says Ceepak.
“Yeah,” adds the techie. “The NPA may have invented the move but, these days, the technique’s very popular with all sorts of professional hit men.”
A pro.
The kind of killer who would know precisely where to place a single shot to ensure a quick death. The kind of professional hit man a motorcycle gang like The Creed probably has on its roster.
“So,” I say, “if that’s what happened, then this has to be where Paulie was murdered, or else the car wouldn’t be parked here, right?”
Ceepak doesn’t answer right away. He just keeps staring through that open window. Detective Wilson does the same thing.
Finally, Ceepak speaks. “Such is our conundrum, Danny. The riddle we must answer.”
“Well,” I say, “what if the murder took place back here but
“That is definitely one answer,” says Ceepak.
The way he says it? I know he doesn’t think it’s the right answer.
28
Ceepak’s still racking his brains when, once again, we are called to the set of
“Where are Reed and Malloy?”
I’m guessing those were the two full-time cops on security duty today.
I’m betting Gus can hear Ceepak crushing the radio microphone in his hand. He’s that ticked off.
The mayor thinks he and Mandrake need the armed security guards more than Soozy? I don’t care what Ceepak says, the next time Mr. Adkinson pulls out that petition, I’m signing it.
“10-4,” says Ceepak. “We’re on our way.”
“Come again?”
Sirens wailing, we fly up Shore Drive, even though there are these cute signs that say stuff like “IF YOU’RE IN A HURRY, YOU’RE ON THE WRONG ROAD” and “DRIVE SLOW, SEE OUR SIGHTS-DRIVE FAST, SEE OUR JUDGE.”
The signs were Chief Baines’s idea. Good Public Relations, which seems to be why we do all sorts of stupid stuff in Sea Haven these days, like let a bunch of drunks puke all over us on national TV and haul security details to Borough Hall when the primary threat is on Halibut Street.
We whip around the corner to the TV house. I see Gus and his partner, another retired cop named Andrew Stout. They’re double-teaming this big dude in a fringed leather vest that shows off his arm muscles. Behind the guy is, of course, his motorcycle: a Harley-Davidson with high handlebars and a banana seat.
Gus and Stout are unarmed. However, Gus Davis is scrappy and, like he always says, he won’t take “no guff from nobody.” He stands his ground with both fists up and his feet firmly set, aping the Fighting Irish boxer pose from Notre Dame. Stout, who looks like he still runs three miles every morning, has both hands up, the way blocking linemen do in football. The two of them may be retired, but they still know how to keep a bad guy at bay.
I slam on the brakes. Tires squeal. Our rear end fishtails a little to the left.
This gets the lumbering lunatic’s attention.
He turns his thick neck around, looks in our direction.
Ceepak’s up and out of his door before the car stops sliding sideways.
“Come on kid,” I hear Gus shout. “Give me a reason to knock your block off!”
“I just want to talk to Soozy!” the guy pleads.
“So buy a baby doll and name it Susan!” counters Gus, moving his fists around in a circle under his chin.
Ceepak pulls his Glock up from his hip. Locks it into a two-handed grip. “We’ve got this, Gus,” he shouts, aiming his weapon at the big bruiser’s left thigh. “On the ground!” he shouts.
Motorcycle man hesitates. You can see the “Huh?” etched on his face.
So Ceepak repeats himself: “On the ground! Now!”
I think the guy is slow-as in stupid. He puts his hands over his head.
This is not what Simon said.
“On! The! Ground!” I’m shouting it too, as I come around the nose of the car, my hands going for the plastic FlexiCuffs hooked to my belt.
“Kiss the dirt, douchebag!” shouts Gus. The guy finally comprehends. He drops to his knees.
“Down!” shouts Ceepak.
The lunkhead lies on his stomach. It takes him a while. Finally, he puts his face in the pea-pebble lawn.
“Hands behind your back!” barks Ceepak.
The horizontal dude obeys.
“Danny?”
Ceepak keeps his weapon trained on the ox while I work my way behind him, slip the plastic loops over his hands, and tug up on the zip straps like I’m bundling monster cables behind my high-def TV.
“I just need to talk to Soozy,” the guy grunts into the gravel, so it comes out kind of mumbled.
“You ever hear of a telephone?” says Gus. “Next time, drop a dime!”
The guy isn’t struggling as I fasten his hands behind his back, so I glance up. Ceepak is actually chuckling. Gus will do that to you.
Up on the sundeck, over Ceepak’s shoulder, I can see Layla with Soozy K. The other three contestants are behind them: Mike Tomasino, Vinnie Martin, and Jenny Mortadella.
I hear feet crunching across gravel. Someone coming up behind Ceepak.
