hauling Paulie’s body over to the Knock ’Em Down.
We issued an APB for an assailant in a helmet and racing suit on a motorcycle, but both Ceepak and I are pretty certain that, as soon as the hit went bad, the shooter was out of his costume faster than that quick-change couple on
“If he even rode his motorcycle today,” says Ceepak as we cruise south on Beach Lane.
“He was wearing the helmet and leather racing gear,” I say.
“But I doubt he had plans to transport Mr. Mandrake’s body away from the kill zone as he did with Paul Braciole. Also, he struck in broad daylight. He may have worn the racing gear simply to mask his identity.”
“You think it’s the same shooter who did Paulie Braciole, right?”
“Affirmative. It fits with Detective Wilson’s description of the execution technique.”
Right. The hit man walks up to your car while you’re waiting at a stoplight, or, in this case, a stop sign. They whip out their pistol, and bam.
“But if this guy’s a pro, how could he miss?” I ask.
“I suspect, Danny, that Mr. Mandrake is one of those drivers who does not come to a full and complete stop when they encounter a stop sign.”
Ah, yes. We see a lot of those. Usually people from New York or Philly, always in a rush, think stop signs are a government plot to ruin their vacation. Typically, a “rolling stop” will earn you a warning, maybe a ticket if you do it on Shore Drive, which is jammed with kids riding bikes with training wheels. Today, a rolling stop may have saved Martin Mandrake’s life.
I’m wondering if Ceepak will write him up for it anyhow, when his business cell starts chirruping.
“This is Ceepak. Go.”
Behind the wheel, I tilt my head sideways. Try to make out who’s calling. I get nothing.
“I see,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely disappointed. “And is your decision final?”
Uh-oh. I’m figuring it’s Ohio. Maybe they’re taking away that job offer. Maybe they don’t like seeing their future chief of detectives on TV so much anymore.
“But sir, as you know, we are in the middle of a very knotty investigation.”
I shake my head. As much as I don’t want Ceepak to leave, I want it to be his choice, not some Buckeye sheriff’s.
“Have you informed Mayor Sinclair of your decision?”
Oh. Okay. Time out. This has more to do with Sea Haven than Cincinnati, the only city besides Cleveland I know in Ohio.
Ceepak pinches the top of his nose. Closes his eyes. “What would you like me to do, Buzz?”
Buzz is Chief Baines. And Buzz is really his name; it’s not a nickname for something dorky like Arnold or Elmer. I saw it on the Florida State college diploma he has hanging on his office wall. I think the chief’s parents didn’t want to set unrealistic expectations for him, so they named him after the
“Very well. Yes, sir. I understand. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”
I’m pulling into the municipal parking lot behind police headquarters. Ceepak is folding up his cell phone.
“That was Chief Baines,” he says, when I shut down the engine.
“Huh,” I say as if I couldn’t tell.
“He has been offered a private-sector job as security chief for a major insurance corporation in Florida. Their headquarters is very close to where he grew up. It is, and I quote, ‘his dream job.’”
“So he’s quitting his job here?”
“Roger that. He has already telephoned Mayor Sinclair and tendered his two-week notice to the city council.”
“Geeze-o, man,” I mumble. “First you’re leaving, now the chief.…”
Ceepak yanks up on his door handle. “I may need to reconsider my options. We can’t all go home again, Danny.”
I smile weakly. “Well, I never actually left.”
“Perhaps your choice was the wisest. Let’s go.”
We head inside to talk to Marty “I Don’t Brake For Small Animals Or Children” Mandrake.
40
Martin Mandrake is waiting for us in the interview room.
His choice. He requested a room “without any windows,” according to Sergeant Broadwater, who’s got the desk duty this afternoon.
“I think he’s spooked,” the sergeant says to Ceepak.
“Understandable. Have you been able to reach Detective Botzong from the State Police Major Crimes Unit?”
“Yeah. He said to tell you …” He reaches for a pink While You Were Out message pad. “That a ‘Detective Jeanne Wilson is at the municipal garage where we impounded the vehicle and was able to remove a slug from the Mercedes in just about the same spot where we found the hole in the Mustang.’ That make any sense to you guys?”
“Indeed it does,” says Ceepak. “Thank you for taking such a detailed message, Sergeant.”
Broadwater shrugs. “It’s the job. Oh, here.”
He hands Ceepak an envelope.
“From Mrs. Rence?” Ceepak asks.
“Yeah,” says Broadwater. “Some kind of printout you wanted.”
“Thank you.”
We head up the hallway, past the empty Chief’s office. Guess it will stay empty until the town fathers get around to hiring a replacement. I hope, this time, Ceepak puts his name in the hat. Or tosses his hat into the ring. Or that a hat in the ring has his name in it. One of those.
The last time the job became vacant, right after our first case together, Ceepak declined all offers to take over the top cop slot. But that was a few years ago. He had only been in Sea Haven a couple months. Now, there’s nobody better.
We push open the door to the interview room. It looks a lot like a conference room but with crappy furniture, a box of old Christmas decorations in one corner, some files and magazines in another, and a humongous wall mirror that’s actually a one-way window. Mandrake is on his phone, pacing at the far end of the long table.
“Ask Layla.” He waves at us to “come in, come in,” like our SHPD Interview Room is suddenly his new production trailer. “Ask Layla. Look, I am temporarily indisposed. If anybody has any questions, send them to Layla. I don’t give a shit. I almost died. This is the second time a man has pulled a gun on me. The first was back in ’Nam. Some Viet Cong asshole didn’t like the way I was looking at his girlfriend in a bar. This was worse. This asshole fired.” He puts his free hand up to his free ear. “You ever hear a bullet whizz by, inches from your brain? I was like Lincoln, sitting at that stop sign.”
Except, of course, Abraham Lincoln was president, freed the slaves, and won the Civil War. Martin Mandrake? He makes cheesy TV shows about kids playing Skee-Ball, hopping into each other’s beds, and puking up beer.
“I gotta go. Some more cops want to talk to me. Talk to Layla. No. No! Don’t even think like that. We cannot cancel the finale. The show must go on.” He punches the OFF button on his iPhone.
“Where the hell were you two?” he snaps at us.
“Excuse me?” says Ceepak.
“You’re in charge of security! How come you didn’t stop this nutjob?”
“You chose to leave the secure location,” says Ceepak. “To venture outside the Green Zone.”
