“When I went into the kitchen to make more popcorn.”
“Did you notice the time?”
“Around midnight.”
“You sure about the time?”
“Positive.”
“You checked your watch?”
“No. The microwave. It has one of those automatic popcorn buttons but I prefer to enter the time manually to insure proper poppage.”
“Because microwave oven temperatures may vary.” Ceepak understands. Of course he does. He also follows the instructions-the rules-plainly written on the side of every Orville Redenbacher box.
“Exactly. I can see this no-parking zone from the kitchen window. I guess I should've called you guys. Told you to bring your tow truck. People shouldn't park in no-parking zones.”
“Sir, do you happen remember the type of vehicle you saw parked out here?”
“Wednesday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Because people park there all the time even though they're not supposed to. Maybe you guys need a bigger sign or more tow trucks.”
“What sort of vehicle was parked there Wednesday night?”
“One of those minivans. I don't know the make or model. They all look pretty much the same to me.”
I agree. Try finding one in a mall parking lot. Try finding mine. I never can.
“Do you remember the color?”
“White.”
Just like mine. Just like half the vans in Sea Haven.
“Anything else?”
“No. Not really.”
“There's one thing,” I say.
They turn to look at me, surprised.
“I didn't park there.”
“You drive a minivan?” The guy stares at me like I've got a big “L” pasted on my forehead.
“That wasn't your van?” says Ceepak.
“Couldn't be.”
“You're certain, Danny?”
“Hey-I'm a cop. I saw the sign. You think I'd do something illegal? Besides, I couldn't afford another ticket.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Awhite minivan?” The chief shakes his head. “Well, that certainly narrows things down, now doesn't it?”
It's close to two A.M. We've set up a war room at the house. It's actually the interrogation room in the back part of the police station, but since we don't have any suspects to chat with right now we're using it as our situation workroom. Ceepak has stuck these big paper sheets on the walls, keeping track of what we know or suspect.
I cringe every time I see “Danny Boyle + Friends = Targets?” scribbled up there in one of the columns.
The chief and Santucci were already here when we came back. They're pulling an all-nighter, going over their Labor Day security plans for about the ten millionth time. I think they even have helicopters flying down for the day. And they're borrowing the airplanes that usually buzz the beach towing banners advertising the New Jersey State Lotto.
“We can't put out an APB for white minivans,” the chief says. “They're like seagulls. Too many to count.”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak. Then he places the plastic sheets holding the shooter's two different “calling cards” on the table in the center of the room. The two recovered bullets are sitting on the table in labeled evidence envelopes next to folders lined with digital photographs detailing the site of each slug. I've never seen so many close-ups of a shattered lamp or a hole in the sand. Some of the photos have black lines and angles drawn on them, like they've been used for geometry homework.
“Did you reach Dr. McDaniels?” the chief asks.
“She'll be here at noon tomorrow to help us make positive matches on the slugs and determine more exact trajectories.”
“Nothing official?”
“She understands. I'm also hoping she can give me her opinion on these.”
“What about them?” The chief leans down to study the two trading cards.
“They're similar, but different.” Ceepak points to the Phantom card. “Here we have a photograph. An actor or model costumed like the comic book hero posing with this woman.”
“Is that Lois Lane?” the chief asks.
“No, sir. Lois Lane is a character from the Superman stories. This is the Phantom.”
“Well, she's got that Lois Lane look, you know?”
“Note also how she is standing behind the Phantom, peering over his shoulder,” says Ceepak. “I wonder if that is psychologically significant.”
“Could be,” the chief says. “You never know with these nutballs.”
So much for sophisticated psychological analysis.
“This second card,” Ceepak says, “has a more traditional comicbook look. It appears to be a cover illustration.”
The chief peers at it.
“Why is one card an illustration, the other a photograph?” Ceepak asks rhetorically. “I'm hoping Dr. McDaniels might offer a theory.”
“Fine. Maybe she can lift some prints off those things, too.”
“Possible. But doubtful.”
“Yeah. This guy hasn't made a lot of mistakes, has he?”
“They all make mistakes, sir. For instance, he parked in a no-parking zone. But the biggest mistake thus far committed is the violence he and/or his accomplice have perpetrated against our citizens and their property.”
“You really think there could be two shooters?”
“It's a possibility.”
“Yeah.”
It's one of the questions Ceepak listed on the Post-it sheet labeled “Unknowns.” We also don't know what kind of sniper rifle he or they used: an M14, M21, M24, or M40A1. The army has a lot of M's.”
“So, Boyle,” the chief says, “we know who your friends are. Some of them, at least. Now we need to think about your enemies. Who hates you enough to try to kill you?”
It's weird to hear him say it out loud like that, even though I've been asking myself the same question.
“I didn't know I had any enemies.” I'm not kidding. I really didn't.
“Anybody spring to mind?” Baines sits down. “Anybody at all?”
Nobody leaps out.
Until yesterday, I thought I had only friends. Lots of them. I grew up in Sea Haven. Lived here my whole life. I've always been kind of laid-back, never too ambitious, never a claw-your-way-to-the-top type. Springsteen tells us, “Everybody wants to be the man at the top.” Not me. I'm happy in the middle. That's where the crowd is. And where there's a crowd, there's usually a party.
“Anybody at all?” Baines asks again.
“Well, there was this crazy guy on the boardwalk,” I say. “Remember him, Ceepak? The skinny dude in the
