me into the store. Since we're telling everybody in town that Katie had been “injured” by a BB gun fired by a rowdy gang of underage drinkers, I can't be seen in public putting on a flak jacket. You don't slip on a bulletproof vest because you're afraid of BBs.
Inside, with my shirt up over my head, I hear this little voice.
“You need to do more crunches,” she says. “Need to tighten up those abs, Mr. Boyle. You're looking a little flabby.”
It's Dr. McDaniels, the CSI whiz, examining my physical evidence.
“Dr. McDaniels,” I hear Ceepak say. “Good to see you again.”
“You can't see me,” she says. “I'm not officially here, remember?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Dr. McDaniels is pushing sixty and doesn't take guff from anybody. She probably thinks the whole “keep-it- a-secret” deal is stupid. And she'd be right, too.
“I can't wait until we actually work together,” she says to Ceepak.
“Me, too.”
“Don't tell my husband I snuck down to meet you. Let's make that another one of our little secrets.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Dr. McDaniels?” says Chief Baines. “Thank you so much for coming down on such short notice. We need you to wrap this thing up ASAP.”
He acts like we're in total control of the situation here, that if we work a little harder, move a little faster, we should have the case cracked before the first rack of ribs hits the barbecue pit Monday morning.
“And John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need
Ouch. That's gotta hurt. Ceepak doesn't say anything. Neither does the chief or anybody else for a couple of seconds.
“Okay, John?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. I'm heading back to the house. Sandy, if you need anything, give me a holler. Pleasure to meet you.”
“Pleasure to meet you, too,” says Dr. McDaniels.
She says it, but I can tell she doesn't mean it. McDaniels and Ceepak worked together back in July when she helped us on the Tilt-A-Whirl case. I don't think she's keen on anybody suggesting Ceepak's not doing his job the way it should be done.
“Santucci? Let's roll.” The chief and his sidekick leave.
I finally yank the shirt off my head. I almost take my nose and ears off with it.
“Here we go, Danny.” Ceepak holds out the bulletproof, I mean bullet
“Sorry about your lady friend,” McDaniels says when I'm all bundled up. This I can tell she means. She has the map of Ireland written on her face just like Katie, only Dr. McD's map has more roads wrinkled into it. “Hang in there, kiddo.”
She moves over to the glass display case filled with chocolates and candy.
“We've worked out the trajectory.” McDaniels gestures to some bright-yellow yarn strung between the plate-glass windows and the bullet holes behind the counter. “Two points make a straight line,” she says, echoing what Ceepak said earlier. “Works every time.”
McDaniels is a tiny woman. Spry. She flits around like Tinkerbell. She's wearing cargo shorts that show off her matchstick-skinny legs and knobby knees. She's also wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt with Tabasco bottles printed all over it.
“For precision, we concentrated on the bullet that missed Mr. Boyle.” She points to the hole in the cinnamon hearts tub. “We matched it to the corresponding hole in the window. This, of course, gave us an uninterrupted firing line.”
I see McDaniels has brought along two associates, two state CSI technicians who came in on Saturday, maybe their day off, because Sandy McDaniels asked them to. Both guys are wearing shorts and T-shirts. Tabasco sauce T-shirts. I guess it's a Casual Saturday theme with the state CSI team, the Tabasco collection. I wonder if they own the hot-pepper boxer shorts. I do, but I didn't wear mine today. I didn't get the memo about Casual Saturday.
Ceepak does one of this three-finger points toward the window. “Have you run the line outside?”
“Your chief wouldn't let us,” McDaniels says. “He was afraid we might invite unwanted scrutiny and questions.”
“I see.” Ceepak sounds disappointed.
“So we used the laser,” one of the CSI guys says.
“That'll work.” Ceepak's happy again. “Find anything?”
“Not much,” McDaniels says. “The line took us to an empty parking spot. The only one in the whole lot. Section D.”
“Near the Dolphin sign,” says the taller CSI guy.
They mark the parking lot here with alphabetical signs to help you find your car. You know: Alligator, Blowfish, Clown Fish, Dolphin, Eel. I think they stole the idea from Disney World.
“The parking lot?” Ceepak's ruminating again. “Fascinating.”
“Of course, the line continued.”
“Yeah,” the other CSI guy says, “all the way to nothing-an empty patch of sky between the condos and the water slide.”
“So, we figure it was a park and shoot,” McDaniels says. “And the guy was tidy. No shell casings.”
The parking lot.
I would have figured the sniper took aim from one of the elevated locations surrounding Saltwater Tammy's. Some place high like where we found all the baseball cards.
“That scenario also seems to fit with your prior crime scenes,” McDaniels says. “The first attack on the beach.”
“Roger,” says Ceepak. “We suspect those shots came from the street.”
“Where the cars park,” I add.
“Crime scene number two.” McDaniels opens a bin and carefully helps herself to a single Jelly Belly. “Morgan's Surf and Turf restaurant.”
“Outside,” Ceepak says. “The parking lot.”
“Either there or across the street-beneath that water tower or in the driveway of one of those houses. I think he likes to park, then squeeze off his shots.” She pops the Jelly Belly into her mouth. “Hmm. Fascinating.”
“What?” Ceepak asks.
“It really does taste like Dr Pepper. How do they do that?”
“Chemicals?” I suggest.
“Forget I asked.” She pops another Jelly Belly.
“I suspect the weapon is an army-issue M-24,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels nods her head. “Also sold as the Remington 700 hunting rifle.”
“Accurate to eight hundred meters.”
“Bolt action.”
These two could sing duets.
