“Uses the M118 special ball cartridge.”
“Calculating the angle of the line coming out the window, projecting it across the parking space, I put the shooter at approximately six and a half to seven feet off the ground,” McDaniels says.
“He's a tall guy?” I ask.
“Or he props his rifle on top of something that tall,” McDaniels says.
“Six and a half feet,” Ceepak says. “The height of a standard minivan.”
“Right.” McDaniels rubs her spiky white hair. “I suspect the shooter parks, waits, props his bipod on the vehicle's roof to steady his shot, squeezes off his rounds. Same with the paintball weapon.”
“If he's getting out of his minivan with a rifle or two, why didn't somebody see him?” I ask.
“Maybe somebody did,” McDaniels says.
“Doubtful,” Ceepak says. “Two hits were at night. The other first thing this morning.”
McDaniels agrees. “He could pop off his two shots, open the hatchback, toss in the weapon, and look like he got here early for hot ‘n’ fresh cinnamon buns.”
“The night shoots were more complicated,” Ceepak says. “Might be a team of snipers. One man on the glow-in-the-dark paintballs, another on the M-24.”
I speak up. “I saw about ten white vans in the parking lot this morning.”
“And,” McDaniels says, with that leprechaun twinkle in her eye again, “Chief Baines tells me you two just ran down another one.”
“Wrong vehicle,” Ceepak says.
“So why'd the driver take you on such a merry little ride?”
I field this one. “The girl in the van young enough to be the driver's daughter?”
Dr. McDaniels frowns. “Let me guess-she wasn't?”
“Yeah.”
“Figures. Men. You just can't handle us more mature gals, can you?” McDaniels's eyes twinkle. “Come on.” She gestures to her two guys to scoop up the seven Derek Jeter baseball cards. “I need to see the rest of your card collection. I hear it's a doozy.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Sea Haven has been steadily filling up.
Every motel we pass on the way to police headquarters has the “NO” neon lit up next to the “VACANCY.”
It's a little after 11:30 A.M. We know Mook is meeting his dealer at noon. We don't know where, but you can bet every cop car, fire truck, street sweeper, and meter maid is on the lookout for his little red convertible.
Ceepak flipped on the radio when we climbed into the car. Not the police radio. The radio radio. Sometimes the music helps him think.
They're playing an obscure Springsteen song that happens to be one of my favorites. I just didn't want to hear it today:
The part about the eyes? That's Katie.
I'm smiling. Not about getting my tires rotated. It's because The Boss adds:
Me, too. They're feisty, those redheads. They don't give up easy. Katie will pull through. I know it. So does The Boss.
Ceepak snaps off the FM box.
“Let's hope Bruce will decide not to join us,” Ceepak says.
“Yeah. Then we'd have
“Actually, given the presence of MTV, the chief estimates attendance might reach fifty thousand.”
“Wow.”
Ceepak shakes his head. I know what he's thinking: fifty thousand folks clumped together on the beach and boardwalk unless the chief shuts down the big show.
Fifty thousand targets.
We pull into the parking lot outside the police station. Dr. McDaniels and the two CSI guys are behind us in a government-issue Taurus.
“The evidence is inside,” Ceepak says when everybody crawls out of the sedan.
“Good,” McDaniels says, squinting in the white-hot sun. “If you stored it out here, it would melt.”
We head into the house.
In the lobby, above the gumball machine, we have this bulletin board. There are a couple of FBI wanted posters stapled to it, just in case any international terrorists decide to drop by Sea Haven for a little R amp;R. There's also this “Summer Safety Tips” poster with a fish riding a bicycle and wearing his helmet.
My favorite item on the board? This thank-you note from the kids in Miss Simmons's second grade class. According to the letter, which is scrawled with red crayon on blue-lined paper, the best part of their recent tour was getting locked inside our jail cell.
My favorite part of the letter?
The school the kids go to: Holy Innocents-just like everybody who's ever set foot inside one of our jail cells. They all swear they're innocent.
I grew up Catholic and did time at Holy Innocents Elementary myself. All in all, it was a great school. But I remember we had one of the world's oldest nuns come teach us religion on Wednesday afternoons. I think she was retired in a rest home on the island and the school let her drop by now and then to lend a hand. I also think she might have been senile. I know for certain she was crazy scary. First, she wore the old-fashioned black-on- white habit you don't see much any more. And she wore it in September when the thermometer was still hitting 80 and 90.
One time, when we were studying our Catechism for First Holy Communion, she told us this story about our souls and how they were big jugs of milk and every time we sinned it was like dribbling black ink drops into white milk. When we went to Confession, said our Act Of Contrition, and were absolved of our sins by the priest in the booth, most of the black ink would be washed away.
Since we had sinned, our soul would never be as good as new, no matter how much Good Works Brand
