too. I figure they both want to ask the same question.
Ceepak goes first.
“Danny-what happened in nineteen ninety-six?”
“Think, Mr. Boyle.” McDaniels moves in closer. “Nineteen ninety-six.”
“You mean like in history?”
“No,” Ceepak says. “In your life.”
“I dunno. Nineteen ninety-six. I was, what? Fifteen.”
“What about in the summer?”
McDaniels takes another step forward. “We've got Derek Jeter, one of baseball's ‘boys of summer.’ We have
It hits me.
“Nineteen ninety-six is the summer we all met. The summer we started hanging out.”
“Who?” McDaniels doesn't know about National Toasted Marshmallow Day.
“Me, Jess, Katie, Becca, Olivia, and Mook.”
“Our primary targets,” says Ceepak. “And our possible shooter.”
“Okay,” McDaniels rubs her tiny hands together. “We're getting someplace.”
“Officer Ceepak?” A young cop from the radio room is at the door.
“Yes?”
“Are you guys still looking for a Harley Mook?”
“Roger that,” Ceepak says.
I glance at the clock. Twelve ten P.M.
“Has he been spotted?” Ceepak's ready to roll.
“No. He just called in.”
“Excuse me?”
“He just called nine-one-one.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Sea Haven's cellular service is pretty technologically advanced.
We have something called E911 for Enhanced 9-1-1. That means our cell towers can tell our 911 operators where you're calling from, thanks to some sort of GPS technology Ceepak probably understands but I never will.
It's the only way we have to find Mook. He never told the operator his location. No address, no landmarks. According to the transcript, the call went something like this:
That's it.
The call stayed connected but Mook didn't say anything more, which isn't like Mook at all. Usually, the guy never shuts up. Not when we were fifteen, not now. They know it was Mook on the line because the caller ID system at 9-1-1 told them that, too.
E911 is sending us to Oak Street near Beach Lane. Probably a house. It's close to the public beach where Jess had his lifeguard chair in ’96, the beach where I used to hang out with my best bud and casually bump into the bathing beauties who were always there because Jess looked like one of those tanned weight lifters in red gym shorts from
We're almost there. Couple more blocks.
The operator added a note to the transcript:
Makes me think somebody “fucking shot” Mook twice.
We swing off Ocean Avenue and head down Oak Street. No sirens, no lights. Mook called
The state CSI crew is close behind us. Malloy and Kiger will come up Beach Lane to provide backup. An ambulance is on the way, too, because we figure Mook is going to need one. Now all we need to do is find exactly where on Oak Street near Beach Lane he is.
I squinch my eyes and look for a little red sports car. It's not parked in the street, and, for the first time since this thing started, I don't see any white minivans, either. The people on Oak prefer SUVs. Range Rovers. Expeditions. GMCs. Even one of those civilian Hummers. This single block would suck a gas station dry if they all hit empty at the same time.
“There,” Ceepak says.
He does his three-finger point to a million-dollar reconstruction job. The rich people who own the houses closest to the beach are always tearing them down and starting over. That's what we see at number 2 Oak Street. A huge, three-story beach house with Tyvek-wrapped walls ready for the vinyl siding neatly stacked in the gutted front yard. Some of the windows upstairs aren't in yet; the ones that are have Anderson stickers covering the panes. The house is sort of built on stilts-concrete piers that form a shaded carport underneath.
That's where Mook parked his Miata.
Ceepak coasts up to the curb. I check my bulletproof vest to make sure it's snug in case the shooter is still in the neighborhood, waiting for me to make my big entrance.
“Hang back,” Ceepak says.
This is an order.
He won't let me out of the car until he determines whether or not it's a sniper trap. He's probably thinking what I'm thinking: this Wheezer character lured Mook here with the promise of primo weed, then took a potshot at him. He might want to do the same to me. Mook could be the bait the sniper's using to pull me into his trap.
McDaniels and her crew park behind us. Ceepak hops out, stays low, and hugs the side of our car for cover. He flips up the palm of his hand at the CSI guys. Nobody is allowed out except him. I check the rearview mirror. McDaniels nods her head. She's okay to wait until Ceepak says it's safe to come out and do her job.
Ceepak pulls his pistol out of its holster, lets the gun hang loose at his side, does this crouching dash to the carport. He moves in a zigzag pattern, ducks behind piles of cinder blocks, then a cement-mixing drum. No straight lines, nothing to give anybody an easy shot. If you want to take down John Ceepak this afternoon, he's going to make you work for it.
He reaches the Miata. Squats. Duck walks around to the driver side. Looks inside.
He reholsters his weapon. Shakes his head. He's not in a hurry anymore.
Poor Mook. He must be dead.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It's one P.M.
Malloy and Kiger and about six other cops have swept the surrounding area, searching for possible perps. They must all think the shooter fled the scene, because Ceepak finally gestures that it's okay for me to crawl out of our car. I feel like a little kid, like the adults had to make sure it was safe before I was allowed to go outside and play. I'm also extremely glad they did so.
I start the long walk up the newly poured driveway. Dr. McDaniels and her crew run yellow yarn through a hole in the sports car's windshield. One CSI guy has a plastic protractor, like we had in seventh grade geometry class, even though I can't remember what we did with them. Something about angles. Triangles. Now he's pointing across the street and McDaniels is nodding her head. I look over my shoulder. There's another huge
