stepping on hypodermic needles the tide dragged in.
“And,” our witness continues, “the van had a resident beach sticker on the bumper. You know, the green jobs? Little square with ‘Sea Haven’ written in that boring typeface? Helvetica. That's the lettering they use in airports.”
“Yes, sir.” Ceepak is smiling. I think he can't believe how lucky we are to have found a witness who actually saw and then remembered so many minute details. Most people don't see diddly or squat. This guy remembers typefaces. And don't forget, he has that atomic watch so he knows precisely when he saw them.
“Tell me, sir,” Ceepak asks, “do you work in the graphic arts?”
“Yeah. I'm an art director. Advertising. You know that commercial with the people standing on top of the yellow mountain and they all have arthritis?”
“Sorry. I don't watch much TV.”
“I'm sure you've seen it. It's a national spot. The field of yellow flowers? People dancing? They're wearing yellow gaucho hats?”
“Sorry.”
“The pill looks like the sun with yellow sunbeams glowing out the sides? Everybody feels better at the end and they play Frisbee with the yellow Labrador retriever? The Frisbee's yellow, too.”
“Sorry.”
“It's on the news every night. Usually right after the one for hemorrhoid cream. I did not do
“I'm going to look for it.”
“It's good. Very visual. Very yellow. Very sunny.”
“The hemorrhoid cream?” I ask.
“No. Mine. It's for Zolflam. The dawn of a new arthritis pain relief day. We bought that classic song
“I see,” Ceepak nods like he knows what a mnemonic device is, which maybe he does. To me, it sounds like a jackhammer or something you fix sewer pipes with. “We have your contact information, Mr. Goldstein? In case we need to talk again?”
“Yeah. I gave it to Officer Kiger.”
“That'll work. Thank you. If-”
Ceepak stops.
Behind Goldstein, he sees what I see: a white minivan cruising slowly down the street, heading right for us.
License plate: AB494C7.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Danny? Get in the car.”
“It's Mook's ARMY buddy!”
“In the car.”
Ceepak nods at Adam Kiger.
“Mr. Goldstein?” Kiger says to our witness. “If you'll come with me.” Kiger practically drags the guy in the King Putt T-shirt down to the end of the street.
“That's not the van …”
That's all I hear Mr. Mnemonic say as he is hauled out of harm's way. Kiger has his arm wrapped around the dude's waist and is carrying him on his hip like a grocery sack stacked with six-packs.
“Officer Boyle?” His partner, Malloy, has his hand on my shoulder. “You heard Ceepak. Into the car. Now.”
I move toward the Ford, walking backwards so I can see what Ceepak is going to do, moving fast so I don't get hauled away like Goldstein.
“Move it, Danny.” Malloy puts his body between the minivan and me-and I'm the one wearing the bulletproof vest. “Hustle, kid. Into the car.”
I do what he says. I don't want Malloy babysitting me when he could be out there helping Ceepak.
I see the guys on our team reach for their weapons. Ceepak. Malloy. I look in the rearview mirror. Kiger has his semiautomatic out, too. He has Goldstein stuffed behind a beach bench and is kneeling in the sand at the end of the street, taking aim at the minivan's tires.
Everybody on this job has a gun except, of course, me. I just have a big bull's-eye pasted somewhere on my forehead.
I check the van's front bumper: no green “Sea Haven” sticker. So, I figure, it's not the one Mr. Goldstein saw at eleven thirty-two A.M. Ceepak, however, isn't taking any chances. His gun is out and aimed at the driver's head.
“Stop!” he says.
The van stops. Funny how a gun works. Even better than a stop sign.
This big, burly guy tumbles out of the passenger side door with his hands up over his head. He has a 7- Eleven Big Gulp cup in one of his hands so soda sloshes over the top when he hoists it up over his head.
Rick steps down from the driver's side, arms raised.
“We're cool,” he says. “We're cool.”
Two other passengers fall out of the sliding side door, like they had trouble jimmying up on the handle and lost their balance. All four now have their hands up over their heads. I recognize their faces from this morning with Mook in the diner. Rick, the ARMY guy, has on a new T-shirt: black with a sparkling gold front. It shows the bust of Julius Caesar, only he's wearing sunglasses. It's from a casino down in Atlantic City: Caesar's.
“On the ground,” Ceepak barks. “All of you. Now.”
The college guys do as they're told even if it means spilling the rest of their Big Gulps.
“Kiss the asphalt!” Malloy barks.
Ceepak kind of looks at Malloy, like he wonders where he learned that line. My guess? One of those Vin Diesel movies or some cop show that comes on when Ceepak's busy watching
Since all the potential bad guys are lying in the street, I figure it's safe for me to step out of our cop car. I make my way up to the minivan.
“Danny?” Ceepak hears me coming up behind him. “Do you recognize these gentlemen?”
Kind of a funny question to ask right now, since all of them are sprawled facedown on the hot blacktop. But I saw them earlier when they tumbled out of the van like drunken clowns at the circus.
“Yeah. They're Mook's friends.”
“That's right,” the lanky one says, lifting his head, pushing his sunglasses back into place.
“Kiss it!” Malloy snarls. Lanky's mouth goes back to the blacktop.
“Mark?” Ceepak says.
“Yes, sir?”
“I think we can let them up.”
“Should I cuff them?”
“No need,” says Ceepak, holstering his pistol. “Am I right, gentlemen?”
“No need … we're cool.” The four of them mumble their agreement into the tarmac.
“Stand up. All of you.” It's Malloy. He likes giving orders.
Mook's pals haul themselves up off the asphalt, which is hot, and brush themselves off. I move around to the back of the van.
The bumper stickers are all still there plus a new one: I SCORED ROYALLY AT CAESAR'S!
“Where's Mook?” I hear one of them ask.
