“Are you gentlemen looking for him?” Ceepak asks.
“Duh,” the guy says, maybe forgetting what it felt like back on the asphalt.
“He called us,” Rick, the ARMY guy, says. “From his cell phone. Said to meet him here. Oak and Beach. Said he'd just heard about this awesome party in Philly tonight but first he was going to score us some …” The guy remembers we're cops, decides to change the subject. “We drove up from Atlantic City.”
“Is that so?” Malloy moves in closer. He still has his weapon aimed at their heads. He flicks from one to another and back again, like he wants to make sure, should it become necessary, that he can personally mow all of them down with as few bullets as possible, like he's working out his shooting angles.
“It is,” says Ceepak. “They went to Caesar's.”
“Just because he has on the T-shirt?” Malloy sounds itchy, like he wants to shoot somebody soon. “You can buy those at the Qwick Pick, at the gas station.”
“They parked in deck four.” Ceepak taps on the minivan's slanting front windshield. Behind it, on the dashboard, is a small orange stub. A receipt from the Caesar's parking garage. Ceepak saw it from fifteen paces.
“Is Mook here?” Rick asks.
“No,” Ceepak says sort of softly.
“He told us he had this great parking spot. Free. Right near the beach.”
“He did.” Ceepak points to the empty red sports car tucked under the big house being built at the corner. “Real good spot.”
“Is Mook okay?” another friend asks.
“Did something happen?”
They suddenly sound sad, maybe scared. They also seem as if Mook really was their buddy, like he really used to be mine.
“Gentlemen, Mr. Harley Mook was murdered this morning.”
“Jesus,” the tall guy says. “Murdered?”
“Sniper,” I say, looking at Rick.
“Fuck.” He kind of gasps it. “Fuck, man.” He sounds truly upset.
Now I'm certain: Rick has never shot anybody in his life. Never wanted to either. He just went into the army to pay for college and see the world. He's not our guy.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Ceepak nods his head like he agrees with Rick's assessment of the situation: it is totally fucked.
“Officer Malloy?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Please escort these gentlemen back to headquarters. We need detailed statements.” Then Ceepak turns to the guys standing in the street, their hands stuffed in the front pockets of their shorts, shaking their heads, trying to figure out what the hell happened here this morning.
“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ceepak says. “I'm certain it will assist in our apprehension of Mr. Mook's killer.”
Then he turns to me.
“Wheezer, Danny. We need to find Wheezer.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
So now we know we definitely don't know who did this.
We also know we're looking for a minivan, maybe one with a bum tire.
And we're looking for a local.
We have less than twenty-four hours. Unless, of course, our local sniper shoots somebody else before noon tomorrow. It was the chief who made the Sunday deadline. I don't think he consulted with the bad guy.
Ceepak and I head back to the boardwalk. He wants to talk to T. J. again. While we're doing that, about a half dozen cop cars will cruise into service stations up and down the island and ask about flat tires and minivans.
“When we finish with T. J.,” Ceepak says, “we need to talk to your friends about nineteen ninety-six. All of them.”
Except Mook. And Katie. He's dead. She's still unconscious.
“We'll meet them at the hospital,” Ceepak says. “Mainland Medical. Sixteen hundred hours.” It's a little after two P.M. He wants to meet my Marshmallow Crew at four. Jess and Olivia are still with friends on the mainland. I called and told them about Mook, asked them to think about “Wheezer.” The Avondale police will escort them over to the hospital for the meet. Jess said he wanted to drive himself. I told him no, he didn't.
Next I call Becca, tell and ask her the same things. She freaks out for a second but pulls it back together pretty quick; she even volunteers to dig out her Nineteen ninety-six yearbook.
“We'll send a cop car over to drive you to Mainland Medical,” I say.
“I want Ceepak to drive me,” Becca says.
“He can't. We're busy.”
“Then send Riggs.”
“Jim Riggs?”
In the driver's seat, Ceepak smiles.
“Excellent choice,” he says.
Jim Riggs is this twenty-nine-year-old cop who spends more time on the locker-room weight machines than anybody else. If we did one of those “Hot Cops of Sea Haven” calendars, I guess Riggs would be the coverboy.
We park near the boardwalk. The only reason we find a space is because, basically, we're in a cop car and can park anywhere we want. The place is packed. Twice as many half-naked bodies cruising up and down the sun-drenched planks as usual. The weekend weather is cooperating: 90 degrees with low humidity and a light breeze coming in off the ocean. The wind carries the scent of saltwater and taffy and Italian sausages and french fries. So far, not a whiff of gunpowder or hot steel. Like Ceepak says: it's all good. Good and greasy.
“Take it easy,” Ceepak says with a smile.
T. J. is wolfing down this entire tub of fries. We're at a concrete picnic table in the middle of a bunch of boardwalk food stalls. Ceepak bought three orders of fresh-cut fries from this booth where they take a whole potato and slice it into thick slats with one quick pass of a razor-sharp gizmo that sort of looks like a Popeil Veg- O-Matic.
T. J. licks salt off his fingers, tries to pace himself.
“Sorry,” he says. “I only get a fifteen-minute break.”
We picked T. J. up at Lord of the Rings Toss, where people were throwing their money away left and right. Apparently, anybody who saw Ceepak demonstrate his “crouch-like-a-kid” technique earlier in the week has left town. All that's left now are the losers, guys spending big wads of cash in a mad scramble to win stuffed Sponge- Bobs for their heartthrobs.
T. J. whacks the bottom of his fries cup with the heel of his hand, tries to dislodge the last potato wedge stuck down there, probably glued into place by coagulating ketchup.
“Guess I was hungry,” he says.
“Busy day?” Ceepak nibbles on a fry. I think he's only eaten, like, two while T. J. and I sucked our paper cups dry.
“Unbelievable,” T. J. says. “Never seen the boardwalk so crowded.”
T. J. and Ceepak seem to get along even though they make a pretty odd pair. Ceepak with his close-cropped military-style hair, big broad shoulders, neatly pressed uniform, and Boy Scout politeness. T. J. with his spiky blond dreads, wrist-to-elbow arm tattoo, droopy clothes, and slack-jawed whateverness.
“We won't keep you long,” Ceepak says.
“Whatever. I've still got ten minutes.”
