They have a humongous house, two in from the ocean at the corner of Beach Lane and Walnut Street. It's three stories tall, with all sorts of angles and extensions and different-shaped windows and jutting decks and this big sweeping staircase up to double front doors with gold-trimmed glass windows like something Tony Soprano might buy at Home Depot. I'm surprised the Weeses don't just hang a sign off one of their roofs: “Got money? We sure as shit do.”
I see Kiger and Malloy's patrol car parked out front near the two-car garage at the left side of the house. I see the CSI team's Taurus, too.
Ceepak pulls in but doesn't park very well. He just sort of angles our Ford against the concrete curb with the butt sticking out into the street. Kiger is in the driveway looking like he's eager to tell him something, so Ceepak yanks up the emergency brake and basically jumps out of the Explorer. I follow along.
“What've you got, Adam?”
“Weapon and ammunition in the minivan. Rear cargo hold.”
“The M-24?” Ceepak asks.
Kiger shakes his head. “Negative. Looks like a paintball shooter. You know-a big toy gun. Black plastic. Molded to look like an army rifle.”
“Most likely a Tripman A-5 with reactive trigger,” Ceepak says. Then he turns to me because he knows I'm totally confused. “Same as rifle number three at Paintball Blasters on the boardwalk. I checked last night. Weese wanted to practice on the same type of gun, see if he could manipulate the trigger action while gloved.”
While I was passed out on that sofa outside the ICU, Ceepak was back here working the case.
A Ford Expedition crunches up the street. Chief Baines.
“What've we got, Ceepak?”
“Potential suspect, sir.”
“Weese? From the Chamber?”
“His son. George.”
“Do we know where this George Weese is presently located?” The chief reaches for the shoulder microphone to his radio, ready to call in strike coordinates on our sniper.
“No, sir. We've posted an APB based on witness descriptions.”
“And,” Kiger says, “we have his father and mother inside. Also the suspect's wife and children. Malloy's in there with them, making sure nobody tells Georgie Porgie the cavalry's coming.”
“What's the prevailing mood?” Baines is curious. “Inside?”
Kiger smiles. “Pissed off, sir.”
The chief nods, turns to Ceepak.
“John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You sure about this? You sure George Weese is your guy?”
“It's where all the evidence leads, sir.”
The chief checks his watch, nods his head.
“Let's go nail the bastard.”
Looks like we might beat that noon deadline after all.
“This is preposterous. George would never do such a thing.” This is his mother talking, naturally. She's short and chubby and chain smokes.
Two little kids bawl and screech in a playpen in the middle of the living room. One, a boy, looks to be almost two years old. The other? I don't know. I'm no good at guessing how old babies are supposed to be. I wish they had rings I could count like with trees. Maybe the little one's nine or ten months. The way it screams? Got the lungs of a twelve-year-old. Both kids have tears streaming down their cheeks and snot dripping out their noses, and it all ends up as crusty green stuff on top of their lips. There's reason to suspect the small one has a load in its pants, too. Either that, or Mrs. Weese is cooking something foul for brunch.
“Bad move, Baines,” Mr. Weese says. “A one-month job never looks good on a résumé.” He is peacocking around the living room in bright-yellow shorts and a sky blue polo shirt. He's also got on golf shoes so I think we more than likely interrupted his Sunday plans. His socks match his shirt and pants. Vibrant. I guess so the other golfers can see you coming from two tees away.
“George would never do such a thing.” Mrs. Weese is indignant. “Never. I know my boy.”
The two kids in the playpen break some kind of indoor world record and scream even louder.
“Natalia? Jesus!” Mrs. Weese turns to their mother, who's sitting slumped in an armchair. “Take them upstairs, please. Now!”
“All right,” her daughter-in-law says with some kind of thick, grumbling accent that makes her sound like one of the bad guys in a billion spy movies. She could be Russian. She has dark hair and a sour face.
Natalia Weese marches across the living and scoops up her two squealers.
“Malloy?” Ceepak now says.
Mark Malloy nods. “On it.” He follows the younger Mrs. Weese and the screaming kids out of the room. No one is being left alone where they can whip out a cell phone to let George know people are looking for him.
“Perhaps you should arrange for someone to help out with your grandchildren,” Ceepak says to Mr. Weese. “We'll want to interview all of you, including George's wife.”
“Good luck,” Mr. Weese says with a curl of his lip. “She's Russian. None too bright, either. Still having a tough time with English, even after she's been here, what? Three years?”
“Lies!” Mrs. Weese now screams at Ceepak, as if shouting might make it true. “This is all a pack of lies! You don't have any evidence!”
“Yes, ma'am, we do,” Ceepak says. “Your son fits the description of a young man who recently purchased seven Derek Jeter baseball cards at Aquaman's Comix and Collectibles.”
“Wrong. George never played baseball.”
“He never played any sports,” Mr. Weese adds.
“He played those computer games.”
“Those are not sports!”
“He had that soccer one!”
Mr. and Mrs. Weese scowl at each other. Then they swivel so they can scowl at us, too.
“What's with the baseball cards?” Mr. Weese asks Chief Baines.
“The sniper placed the same cards your son bought at Schooner's Landing,” Baines says.
“So? Maybe he stole them from George!” Mrs. Weese says. “You ever think of that?”
“Aquaman's Comix?” Mr. Weese says. “That's Dan Bloomfield's shop. He's with the Chamber. If he's spreading lies about George …”
“He's leasing that space.” Mrs. Weese sucks down some hot smoke. “We can raise his rent …”
“We sure as shit can!”
“Mr. and Mrs. Weese?” Chief Baines interrupts. “Please. Where is your son?”
There is no answer. Mr. Weese shakes his head in disgust. I'm not certain, but I get the feeling he's been disappointed with his son for some time. I say this because my dad used to give me the same kind of headshake- usually right after I did something totally stupid.
Ceepak turns to Kiger. “What about the tires? On the minivan?”
“They match.” Dr. McDaniels walks into the room.
“Who's this?” Mr. Weese demands. “This is my house … all these people … traipsing in and out …”
“Dr. Sandra McDaniels.” She extends her hand. He doesn't take it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“What's this about tires?”
“The tread pattern on the minivan in your garage matches those we found over on Oak Street.”
“So? What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means your son is the primary suspect in the killing of Harley Mook.”
“Who did you say you were?” Mrs. Weese sounds even angrier than her husband.
“Dr. Sandra McDaniels. New Jersey State Police Major Crime Unit. I'm not really here.” She holds up a big plastic baggie. “But I did find these in the back of your son's minivan, right next to the paintball rifle. Do either of you folks surf?”
