Mad Mouse: A John Ceepak Mystery (The John Ceepak Mysteries)

  I finally yank the shirt off my head. I almost take my nose and ears off with it.

  “Here we go, Danny.” Ceepak holds out the bulletproof, I mean bullet-resistant, vest. He drapes the Kevlar shield over my head and shoulders and works the Velcro side straps into place. I feel like a horse being saddled. The vest is hot, the day humid. Maybe I'll sweat my beer gut away. Maybe I can go on late-night TV with an infomercial and hawk my new Sauna Suit: “Lose the pounds, not your life!”

  “Sorry about your lady friend,” McDaniels says when I'm all bundled up. This I can tell she means. She has the map of Ireland written on her face just like Katie, only Dr. McD's map has more roads wrinkled into it. “Hang in there, kiddo.”

  She moves over to the glass display case filled with chocolates and candy.

  “We've worked out the trajectory.” McDaniels gestures to some bright-yellow yarn strung between the plate-glass windows and the bullet holes behind the counter. “Two points make a straight line,” she says, echoing what Ceepak said earlier. “Works every time.”

  McDaniels is a tiny woman. Spry. She flits around like Tinkerbell. She's wearing cargo shorts that show off her matchstick-skinny legs and knobby knees. She's also wearing a Hawaiian-style shirt with Tabasco bottles printed all over it.

  “For precision, we concentrated on the bullet that missed Mr. Boyle.” She points to the hole in the cinnamon hearts tub. “We matched it to the corresponding hole in the window. This, of course, gave us an uninterrupted firing line.”

  Uninterrupted. My bullet didn't get knocked off course, didn't tumble around inside my chest the way Katie's did.

  I see McDaniels has brought along two associates, two state CSI technicians who came in on Saturday, maybe their day off, because Sandy McDaniels asked them to. Both guys are wearing shorts and T-shirts. Tabasco sauce T-shirts. I guess it's a Casual Saturday theme with the state CSI team, the Tabasco collection. I wonder if they own the hot-pepper boxer shorts. I do, but I didn't wear mine today. I didn't get the memo about Casual Saturday.

  Ceepak does one of this three-finger points toward the window. “Have you run the line outside?”

  “Your chief wouldn't let us,” McDaniels says. “He was afraid we might invite unwanted scrutiny and questions.”

  “I see.” Ceepak sounds disappointed.

  “So we used the laser,” one of the CSI guys says.

  “That'll work.” Ceepak's happy again. “Find anything?”

  “Not much,” McDaniels says. “The line took us to an empty parking spot. The only one in the whole lot. Section D.”

  “Near the Dolphin sign,” says the taller CSI guy.

  They mark the parking lot here with alphabetical signs to help you find your car. You know: Alligator, Blowfish, Clown Fish, Dolphin, Eel. I think they stole the idea from Disney World.

  “The parking lot?” Ceepak's ruminating again. “Fascinating.”

  “Of course, the line continued.”

  “Yeah,” the other CSI guy says, “all the way to nothing—an empty patch of sky between the condos and the water slide.”

  “So, we figure it was a park and shoot,” McDaniels says. “And the guy was tidy. No shell casings.”

  The parking lot.

  I would have figured the sniper took aim from one of the elevated locations surrounding Saltwater Tammy's. Some place high like where we found all the baseball cards.

  “That scenario also seems to fit with your prior crime scenes,” McDaniels says. “The first attack on the beach.”

  “Roger,” says Ceepak. “We suspect those shots came from the street.”

  “Where the cars park,” I add.

  “Crime scene number two.” McDaniels opens a bin and carefully helps herself to a single Jelly Belly. “Morgan's Surf and Turf restaurant.”

  “Outside,” Ceepak says. “The parking lot.”

  “Either there or across the street—beneath that water tower or in the driveway of one of those houses. I think he likes to park, then squeeze off his shots.” She pops the Jelly Belly into her mouth. “Hmm. Fascinating.”

  “What?” Ceepak asks.

  “It really does taste like Dr Pepper. How do they do that?”

  “Chemicals?” I suggest.

  “Forget I asked.” She pops another Jelly Belly.

  “I suspect the weapon is an army-issue M-24,” Ceepak says.

  McDaniels nods her head. “Also sold as the Remington 700 hunting rifle.”

  “Accurate to eight hundred meters.”

  “Bolt action.”

  These two could sing duets.

  “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: Red Headed Woman. Mrs. Springsteen? She's a redhead like Katie.

  Tight skirt, strawberry hair

  Tell me what you've got baby, waiting under there

  Big green eyes that look like, son

  They can see every cheap thing that you ever done

  The part about the eyes? That's Katie.

  Well I don't care how many girls you've dated, man,

  But you ain't lived till you've had your tires rotated

  By a red headed woman

  I'm smiling. Not about getting my tires rotated. It's because The Boss adds:

  Well brunettes are fine, and blondes are fun,

  But when it comes to getting the dirty job done,


  I'll take a red headed woman.

  Me, too. They're feisty, those redheads. They don't give up easy. Katie will pull through. I know it. So does The Boss.

  “That's Bruce Springsteen,” the deejay chatters when the song ends. It's my buddy Cliff—The Skeeter. He plays the sound of this annoying mosquito whine whenever he says his name. Skeeter. “Hey—maybe The Boss will bop by the boardwalk on Monday—”

  Ceepak snaps off the FM box.

  “Let's hope Bruce will decide not to join us,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah. Then we'd have two million people on the beach instead of just one.”

  “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&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.

  Most of it, but never all.

  Since we had sinned, our soul would never be as good as new, no matter how much Good Works Brand Bleach we poured in, no matter how many Hail Marys we said. Our milk jugs were forever stained like gym socks your mom can't make come clean.

  We walk past grumpy Gus Davis at the front counter and troop into the interrogation room, currently known as our command center.

  Dr. McDaniels moves to the wall and studies the two trading cards pinned there in plastic sleeves. The Phantom. The Avengers.

  She taps the comic book cover card with her pen.

  “These things are huge.”

  She's studying the superhero lady's chest. I guess everybody's eyes go there first.

  She moves down the wall to the Phantom card.

  “I remember that movie,” she says.

  “Excuse me?” Ceepak is interested. “A movie?”

  “Yeah. That's Billy Zane. He played the Phantom. The girl behind him? She's, you know, that actress. What's-her-name.”

  “Interesting,” Ceepak says.

  “Yeah. It was pretty good. As a boy, the Phantom sees these pirates murder his father, and then he falls overboard and washes up on this beach near the jungle and swears an oath of vengeance to fight pirates and injustice … you know … the usual.”

  “Interesting,” Ceepak says again and moves closer to the wall so he can stare at the two cards. “Then the Phantom is tied to The Avengers by the common theme of Revenge.”

  “Maybe so. Very powerful motive, revenge.” McDaniels looks at me. “Were you ever a pirate, Mr. Boyle?”

  “No.”

  “Didn't think so. These things are never that easy. The two cards have another common link: the lead characters are wearing tights. Leotards. Doesn't necessarily mean our shooter is a ballerina.”

  “What about all the Derek Jeter cards?” I ask. “What's up with that?”

  “That's the key,” McDaniels says. “The Jeters will help us decipher these first two cards. It's why the guy left seven of them.”

  “Does he want to get caught?”

  “No. Usually, they just like to show off. Let us see how damn clever they can be.”

  One of the CSI guys lays the seven baseball cards out on the table. Different poses. Different card makers. All Derek Jeter.

  Ceepak sees something.

  “Dr. McDaniels—when did this movie debut?”

  “The Phantom? I forget. It was in the summer. You know, they always bring out the superheroes in the summer.”

  “Do you remember the year?”

  “No. Back in the nineties, I guess.”

  “I suspect it was nineteen ninety-six.”

  “You do?” She curls her lip and nods. She's impressed by whatever logic train Ceepak is riding on. “How come?”

  “These baseball cards? They're all different yet the same. They're all from Jeter's rookie year with the New York Yankees.”

  “Nineteen ninety-six?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “What about the other card? The Avengers?”

  “I have a hunch. Come on.”

  We follow Ceepak out the door and down the hall.

  We're off to see Denise Diego, Sea Haven PD's resident computer nerd.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Diego has a plastic Legolas Greenleaf action figure taped to the top of her terminal.

  That's the character Orlando Bloom played in Lord of the Rings. The hunky elf with the arrows. As I said: Diego rules when it comes to computer research. And, like all her cybergeek brethren, she's got a pretty heavy thing for LOTR.

  “You think this guy is sending you a message?” she asks as she taps some keys. Her fingers dance across the keyboard like she could type a hundred words a minute on an accordion if she wanted to. “Is this some kind of code?”

  “It's a possibility,” Ceepak says.

  “Awesome. Yesterday, I downloaded a Zip file of a program package that can crack most monoalphabetic substitution ciphers.” She's tapping keys the whole time she's talking except when she grabs a Nacho Cheese Dorito out of the vending machine bag she's having for a late breakfast along with her Mountain Dew.

  She's Googling “Marvel Masterpiece Trading Cards.” She recognized the Avengers card as coming from the Masterpiece series. I guess she knows people who collect these kinds of cards—guys she meets at Lord of the Rings fanfests.

  Google now sends us off to some comic book Web site.

  “Crystal,” Diego mumbles.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ceepak asks.

  “I think the red-haired chick on the card is called Crystal.” She clicks on a link. “She hangs out with all the other Avengers.”

  The screen switches and there she is. Red hair. White leotard. Extra-strength cleavage.

  “It comes from the nineteen ninety-six Marvel Masterpiece trading card set made by Fleer,” Diego reads us the information she and Google dug up. “They also have the Human Torch, Invisible Woman. I'm curious …” She clicks the Invisible Woman link. “Thought so. She's weari
ng blue tights. Why does she need to wear anything if she's supposed to be invisible?”

  Diego clicks her back button and we're with Crystal again.

  “Nineteen ninety-six,” Ceepak says.

  “Yes, sir. I can print this out if you want it.”

  “That'll work. Be good to know the mythology surrounding this Crystal character.”

  “I think she used to date the Human Torch. They were hot and heavy.”

  She doesn't know she's making a joke. I think she thinks this comic book stuff is actually true. That Crystal really did date the Torch.

  “Then she moved to the moon and married this mutant named Quicksilver. They had a baby. Luna.”

  I'm beginning to wonder whether Diego spends too much time alone in this darkened room, staring at her screen, talking to the little plastic elf.

  “What about this movie,” Ceepak says. “The Phantom?”

  Diego taps a few more keys and hits return a couple times. Once again, Google comes through.

  “Release date: June seventh, nineteen ninety-six.”

  “Nineteen ninety-six.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What?”

  Diego points to something on her screen.

  “Catherine Zeta-Jones was in it. Must've been before she was, you know, Catherine Zeta-Jones.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Nineteen ninety-six.”

  It's dark in here, but my eyes have slowly adjusted. I can see Ceepak staring at me. McDaniels is staring, 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 The Phantom, a summer movie.”

  It hits me.

  Duh.

  “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.