He makes a move toward me.
I hold up my hand.
“I'm fine. Go back inside, sir. Please. You could get hurt out here.”
“Do it,” Olivia moans.
The guy swings his head right.
“Ohmigod.” He sees the dark wet splotch covering the front of her blouse. Now he must think he's looking at a weeping chest wound, the kind you see in the movies when someone's been blasted with a shotgun at point-blank range.
Our friend finally gets the picture and pushes his wife back toward the door.
“We'll call the police!”
“We are the police,” I want to say, but I don't. I go with “Thanks,” instead.
I look over to the one lantern that isn't lit anymore. Its glass globe has a spider web cracked into it. The bulb is shattered. Guess that's where the bullet went after it zinged past my ear. I hold my hand up to my ear and touch it. It's wet. I check my palm. Still neon green. Still paint. Still no blood.
“You okay, ma'am?” Ceepak is back, kneeling in front of Olivia.
She's crying.
I'm not used to seeing Olivia cry. She's always been “tougher than the rest,” to copy Ceepak and borrow a line from a Springsteen song. Now she's tugging at her soppy blouse, looking at where the exploding paint balloon tore open a middle button and exposed her bra. Ceepak takes off his blazer and drapes it backwards over her like a blanket.
“Thank you,” Olivia whispers.
“Danny? Preliminary injury assessment?”
My man cuts through the crap. I guess this is the no-nonsense battlefield talk you use when your buddies are getting blown up all around you in Fallujah.
“I'm okay. Ribs hurt. That's the worst of it.”
“Hang in there, partner.”
“Roger,” I say. “Wilco.” I think that means I will cooperate with his request. I will hang in there.
Ceepak duckwalks to the shattered lamp.
“Possible seven-six-two millimeter special ball,” he mutters to himself when he sees the shatter pattern in the glass light fixture. The bullet hole in the center of the cracked web isn't very big; in fact, it sort of looks like a hole you'd punch into the top of a mayonnaise jar if you were collecting fireflies.
“Ceepak? We should probably move Olivia inside.”
“Roger that. Can you walk?”
“Yeah. But I'd rather run.” Now she sounds more like herself.
“Stay low. I've got your back.”
They move to Morgan's front door, hunched over, Ceepak covering her back. When they reach the door, he kicks it open so they never miss a stride. As it swings in, I can see that ancient hostess Norma with her hand over her chest like she might need CPR and paddles from the first ambulance to arrive on the scene. There's a whole crowd up near the hostess station. The bartender. A couple of waiters. People clutching doggie bags.
I see Rita. T. J.'s standing next to her. I guess it wasn't him shooting at us this time, not unless he's like The Flash instead of The Phantom and ran real fast from the water tower and got back into the restaurant before anybody even noticed he was gone.
The door glides shut.
“I found this taped to the base of the water tower.”
Ceepak holds out what looks like a plastic-laminated Marvel Comics cover, only it's the size of a baseball card. On the card, in blocky orange-fading-to-yellow lettering I can read the word “Avengers.” The covergirl is a superhero with flaming red hair and a tight-fitting leotard that makes her boobs look like falling bombshells. Her white-gloved hands are splayed out, like she just lost her grip on the trapeze or she's grabbing for something. Her face indicates that she's pissed.
Ceepak tucks the card inside his shirt pocket after first feeling instinctively for his cargo pants hip pouch, which his dress slacks don't have.
I turn around and see a cop car with twirling roof lights swing into the parking lot off Ocean Avenue. Sea Haven's finest have arrived.
“We need to secure this site,” Ceepak says to Mark Malloy and Adam Kiger, the first cops on the scene.
“You got it,” Kiger says.
“Roll out the tape,” Malloy says. “I'll work the crowd inside.”
He heads into the restaurant. Kiger opens the trunk of their cruiser to dig out a roll of yellow “Police Line Do Not Cross” tape.
“More units are on their way,” he says. “Chief Baines, too.”
I hear our dispatcher squawking from the radio inside the car.
“All available units. Ten twenty-four. Morgan's Surf and Turf.”
10-24. Assault.
“This lamp,” Ceepak says, pointing to the shattered light fixture. “Lock it down. We might find our bullet.”
“Bullet?”
“Affirmative.”
Malloy lets that register for a second.
“I'm on it,” he says.
“Thanks, Mark.” Ceepak turns to me. “Danny?”
“Yes, sir?”
“We need to move you indoors.”
“I'm okay. We should go across the street, check out those houses.”
“Did you see something in either location, Danny? Barrel flash? Shadow movement?”
“No … it's just that … I want … I mean I have to …”
Ceepak looks at me. I see something in his eyes, like he understands. Bad people hiding in the shadows have shot at his friends, too.
“We'll get him, Danny. You have my word.” He turns around. “Mark?”
“Yeah?” Malloy stops unrolling yellow tape.
“We need units there and there.” He does this three-finger air chop pointing at the two corner houses. “ASAP. I'm taking Danny inside.”
I hear sirens, see two more cop cars swing into the lot.
“Come on, Danny. Inside.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
I clutch my chest. It hurts more than I let Ceepak know, but not as much as seeing my friend Olivia crying like that.
I guess this is what they mean in all those cop movies:
Now it's personal.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Was this a bias incident? A hate crime?” The one asking the question is Penny Jennings. She writes for the Sea Haven Sandpaper, our weekly newspaper and fish-wrapper.
Chief Baines doesn't answer. He's busy pacing and rubbing his mustache. Two hours after the incident, we've set up a command center in one of the function rooms Morgan's rents out to private parties. It's where the Rotary Club meets on Mondays—there's a small podium with their Golden Gear seal taped to its front lying in a corner near a stack of booster chairs.
Baines has called in Penny and several of the town's top citizens in an effort to stop any hysteria about “this unfortunate incident” before it gets started.
“If we link the attack tonight to the earlier incident at The Pig's Commitment,” our reporter continues, “does that mean our shooter is some sort of white supremacist?”
“You mean because the waitress tonight and Grace Porter are both Negroes?” says Mr. Weese, my mortgage broker buddy. Weese, I've just learned, is chairman of the Chamber of Commerce's Labor Day Celebration Committee, though he seems unlikely to be the one who came up with that Boogaloo BBQ idea. Anyhow, I can tell he wants all this stuff that's not listed in the official program to go away. “That's patently preposterous!”
There are six distinguished citizens here, including Mayor Sinclair, who's dressed in his usual uniform of khakis, polo shirt, and sunglasses draped around his neck with a red Croakie string, even though it's almost midnight. Ceepak, me, and a couple of other boys in blue are here, too—just waiting for the chief to give us our marching orders. Morgan's will provide all the free coffee we want. It figures to be a long night.
Olivia is at the hospital. She wasn't hurt all that badly but Ceepak insisted she go get checked out. She didn't need an ambulance. I called Jess on his cell, and he came and drove her over to Mainland Medical. He'll stay with her all night if they keep her.
“What ab
out the FBI? Should we call them?” Mr. O'Malley asks. Skipper's dad.
Baines ponders this. Paces.
“Can we wait until Tuesday?” Now it's Bruno Mazzilli. He owns half the buildings on the boardwalk. “I've got a shitload of money tied up in this damn MTV thing.”
“We all do,” says O'Malley.
“Yeah, but I'm talking perishables,” says Mazzilli. “Ribs. Chicken. Burgers. Not to mention fifty-gallon drums of cole slaw, baked beans, and potato salad. We call off the damn beach party, I'm not gonna be too happy.”
“Get it through your heads,” the mayor says, suddenly smelling the twenty-ton gorilla in the room, the giant ape they've all been tiptoeing around. “We cannot call the FBI! Not again. Not twice in one summer.” Our mayor is also the proud proprietor of a couple of motels, a car wash, and two ice cream shops. He doesn't want G-men scaring people away from his cash registers again the same way they did back in July. “Jesus. This could kill us!” He swipes his finger across his throat to help paint the picture. “We'd never recover!”
The chief stops pacing. He holds up both his hands, palms out.
“Okay. Take it easy, folks. Sea Haven will remain safe, secure, and serene. This is something we can handle ourselves.”
The chief is acting like the stalwart sea captain in a bad storm. Everybody else is freaking out, scrambling for lifeboats, and he's keeping his hand steady on the tiller.
The business people nod their heads when they hear what they wanted to hear. They need to believe, so they do. Everything is going to be okay.
Ceepak stands up.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, “a rifle was fired at two off-duty police officers and a female civilian this evening.” As he recites these cold facts, you can see it send a fresh chill through the assembled dignitaries.
“No need to be melodramatic, Officer Ceepak,” says Mr. Weese, the way he probably says it to his wife when she squeals after seeing a bug skitter near her open-toed shoe.
Mazzilli agrees. “You sure it wasn't one of those paintballs or whatever? You sure it was a bullet?”
“I am,” I say. “I heard it.”
“What? A bullet sounds special?” Mazzilli flaps his hand at me. “How does this kid know it was a bullet? What does Danny Boyle know from bullets?”
“Our officers working the scene have retrieved the slug,” Ceepak corrects him flatly. “It's a seven-six-two millimeter special ball cartridge.”
“So? What's that supposed to mean?” Mazzilli leans back in his chair and drapes his arms across his gut. “What's this seven-six-two special ball crap?”
“Means it's the same cartridge the United States Army issues to its snipers.”
Skipper's dad moans. “The army?”
“So the kid borrowed his dad's hunting rifle and stole some ammo from the army.” Bruno waves the air in front of his face like it's all no big deal. “Besides, if you already got the bullet, it's a cinch to catch the guy. I see it on TV all the time. You use your ballistics. It's like a science. So just do the damn ballistics and haul the kid in.” He wipes his hands together to signify that's all there is to it.
“Are we sure it's a kid?” A new voice is now heard. Keith Barent Johnson—or KBJ, like it says on the monogrammed hanky he's dabbing across his damp forehead. Mr. Johnson owns a slew of motels, most of which probably have their No Vacancy signs lit up for Labor Day weekend. I know he'd hate to have to flip off that first glowing word.
“Of course it's a kid, you schmuck!” Mazzilli practically screams. “Who else leaves a comic book as his calling card?”
“All right.” Chief Baines has heard enough debate. “Here's what we're going to do.”
The mayor raises his hand. “You're not gonna call the FBI are you, Buzz?”
Baines shoots an exasperated glance at him. The mayor raises both hands as if to say, “Sorry—I'll shut up now.”
Baines turns to Ceepak.
“John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to intensify your investigation. Make sure you've got something besides circumstantial evidence. We either catch him red-handed or else you need to build a rock-solid case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meanwhile, Santucci and I take charge of securing the boardwalk for the Labor Day event. If you need additional resources, ask.”
“I need Boyle.”
“He's your partner. If you need him for this, you've got him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now the chief turns his attention to me.
“Did you sustain any injuries in the assault?”
“I'm good to go,” is all I say.
Fortunately, I was able to clean myself up in Morgan's restroom before the meeting started. I washed most of the paint gunk out of my hair and Rita gave me a souvenir Morgan's Surf and Turf T-shirt with a goofy-looking cow and crab dancing together on the back. When I changed shirts, I noticed I was a little bruised, but nothing serious. The worst part was drying my hair underneath the hot-air hand blower in the bathroom. I had to duck down, punch the button, and let the thing whirr on my scalp about seven different times.
The chief leans on the table, props himself up with his fists.
“Run this thing down, John. I'm counting on you.”
“I'd like to call in Dr. McDaniels. State CSI.”
Ceepak worked with McDaniels back in July. She's tops in her field—practically wrote the book on forensic investigation techniques. In fact, she did write one. A standard textbook. Ceepak showed it to me. He keeps a copy in the patrol car's glove compartment and another on his nightstand. Variations in blood-splatter patterns make for soothing bedtime reading.
“Call her,” the chief says, “but not officially, is all. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I think this means Dr. McDaniels can help but only if nobody catches on that she is. Keep it local, keep it quiet. That's the message.
Baines now clears his throat, makes sure he still has everybody's attention. “We need to put a stop to whoever's doing this. Simultaneously, we need to throw a publicity blanket over our efforts. We must not engender panic. We will tell anyone who asks that tonight's incident was the reckless act of juvenile delinquents, the tragic consequence of underage drinking. Penny?” He turns to the local reporter. “Will you work with me on this?”
Since The Sandpaper mostly runs front-page stories about walkathons and unicyclists, the closest Penny Jennings has ever come to muckraking was this three-part series on “Cable TV Lineup Under Scrutiny.” She'll play along.
“People witnessed the attack,” she reminds him.
“Well, keep it vague, then. Just a prank that got out of hand. That kind of thing. No bullets or snipers, okay?”
“Are you issuing a gag order?” she asks.
“No. More like a gag request.” He gives her a special smile.
“Well, in that case …”
“Thank you. John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Speedy results are what I'm looking for. Anything you need, call.”
“Roger that. Danny?”
Ceepak motions for me to follow him out of the dining room.
“Do that ballistics shit,” Mazzilli screams after us. “Works all the time.”
We hit the hallway.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Let's swing by my apartment. I need my kit.”
His evidence kit. His crime scene tools. His cargo pants.
“Then we need to hit the beach.”
“Which one?”
“I believe you called it Tangerine.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Qwick Pick Mini Mart on Ocean Avenue is a cop's paradise. They have a dozen different pots of coffee going at once, everything from Decaf Ginger Espresso to Chocolate Macadamia. They also have Krispy Kreme doughnuts that are supposedly fresh, even at one in the morning, which is what it is now. There's nothing like a chocolate-iced-glazed-with-sprinkles and a cup of h
azelnut to jolt you into your second or third wind, especially if you also grab a Mountain Dew from up front, the ice barrel that looks like a big Pepsi can.
We came here after stopping at Ceepak's apartment because I need Advil. My ribs ache. I walk past the aisles filled with Combos and Chex Mix and Taystee Cakes to the one where the individual-serving-size medicine packets dangle on metal pegs. Heartburn, headache, hangover: they've got all the pain bases pretty well covered. I notice Ceepak over in Beach Needs rummaging around in the inflatable balls and sand buckets until he finds a spool of kite string.
At his apartment, he ran upstairs to grab his gear. Five minutes later, he hustled back down the steps in his cargo pants lugging an aluminum attaché case and his Surfmaster II metal detector.
This is what he does on his days off. He takes his metal detector down to the beach and hunts for buried treasure. You know: loose change, Rolexes, pirate booty.
“It helps me sharpen my forensic skills,” he says. “I unearth metal objects and attempt to construct a plausible history for them. Every found item has its own story. I try to decipher it.”
I hand a twenty to the cashier, get my change, then tear open two packets of Advil, swigging the caplets down with some cold, caffeine-rich Dew.
“All set?” Ceepak asks, paying for his string.
“Yeah. You?”
“Roger that. Let's hit the beach.”
We head out the door.
On the way over to Ceepak's, we stopped by the house and left my minivan in the parking lot, taking the Ford Explorer we normally patrol in on the job. We also heard from Kiger and Malloy. They had talked to the folks in both residences on either side of the water tower. Nobody had heard anything. Nobody saw anything. Our guys found nothing. No spent cartridges, no fingerprints, no more trading cards. Our shooter is holding on to his Phantom status.
“You think there's any significance to the comics he's choosing?” I ask as we pull off Ocean onto Tangerine.
“Certainly.”
“What?”
“Perhaps he sees himself as some sort of avenger. A mystery man lurking in the shadows, righting past wrongs.”
“Not your typical Sea Haven hobby.”