Fun House

39

Mandrake wasn’t wounded, just stunned.

Apparently, after the shooter missed, Marty stomped on his hot little Mercedes’s accelerator and tore up Shore Drive from the Hickory Street intersection at like sixty miles an hour, completely ignoring all those cute 15 MPH speed-limit signs, the ones that say “Yes, You Can Drive That Slow.”

When he hit Dogwood Street, Officers Ken Green and Kent Peterman, who were on patrol in that residential area-and not used to seeing sporty convertibles drag-racing up the road everybody else uses for bike riding, jogging, and pushing their grandkids’ strollers-flipped on their lights and siren and initiated pursuit.

One block north of Dogwood is the Cherry Street parking lot for police headquarters.

When Mandrake saw the cop car chasing him plus all the cop cars lined up in tidy rows in the lot, he screeched into a hard left turn, pulled up to the curb in front of the station house, hopped out of his convertible (with the engine still running), and ran in the front door of the SHPD “screaming like he was having a heart attack,” according to Officers Green and Peterman, even though I think, technically, screaming is sort of impossible when you’re having a heart attack, what with the chest pains and difficulty breathing.

Anyway, Ceepak and I are currently headed down to the house to have a word or two with Mr. Mandrake.

Ceepak radioed Mrs. Rence to have her pull the file we have going on Paulie Braciole’s killer. He wants Marty Mandrake to look at those security-camera still frames, see if his motorcycle dude looked like the one hauling Paulie’s body over to the Knock ’Em Down.

We issued an APB for an assailant in a helmet and racing suit on a motorcycle, but both Ceepak and I are pretty certain that, as soon as the hit went bad, the shooter was out of his costume faster than that quick-change couple on America’s Got Talent. He also, more than likely, ditched his motorcycle somewhere on one of the side streets. We have people looking for it too.

“If he even rode his motorcycle today,” says Ceepak as we cruise south on Beach Lane.

“He was wearing the helmet and leather racing gear,” I say.

“But I doubt he had plans to transport Mr. Mandrake’s body away from the kill zone as he did with Paul Braciole. Also, he struck in broad daylight. He may have worn the racing gear simply to mask his identity.”

“You think it’s the same shooter who did Paulie Braciole, right?”

“Affirmative. It fits with Detective Wilson’s description of the execution technique.”

Right. The hit man walks up to your car while you’re waiting at a stoplight, or, in this case, a stop sign. They whip out their pistol, and bam.

“But if this guy’s a pro, how could he miss?” I ask.

“I suspect, Danny, that Mr. Mandrake is one of those drivers who does not come to a full and complete stop when they encounter a stop sign.”

Ah, yes. We see a lot of those. Usually people from New York or Philly, always in a rush, think stop signs are a government plot to ruin their vacation. Typically, a “rolling stop” will earn you a warning, maybe a ticket if you do it on Shore Drive, which is jammed with kids riding bikes with training wheels. Today, a rolling stop may have saved Martin Mandrake’s life.

I’m wondering if Ceepak will write him up for it anyhow, when his business cell starts chirruping.

“This is Ceepak. Go.”

Behind the wheel, I tilt my head sideways. Try to make out who’s calling. I get nothing.

“I see,” says Ceepak, sounding extremely disappointed. “And is your decision final?”

Uh-oh. I’m figuring it’s Ohio. Maybe they’re taking away that job offer. Maybe they don’t like seeing their future chief of detectives on TV so much anymore.

“But sir, as you know, we are in the middle of a very knotty investigation.”

I shake my head. As much as I don’t want Ceepak to leave, I want it to be his choice, not some Buckeye sheriff’s.

“Have you informed Mayor Sinclair of your decision?”

Oh. Okay. Time out. This has more to do with Sea Haven than Cincinnati, the only city besides Cleveland I know in Ohio.

Ceepak pinches the top of his nose. Closes his eyes. “What would you like me to do, Buzz?”

Buzz is Chief Baines. And Buzz is really his name; it’s not a nickname for something dorky like Arnold or Elmer. I saw it on the Florida State college diploma he has hanging on his office wall. I think the chief’s parents didn’t want to set unrealistic expectations for him, so they named him after the second guy to walk on the moon.

“Very well. Yes, sir. I understand. Enjoy the rest of your weekend.”

I’m pulling into the municipal parking lot behind police headquarters. Ceepak is folding up his cell phone.

“That was Chief Baines,” he says, when I shut down the engine.

“Huh,” I say as if I couldn’t tell.

“He has been offered a private-sector job as security chief for a major insurance corporation in Florida. Their headquarters is very close to where he grew up. It is, and I quote, ‘his dream job.’”

“So he’s quitting his job here?”

“Roger that. He has already telephoned Mayor Sinclair and tendered his two-week notice to the city council.”

“Geeze-o, man,” I mumble. “First you’re leaving, now the chief.…”

Ceepak yanks up on his door handle. “I may need to reconsider my options. We can’t all go home again, Danny.”

I smile weakly. “Well, I never actually left.”

“Perhaps your choice was the wisest. Let’s go.”

We head inside to talk to Marty “I Don’t Brake For Small Animals Or Children” Mandrake.