Fun House

40

Martin Mandrake is waiting for us in the interview room.

His choice. He requested a room “without any windows,” according to Sergeant Broadwater, who’s got the desk duty this afternoon.

“I think he’s spooked,” the sergeant says to Ceepak.

“Understandable. Have you been able to reach Detective Botzong from the State Police Major Crimes Unit?”

“Yeah. He said to tell you …” He reaches for a pink While You Were Out message pad. “That a ‘Detective Jeanne Wilson is at the municipal garage where we impounded the vehicle and was able to remove a slug from the Mercedes in just about the same spot where we found the hole in the Mustang.’ That make any sense to you guys?”

“Indeed it does,” says Ceepak. “Thank you for taking such a detailed message, Sergeant.”

Broadwater shrugs. “It’s the job. Oh, here.”

He hands Ceepak an envelope.

“From Mrs. Rence?” Ceepak asks.

“Yeah,” says Broadwater. “Some kind of printout you wanted.”

“Thank you.”

We head up the hallway, past the empty Chief’s office. Guess it will stay empty until the town fathers get around to hiring a replacement. I hope, this time, Ceepak puts his name in the hat. Or tosses his hat into the ring. Or that a hat in the ring has his name in it. One of those.

The last time the job became vacant, right after our first case together, Ceepak declined all offers to take over the top cop slot. But that was a few years ago. He had only been in Sea Haven a couple months. Now, there’s nobody better.

We push open the door to the interview room. It looks a lot like a conference room but with crappy furniture, a box of old Christmas decorations in one corner, some files and magazines in another, and a humongous wall mirror that’s actually a one-way window. Mandrake is on his phone, pacing at the far end of the long table.

“Ask Layla.” He waves at us to “come in, come in,” like our SHPD Interview Room is suddenly his new production trailer. “Ask Layla. Look, I am temporarily indisposed. If anybody has any questions, send them to Layla. I don’t give a shit. I almost died. This is the second time a man has pulled a gun on me. The first was back in ’Nam. Some Viet Cong asshole didn’t like the way I was looking at his girlfriend in a bar. This was worse. This asshole fired.” He puts his free hand up to his free ear. “You ever hear a bullet whizz by, inches from your brain? I was like Lincoln, sitting at that stop sign.”

Except, of course, Abraham Lincoln was president, freed the slaves, and won the Civil War. Martin Mandrake? He makes cheesy TV shows about kids playing Skee-Ball, hopping into each other’s beds, and puking up beer.

“I gotta go. Some more cops want to talk to me. Talk to Layla. No. No! Don’t even think like that. We cannot cancel the finale. The show must go on.” He punches the OFF button on his iPhone.

“Where the hell were you two?” he snaps at us.

“Excuse me?” says Ceepak.

“You’re in charge of security! How come you didn’t stop this nutjob?”

“You chose to leave the secure location,” says Ceepak. “To venture outside the Green Zone.”

“Because I needed a Vegan Philly Cheese Steak.”

Ceepak gestures toward a chair. “Please, have a seat.”

“Did you catch this creep?”

“Not yet,” says Ceepak.

“Who would do such a thing?”

“We suspect the same person who transported Paul Braciole’s body to the boardwalk.”

“Skeletor? No way. He’s dead.”

Yeah, I think, because you paid Bobby Lombardo to whack him.

“Mr. Braciole was not murdered by Thomas Hess, a.k.a. Skeletor.”

“Oh, right. You think I did it.”

“No, sir. I never said you were the triggerman. However, I suspect that, through various intermediaries, you hired this man to do your killing for you.”

Ceepak pulls a black-and-white printout from the envelope Mrs. Rence has left for us at the front desk. It shows two guys on a motorcycle. The one in front wears a sleek racing helmet and a leather jumpsuit.

“Who is this?”

“On the back of the seat is the corpse of Paul Braciole. The motorcycle operator is, we hypothesize, one half of the professional hit team that Bobby Lombardo contracted on your behalf to murder Mr. Braciole.”

Mandrake is staring hard at the picture.

“We figure someone else shot Paulie,” I say. “Came up alongside his vehicle while he was parked at a stoplight, whipped up his pistol, and boom.”

“Only,” says Ceepak, “Mr. Braciole had come to a full and complete stop. Therefore, the bullet did not ‘whizz past his ear,’ as you just described. It coursed through both hemispheres of his brain.”

Mandrake is still frozen. Everything except his hands. They’re starting to rattle the picture he’s staring at.

“Next time,” I say, “he’ll know that you roll through stop signs, so he’ll compensate for the moving target. Next time, he won’t miss.”

“Jesus,” Mandrake mumbles. “The helmet, with the lightning bolts. The flames on the jacket shoulders. It’s the same fucking guy?”

“You tell us,” says Ceepak.

“It’s the same fucking guy! This is the maniac who came at me, put a gun to my head.…”

He puts the paper down on the table and reaches for a bottle of water. Liquid sloshes out of his lips. The man’s hands are quaking because he’s finally put two and two together and come up with five, maybe six.

The tables have been turned.

The great Martin Mandrake has been double-crossed.

The killer he contracted to kill Paul Braciole and Thomas “Skeletor” Hess has a new target: Martin Mandrake.

“Mr. Mandrake?” says Ceepak, “the time for deceit and prevarication is over. If you want us to protect you, then you must start telling us the truth. Immediately.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he mumbles. “This wasn’t part of the fucking deal!”