Fun House

42

“As you know,” Botzong says to Ceepak, “H amp;K developed the Universale Selbstlade Pistole, or ‘universal self-loading pistol,’ as a semi-automatic sidearm for the U.S. Special Operations Command’s Offensive Handgun Weapon System program.”

Ceepak nods. “The hired hit man may be former military.”

“Yeah,” says Botzong. “Special Forces. Navy SEALS. Delta Force. Green Berets.”

Great. We’re up against every character ever played by Steven Seagal.

“Plus,” says Botzong, “the Compact Tactical gives the shooter the features of the full-size USP USP45.”

“Such as the mechanical recoil reduction system,” adds Wilson. “But in a smaller, more concealable package.”

“Facilitating the assassination technique you described to us earlier,” Ceepak says to Wilson.

“Yeah. Your bad guy could hide this thing in a zippered pocket of his racing suit.”

At four, Gus Davis and the SHPD officers running security up on Pier Two start letting lucky locals pass through the metal detectors to be the “live audience” for tonight’s “Fun House Finale.”

Around six-thirty, we pick up another piece of evidence.

Gladys has found a motorcycle parked behind her restaurant when she dragged a bushel of rotting bok choy out the back door: a Harley, up on its kickstand and blocking the sliding door to her compost bin.

When nobody in her dining room claimed the motorcycle, Gladys called 9-1-1 so we’d come tow it away. Bill Botzong and his CSI crew borrowed a flatbed wrecker from my buddy George Hansen over at Undertow Towing and hauled the hog back to the municipal garage.

Every VIN (Vehicle Identification Number) on it has been filed down, even the hidden ones.

“We are dealing with dedicated professionals,” says Ceepak. “They, obviously, tracked Mr. Mandrake’s movements. Knew he frequented Veggin’ On The Beach. It would not surprise me if the shooter-tipped off by his accomplice surveilling activity up at the boardwalk-knew that Mandrake had exited the Green Zone. The gunman then parked behind the restaurant. While Mandrake was inside eating, the shooter strolled over to Shore Drive and took up his position at the intersection with the stop sign.”

“He went for a walk in his helmet and flight suit?” I say.

“Doubtful. However, I suspect, if we search the homes near the intersection, several will have backyard shower stalls.”

“No,” I say. “A Port-A-Potty.”

“Come again?”

“All summer they’ve been doing major renovations at that mansion on Shore Drive between Hickory and Gardenia. But they must’ve had problems with the permits, because I haven’t seen any workers there for weeks. Just their Port-A-Potty in the carport.”

“Which our shooter borrowed and used as a changing booth. Well done, Danny.”

Hey, if your routine patrol includes cruising up and down that street at 15 MPH after guzzling a gallon of coffee, you’re always looking for a potential pit stop.

At 7:30, the lawyer finally arrives.

“I need a minute with my client,” Rambowski brusquely announces. Ceepak and I usher him and his three-thousand-dollar suit into the interview room.

“We’ll be back in fifteen,” Ceepak announces before relocking the door.

We head into the chief’s office. Hey, it’s close and it’s empty. The rest of the station is crawling with Fibbies and U.S. Attorneys and who knows who else.

“Nice office,” I say, and gesture at the chief’s very comfy, very padded, high-back rolling chair. “Nice chair.”

“You can take it, Danny. I prefer to stand.”

“Nah. Come on. You could lean back, prop your feet up on the desk-”

Ceepak’s personal cell phone interrupts me. I recognize the ringtone.

“Hello? No, Mom. We are not watching TV.”

Hey, the chief has a flat-screen TV in his bookcase. It’s tucked between a few Kiwanis Club plaques and a Hummel figurine of a cop shadowed by a guardian angel, the two of them helping a schoolkid cross a street. I snap on the TV. It’s tuned to the network that runs Fun House. At 7:30, they run some kind of Entertainment News show.

“Danny has found the program,” Ceepak says to his mom. “Yes, that’s Sea Haven. Our beach.”

The show is running a feature about “Brave Soozy K.” They show her strolling along the pristine sandy beach at daybreak, looking very thoughtful in her dove-gray tracksuit as a pink dawn breaks in the east and foamy waves crash hypnotically behind her.

“I know there’s a target on my back,” Soozy says, “but I won’t back down. I’ve come too far on this journey.…”

“Are you sure?” Ceepak says. “No, Mom, it’s just that Rita and I-”

His mom talks some more.

“Well, then, it’s all good. I’ll tell Rita. She’ll be thrilled to hear your decision. Don’t worry, Mom. We will. Love you, too.”

He folds up his phone.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“My mother tells me she is tired of eating walleye and shoveling snow.” He indicates the TV screen. “She has been watching the show ever since a few of her church friends told her I was the star.”

Now I’m grinning.

“Anyway, having seen Sea Haven in all its ‘sunny, funderful’ glory, she wants to move here. Provided, of course, I remain on the police force. She doesn’t like all the killings that seem to happen here.”

“She’s moving here? You’re kidding!”

He holds his hand up like he’s taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”

“Awesome.”

“My mother also instructed me not to let anything bad happen to that nice young girl tonight.”

“Soozy?”

“Roger that. According to Mom, Ms. Kemppainen is, and I quote, ‘quite a pistol.’”

Christopher Miller pokes his head in the door.

“What’s up?” I say.

“Mandrake. The lawyer says they’re ready to talk.”