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 amp;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.

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