Mad Mouse

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Sea Haven's cellular service is pretty technologically advanced.

We have something called E911 for Enhanced 9-1-1. That means our cell towers can tell our 911 operators where you're calling from, thanks to some sort of GPS technology Ceepak probably understands but I never will.

It's the only way we have to find Mook. He never told the operator his location. No address, no landmarks. According to the transcript, the call went something like this: OPERATOR: This is nine-one-one. What is the nature of your emergency?CALLER: He fucking shot me.

That's it.

The call stayed connected but Mook didn't say anything more, which isn't like Mook at all. Usually, the guy never shuts up. Not when we were fifteen, not now. They know it was Mook on the line because the caller ID system at 9-1-1 told them that, too.

E911 is sending us to Oak Street near Beach Lane. Probably a house. It's close to the public beach where Jess had his lifeguard chair in ’96, the beach where I used to hang out with my best bud and casually bump into the bathing beauties who were always there because Jess looked like one of those tanned weight lifters in red gym shorts from Baywatch. Jess was only one man, so there was no way he could flirt with all his fans. I took care of any spillover.

We're almost there. Couple more blocks.

The operator added a note to the transcript: While the line remained open, I heard a faint pop in the background. Possible gunshot.

Makes me think somebody “fucking shot” Mook twice.

We swing off Ocean Avenue and head down Oak Street. No sirens, no lights. Mook called us so he's not going to run away-especially if he's wounded. If the shooter is still in the vicinity, we don't want him to know we're coming.

The state CSI crew is close behind us. Malloy and Kiger will come up Beach Lane to provide backup. An ambulance is on the way, too, because we figure Mook is going to need one. Now all we need to do is find exactly where on Oak Street near Beach Lane he is.

I squinch my eyes and look for a little red sports car. It's not parked in the street, and, for the first time since this thing started, I don't see any white minivans, either. The people on Oak prefer SUVs. Range Rovers. Expeditions. GMCs. Even one of those civilian Hummers. This single block would suck a gas station dry if they all hit empty at the same time.

“There,” Ceepak says.

He does his three-finger point to a million-dollar reconstruction job. The rich people who own the houses closest to the beach are always tearing them down and starting over. That's what we see at number 2 Oak Street. A huge, three-story beach house with Tyvek-wrapped walls ready for the vinyl siding neatly stacked in the gutted front yard. Some of the windows upstairs aren't in yet; the ones that are have Anderson stickers covering the panes. The house is sort of built on stilts-concrete piers that form a shaded carport underneath.

That's where Mook parked his Miata.

Ceepak coasts up to the curb. I check my bulletproof vest to make sure it's snug in case the shooter is still in the neighborhood, waiting for me to make my big entrance.

“Hang back,” Ceepak says.

This is an order.

He won't let me out of the car until he determines whether or not it's a sniper trap. He's probably thinking what I'm thinking: this Wheezer character lured Mook here with the promise of primo weed, then took a potshot at him. He might want to do the same to me. Mook could be the bait the sniper's using to pull me into his trap.

McDaniels and her crew park behind us. Ceepak hops out, stays low, and hugs the side of our car for cover. He flips up the palm of his hand at the CSI guys. Nobody is allowed out except him. I check the rearview mirror. McDaniels nods her head. She's okay to wait until Ceepak says it's safe to come out and do her job.

Ceepak pulls his pistol out of its holster, lets the gun hang loose at his side, does this crouching dash to the carport. He moves in a zigzag pattern, ducks behind piles of cinder blocks, then a cement-mixing drum. No straight lines, nothing to give anybody an easy shot. If you want to take down John Ceepak this afternoon, he's going to make you work for it.

He reaches the Miata. Squats. Duck walks around to the driver side. Looks inside.

He reholsters his weapon. Shakes his head. He's not in a hurry anymore.

Poor Mook. He must be dead.