Mad Mouse

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

If Kiger and Malloy have found a witness to go with our foot and tire prints, things are definitely starting to look up. Which is good. We need to catch our killer or else summer ends early this year in Sea Haven and may never reopen again.

Mark Malloy, another of our guys, is about ten yards behind Kiger. He walks alongside this very tan thirtysomething guy in khaki shorts and a King Putt T-shirt. King Putt is one of the many miniature golf courses on the island. They have the best logo: a pharaoh who looks pretty authentic until you see the putter in his hands where the staff of Ra should be.

“This is Mr. Goldstein,” Malloy says to Ceepak. “He and his family are renting for two weeks at Fifteen Oak. Sir, could you please tell Officer Ceepak what you told my partner and I?”

“Now? I have to be on a conference call with a very important client in, like, five minutes.”

“I'd like to hear your story,” Ceepak says. He towers over the witness. Six-two to five-two. I think the very important client can wait.

“Okay, okay.” The guy sighs like we're ruining his day. Murder will do that. “Like I told these two officers already, my boys and I went down to the beach this morning, came back early for lunch. Around eleven thirty. Anyhow, I saw a car parked over there.” He points to the garage where the CSI team has just wrapped things up. “Figured it was the Realtor, stopping by to check up on the place. The house has been empty all summer I hear. Guess they're asking too much. Overpriced it.”

“What sort of vehicle was it?” Ceepak asks.

“Minivan,” Goldstein says. “White. They pulled in backwards.”

“Excuse me?”

“They backed into the garage. The door was up and I could see the front end pointing forward. I remember thinking that was weird. You ever try to back up into a garage? Tough to do. You gotta work the side mirrors so you don't scrape against the walls.”

“Right.”

“Or you can back in too far. Bump into the wall, crush your golf bag, knock over your weedwacker.”

“Right.”

“I did it once. Backed into my garage. Put this big scratch down the whole side of my truck. Dinged the bumper. Of course, my truck is a lot wider and longer than a minivan. That's it up there. See it? The silver Lexus? The LX 470?” He points and takes a self-satisfied moment to give us enough time to admire his shiny boy toy and calculate his net worth. “It lists for sixty-five but I added some options. We left the Porsche at home this year.‭ He gives us another minute so we can try to guess how much the options and Porsche must've cost.

When he has decided we're sufficiently impressed, he starts up again. “I remember thinking, why would you go through all that trouble to park your van butt in, nose out? It's easier just to pull in and back out, you know?”

“Yes, sir. Was anyone in the minivan?”

“No. Not that I saw. Could have been, but I didn't see anybody. Of course, I wasn't really looking for anyone, since I was heading home for lunch.”

“Was this red sports car parked where it is now?”

“No. Not when the boys and I came up from the beach.”

“And that was approximately eleven thirty?”

“Eleven thirty-two. I have one of those Atomic watches-syncs with the clock out in Boulder?” He waits for us to be impressed again. “They sell it at Hammacher Schlemmer?” Another pause. I just hope the watch didn't cost sixty-five thousand like the SUV.

“I remember checking the time right after I looked at the minivan,” he continues. “I phoned my wife from the beach, told her the boys and I would be home at eleven thirty-five. We were right on schedule. Anyhow, at eleven thirty-two, all I saw was the minivan and, like I said, I figured it was the real estate agent or maybe a maid brigade dropping by to dust off the furniture.”

“Why'd you think it was the Realtor?”

“The license plate was local. You know, one of those ‘Shore To Please’ jobs with the lighthouse.”

New Jersey sells ‘Shore To Please’ license plates to people who tick a box and donate a few bucks toward saving our seacoast from pollution. Most people here in town buy them. But, then again, so do a lot of other people all over the state who like visiting clean beaches for a week or two every summer and not worrying about stepping on hypodermic needles the tide dragged in.

“And,” our witness continues, “the van had a resident beach sticker on the bumper. You know, the green jobs? Little square with ‘Sea Haven’ written in that boring typeface? Helvetica. That's the lettering they use in airports.”

“Yes, sir.” Ceepak is smiling. I think he can't believe how lucky we are to have found a witness who actually saw and then remembered so many minute details. Most people don't see diddly or squat. This guy remembers typefaces. And don't forget, he has that atomic watch so he knows precisely when he saw them.

“Tell me, sir,” Ceepak asks, “do you work in the graphic arts?”

“Yeah. I'm an art director. Advertising. You know that commercial with the people standing on top of the yellow mountain and they all have arthritis?”

“Sorry. I don't watch much TV.”

“I'm sure you've seen it. It's a national spot. The field of yellow flowers? People dancing? They're wearing yellow gaucho hats?”

“Sorry.”

“The pill looks like the sun with yellow sunbeams glowing out the sides? Everybody feels better at the end and they play Frisbee with the yellow Labrador retriever? The Frisbee's yellow, too.”

“Sorry.”

“It's on the news every night. Usually right after the one for hemorrhoid cream. I did not do that one.”

“I'm going to look for it.”

“It's good. Very visual. Very yellow. Very sunny.”

“The hemorrhoid cream?” I ask.

“No. Mine. It's for Zolflam. The dawn of a new arthritis pain relief day. We bought that classic song Lemon Tree. I wanted Yellow Submarine or Mellow Yellow, but the price tags were too steep. Anyhow, the whole spot works like a mnemonic device for the warmth and comfort of this little yellow pill.”

“I see,” Ceepak nods like he knows what a mnemonic device is, which maybe he does. To me, it sounds like a jackhammer or something you fix sewer pipes with. “We have your contact information, Mr. Goldstein? In case we need to talk again?”

“Yeah. I gave it to Officer Kiger.”

“That'll work. Thank you. If-”

Ceepak stops.

Behind Goldstein, he sees what I see: a white minivan cruising slowly down the street, heading right for us.

License plate: AB494C7.