Mad Mouse

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Danny? Get in the car.”

“It's Mook's ARMY buddy!”

“In the car.”

Ceepak nods at Adam Kiger.

“Mr. Goldstein?” Kiger says to our witness. “If you'll come with me.” Kiger practically drags the guy in the King Putt T-shirt down to the end of the street.

“That's not the van …”

That's all I hear Mr. Mnemonic say as he is hauled out of harm's way. Kiger has his arm wrapped around the dude's waist and is carrying him on his hip like a grocery sack stacked with six-packs.

“Officer Boyle?” His partner, Malloy, has his hand on my shoulder. “You heard Ceepak. Into the car. Now.”

I move toward the Ford, walking backwards so I can see what Ceepak is going to do, moving fast so I don't get hauled away like Goldstein.

“Move it, Danny.” Malloy puts his body between the minivan and me-and I'm the one wearing the bulletproof vest. “Hustle, kid. Into the car.”

I do what he says. I don't want Malloy babysitting me when he could be out there helping Ceepak.

I see the guys on our team reach for their weapons. Ceepak. Malloy. I look in the rearview mirror. Kiger has his semiautomatic out, too. He has Goldstein stuffed behind a beach bench and is kneeling in the sand at the end of the street, taking aim at the minivan's tires.

Everybody on this job has a gun except, of course, me. I just have a big bull's-eye pasted somewhere on my forehead.

I check the van's front bumper: no green “Sea Haven” sticker. So, I figure, it's not the one Mr. Goldstein saw at eleven thirty-two A.M. Ceepak, however, isn't taking any chances. His gun is out and aimed at the driver's head.

“Stop!” he says.

The van stops. Funny how a gun works. Even better than a stop sign.

This big, burly guy tumbles out of the passenger side door with his hands up over his head. He has a 7-Eleven Big Gulp cup in one of his hands so soda sloshes over the top when he hoists it up over his head.

Rick steps down from the driver's side, arms raised.

“We're cool,” he says. “We're cool.”

Two other passengers fall out of the sliding side door, like they had trouble jimmying up on the handle and lost their balance. All four now have their hands up over their heads. I recognize their faces from this morning with Mook in the diner. Rick, the ARMY guy, has on a new T-shirt: black with a sparkling gold front. It shows the bust of Julius Caesar, only he's wearing sunglasses. It's from a casino down in Atlantic City: Caesar's.

“On the ground,” Ceepak barks. “All of you. Now.”

The college guys do as they're told even if it means spilling the rest of their Big Gulps.

“Kiss the asphalt!” Malloy barks.

Ceepak kind of looks at Malloy, like he wonders where he learned that line. My guess? One of those Vin Diesel movies or some cop show that comes on when Ceepak's busy watching Forensic Files.

Since all the potential bad guys are lying in the street, I figure it's safe for me to step out of our cop car. I make my way up to the minivan.

“Danny?” Ceepak hears me coming up behind him. “Do you recognize these gentlemen?”

Kind of a funny question to ask right now, since all of them are sprawled facedown on the hot blacktop. But I saw them earlier when they tumbled out of the van like drunken clowns at the circus.

“Yeah. They're Mook's friends.”

“That's right,” the lanky one says, lifting his head, pushing his sunglasses back into place.

“Kiss it!” Malloy snarls. Lanky's mouth goes back to the blacktop.

“Mark?” Ceepak says.

“Yes, sir?”

“I think we can let them up.”

“Should I cuff them?”

“No need,” says Ceepak, holstering his pistol. “Am I right, gentlemen?”

“No need … we're cool.” The four of them mumble their agreement into the tarmac.

“Stand up. All of you.” It's Malloy. He likes giving orders.

Mook's pals haul themselves up off the asphalt, which is hot, and brush themselves off. I move around to the back of the van.

The bumper stickers are all still there plus a new one: I SCORED ROYALLY AT CAESAR'S!

“Where's Mook?” I hear one of them ask.

“Are you gentlemen looking for him?” Ceepak asks.

“Duh,” the guy says, maybe forgetting what it felt like back on the asphalt.

“He called us,” Rick, the ARMY guy, says. “From his cell phone. Said to meet him here. Oak and Beach. Said he'd just heard about this awesome party in Philly tonight but first he was going to score us some …” The guy remembers we're cops, decides to change the subject. “We drove up from Atlantic City.”

“Is that so?” Malloy moves in closer. He still has his weapon aimed at their heads. He flicks from one to another and back again, like he wants to make sure, should it become necessary, that he can personally mow all of them down with as few bullets as possible, like he's working out his shooting angles.

“It is,” says Ceepak. “They went to Caesar's.”

“Just because he has on the T-shirt?” Malloy sounds itchy, like he wants to shoot somebody soon. “You can buy those at the Qwick Pick, at the gas station.”

“They parked in deck four.” Ceepak taps on the minivan's slanting front windshield. Behind it, on the dashboard, is a small orange stub. A receipt from the Caesar's parking garage. Ceepak saw it from fifteen paces.

“Is Mook here?” Rick asks.

“No,” Ceepak says sort of softly.

“He told us he had this great parking spot. Free. Right near the beach.”

“He did.” Ceepak points to the empty red sports car tucked under the big house being built at the corner. “Real good spot.”

“Is Mook okay?” another friend asks.

“Did something happen?”

They suddenly sound sad, maybe scared. They also seem as if Mook really was their buddy, like he really used to be mine.

“Gentlemen, Mr. Harley Mook was murdered this morning.”

“Jesus,” the tall guy says. “Murdered?”

“Sniper,” I say, looking at Rick.

“Fuck.” He kind of gasps it. “Fuck, man.” He sounds truly upset.

Now I'm certain: Rick has never shot anybody in his life. Never wanted to either. He just went into the army to pay for college and see the world. He's not our guy.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Ceepak nods his head like he agrees with Rick's assessment of the situation: it is totally fucked.

“Officer Malloy?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Please escort these gentlemen back to headquarters. We need detailed statements.” Then Ceepak turns to the guys standing in the street, their hands stuffed in the front pockets of their shorts, shaking their heads, trying to figure out what the hell happened here this morning.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ceepak says. “I'm certain it will assist in our apprehension of Mr. Mook's killer.”

Then he turns to me.

“Wheezer, Danny. We need to find Wheezer.”