Mad Mouse

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Coast Guard Auxiliary Flotilla 75 in Avondale, New Jersey, usually does stuff like teach boating safety to weekend sailors.

But they also have this really fast boat. A forty-four-foot, aluminum-hulled number that can do thirty-five knots. That's like forty mph. I know because Rosie, my skipper, a Coast Guard Reservist, told me so. Actually, she had to scream it because we were flying across the bay so fast-about forty mph.

When I called Ceepak, he called his Coast Guard buddies. Apparently, they were delighted to help him out by seeing how fast their new boat could go. So now I'm wearing a bright orange life jacket over my bulletproof vest, holding on to a handrail with sea spray needling my face and skimming like a flicked stone across the bay back to the island. This sea puppy's fast.

Christine will keep an eye on Katie at the hospital. So, of course, will the doctors. Ceepak said he'd meet me at the marina off Bayside Boulevard, over near Schooner's Landing-back where we think George Weese parked his white minivan, stepped out, and took two shots. One at me, one at Katie.

Rosie pulls back on the throttle. We churn up backwash, lose speed, and drift toward the dock. Ceepak is standing there to salute us on our final approach.

Rosie snaps one back.

“Throw him the line,” she barks. It takes me a second to figure out she's barking at me, that I'm all of a sudden her first mate. “Throw him the dock line!”

I hoist this big coil of rope and heave it toward Ceepak. I almost fling myself onto the dock after it. Ceepak catches the line and wraps it around a cleat.

“Here's your cargo,” Rosie says when I stumble off the boat.

“Thank you, Rosie,” Ceepak says. “I owe you one.”

“So buy me a beer.”

“Will do. But not when you're on duty.”

“Roger that,” she says. “Hurry up. Go catch the bastard.”

“Come on, Danny.” Ceepak motions for me to keep up with him. “We need to join everybody over at the Weese residence.”

“Did the guys find George?”

“Not yet.”

I check my watch. It's 10:52 A.M. We walk faster, heading off the dock into the parking lot.

“Did they, you know, find any evidence?”

“Roger that. They tell me there's a white minivan parked in the garage.”

“Green beach sticker?”

“On the front bumper not far from the lighthouse license plate.”

“I thought George Weese lived out of town.”

“He does.”

“So what's he doing with a resident beach sticker?”

“His father cheated. Bought an extra tag, sent it to his son hoping it might encourage George to …” Ceepak checks his notebook. “‘Bring the grandchildren down more often.’ Mrs. Weese bought George the minivan. Apparently, the Weeses are quite wealthy.”

But they cheat.

To Ceepak, that's all that matters.

• • •

We pull up in front of the Weese house.

Ceepak's right: these people are loaded.

They have a humongous house, two in from the ocean at the corner of Beach Lane and Walnut Street. It's three stories tall, with all sorts of angles and extensions and different-shaped windows and jutting decks and this big sweeping staircase up to double front doors with gold-trimmed glass windows like something Tony Soprano might buy at Home Depot. I'm surprised the Weeses don't just hang a sign off one of their roofs: “Got money? We sure as shit do.”

I see Kiger and Malloy's patrol car parked out front near the two-car garage at the left side of the house. I see the CSI team's Taurus, too.

Ceepak pulls in but doesn't park very well. He just sort of angles our Ford against the concrete curb with the butt sticking out into the street. Kiger is in the driveway looking like he's eager to tell him something, so Ceepak yanks up the emergency brake and basically jumps out of the Explorer. I follow along.

“What've you got, Adam?”

“Weapon and ammunition in the minivan. Rear cargo hold.”

“The M-24?” Ceepak asks.

Kiger shakes his head. “Negative. Looks like a paintball shooter. You know-a big toy gun. Black plastic. Molded to look like an army rifle.”

“Most likely a Tripman A-5 with reactive trigger,” Ceepak says. Then he turns to me because he knows I'm totally confused. “Same as rifle number three at Paintball Blasters on the boardwalk. I checked last night. Weese wanted to practice on the same type of gun, see if he could manipulate the trigger action while gloved.”

While I was passed out on that sofa outside the ICU, Ceepak was back here working the case.

A Ford Expedition crunches up the street. Chief Baines.

“What've we got, Ceepak?”

“Potential suspect, sir.”

“Weese? From the Chamber?”

“His son. George.”

“Do we know where this George Weese is presently located?” The chief reaches for the shoulder microphone to his radio, ready to call in strike coordinates on our sniper.

“No, sir. We've posted an APB based on witness descriptions.”

“And,” Kiger says, “we have his father and mother inside. Also the suspect's wife and children. Malloy's in there with them, making sure nobody tells Georgie Porgie the cavalry's coming.”

“What's the prevailing mood?” Baines is curious. “Inside?”

Kiger smiles. “Pissed off, sir.”

The chief nods, turns to Ceepak.

“John?”

“Yes, sir?”

“You sure about this? You sure George Weese is your guy?”

“It's where all the evidence leads, sir.”

The chief checks his watch, nods his head.

“Let's go nail the bastard.”

Looks like we might beat that noon deadline after all.

“This is preposterous. George would never do such a thing.” This is his mother talking, naturally. She's short and chubby and chain smokes.

Two little kids bawl and screech in a playpen in the middle of the living room. One, a boy, looks to be almost two years old. The other? I don't know. I'm no good at guessing how old babies are supposed to be. I wish they had rings I could count like with trees. Maybe the little one's nine or ten months. The way it screams? Got the lungs of a twelve-year-old. Both kids have tears streaming down their cheeks and snot dripping out their noses, and it all ends up as crusty green stuff on top of their lips. There's reason to suspect the small one has a load in its pants, too. Either that, or Mrs. Weese is cooking something foul for brunch.

“Bad move, Baines,” Mr. Weese says. “A one-month job never looks good on a résumé.” He is peacocking around the living room in bright-yellow shorts and a sky blue polo shirt. He's also got on golf shoes so I think we more than likely interrupted his Sunday plans. His socks match his shirt and pants. Vibrant. I guess so the other golfers can see you coming from two tees away.

“George would never do such a thing.” Mrs. Weese is indignant. “Never. I know my boy.”

The two kids in the playpen break some kind of indoor world record and scream even louder.

“Natalia? Jesus!” Mrs. Weese turns to their mother, who's sitting slumped in an armchair. “Take them upstairs, please. Now!”

“All right,” her daughter-in-law says with some kind of thick, grumbling accent that makes her sound like one of the bad guys in a billion spy movies. She could be Russian. She has dark hair and a sour face.

Natalia Weese marches across the living and scoops up her two squealers.

“Malloy?” Ceepak now says.

Mark Malloy nods. “On it.” He follows the younger Mrs. Weese and the screaming kids out of the room. No one is being left alone where they can whip out a cell phone to let George know people are looking for him.

“Perhaps you should arrange for someone to help out with your grandchildren,” Ceepak says to Mr. Weese. “We'll want to interview all of you, including George's wife.”

“Good luck,” Mr. Weese says with a curl of his lip. “She's Russian. None too bright, either. Still having a tough time with English, even after she's been here, what? Three years?”

“Lies!” Mrs. Weese now screams at Ceepak, as if shouting might make it true. “This is all a pack of lies! You don't have any evidence!”

“Yes, ma'am, we do,” Ceepak says. “Your son fits the description of a young man who recently purchased seven Derek Jeter baseball cards at Aquaman's Comix and Collectibles.”

“Wrong. George never played baseball.”

“He never played any sports,” Mr. Weese adds.

“He played those computer games.”

“Those are not sports!”

“He had that soccer one!”

Mr. and Mrs. Weese scowl at each other. Then they swivel so they can scowl at us, too.

“What's with the baseball cards?” Mr. Weese asks Chief Baines.

“The sniper placed the same cards your son bought at Schooner's Landing,” Baines says.

“So? Maybe he stole them from George!” Mrs. Weese says. “You ever think of that?”

“Aquaman's Comix?” Mr. Weese says. “That's Dan Bloomfield's shop. He's with the Chamber. If he's spreading lies about George …”

“He's leasing that space.” Mrs. Weese sucks down some hot smoke. “We can raise his rent …”

“We sure as shit can!”

“Mr. and Mrs. Weese?” Chief Baines interrupts. “Please. Where is your son?”

There is no answer. Mr. Weese shakes his head in disgust. I'm not certain, but I get the feeling he's been disappointed with his son for some time. I say this because my dad used to give me the same kind of headshake-usually right after I did something totally stupid.

Ceepak turns to Kiger. “What about the tires? On the minivan?”

“They match.” Dr. McDaniels walks into the room.

“Who's this?” Mr. Weese demands. “This is my house … all these people … traipsing in and out …”

“Dr. Sandra McDaniels.” She extends her hand. He doesn't take it. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“What's this about tires?”

“The tread pattern on the minivan in your garage matches those we found over on Oak Street.”

“So? What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means your son is the primary suspect in the killing of Harley Mook.”

“Who did you say you were?” Mrs. Weese sounds even angrier than her husband.

“Dr. Sandra McDaniels. New Jersey State Police Major Crime Unit. I'm not really here.” She holds up a big plastic baggie. “But I did find these in the back of your son's minivan, right next to the paintball rifle. Do either of you folks surf?”

Inside the baggie? Two neoprene surfer gloves.

“No,” Mr. Weese answers, not quite getting that McDaniels's question was basically what they call rhetorical. “I golf. Helen gardens.”

“Where's your son's toothbrush?” McDaniels asks.

“His toothbrush?”

“I need to collect some DNA. Lift his prints off the handle. Maybe his bathroom cup. Pretty fertile forensic fields, bathrooms. Find all sorts of human detritus. Unless, of course, your son wore gloves while he brushed his teeth, too.”

Somehow, Dr. McDaniels entrance has made Mr. and Mrs. Weese realize we mean business.

“His bathroom's on the second floor.” Mr. Weese suddenly sounds defeated.

“Go get what you need,” Chief Baines says to McDaniels.

She winks at Ceepak and ambles up the staircase.

“Franklin?” Mrs. Weese put her hand on her chest and sighs. “I feel faint.”

“Then sit down.” Which he promptly does himself. She follows suit.

“We need a recent photograph,” Ceepak says.

“Of George?” Mrs. Weese looks ready to cry. Instead, she lights another cigarette.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“This will work,” I say, reaching for a framed wedding photo on an end table.

“No. Not that one.” Mrs. Weese takes it from my hands. “He looks terrible there. His mouth hanging open like that. Let me get you a better one. From my bedroom …”

“Adam?” Ceepak cocks his head to send Officer Kiger wherever Mrs. Weese goes.

“Ma'am?” Kiger steps forward to let George's mother know she now has an official police escort.

“What? You think I'm going to call George?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Ceepak says because he always tells the truth. “That photograph? We need it immediately if not sooner.”

“Oh, take whatever you want. It doesn't matter.”

I hang on to the wedding shot.

Ceepak's cell phone rings. He rips it off his belt, flips it open.

“This is Ceepak. Go ahead.”

We all stare while he nods, then nods again.

“Right. Thank you.”

He snaps the cell phone shut.

“What?” demands Chief Baines.

“Friend of ours down on the boardwalk.”

“Who?”

“T. J. Lapczynski.” Ceepak turns from the chief to face Mr. Weese. “He's played paintball with your son.”

“So?”

“George is on the boardwalk right now, heading for the Tower of Terror.”

“Let's go,” Baines says.

“Possible ten-eighty-eight.”

“Jesus, he has a gun?”

“Not certain. However, T. J. says our suspect is carrying a duffel bag.”