Whack A Mole

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

We're hauling ass up Ocean Avenue.

Ceepak is tapping on the Mobile Data Terminal keyboard, looking up Peter Paul Mullen's home address, running a search through state and national crime databases for anything they have.

“He lives up north. 14th Street in Cedar City.”

That's like seven miles away.

“Let's swing by his dock first,” Ceepak decides.

That's two blocks up Ocean, three over to the bay.

“Lights and siren?” I ask.

“Negative. If he is there with the girl we don't want to spook him.”

“Roger that,” I say and hang a sharp left on Gardenia Street.

“Should we call for backup? Alert the chief?”

Ceepak leans back in his seat. Checks his ammo again. I see him glance over to the rearview mirror. I know he's thinking about Santucci-back there at Mama Shucker's, directing traffic and steering rubberneckers away from the mess he made.

“Negative,” he says.

“Right,” I crack, “the chief might give Santucci fresh ammo.”

“Roger that,” says Ceepak.

He isn't joking.

At Ceepak's suggestion, I park at the corner of Gardenia and Bayside. We're about one hundred yards from Cap'n Pete's Pier. In the distance, I can see a string of carnival lights swinging in the breeze.

Ceepak taps his chest. Points toward the darkened office.

We're going in.

I see the double-door ice machine. The picnic table. I figure I can use those for cover if this thing goes hot.

Ceepak pulls out his pistol. I do the same. My palm is clammy, so I slip my gun back into the holster for a split second so I can dry my hand across the seat of my pants. Then I take it out again. Hold it with both hands. Hold it out in front of my face.

Ceepak zigs and zags in a crouch across the parking lot. I do the same. He uses light poles and parked cars and a telephone booth to make certain we're not sitting ducks or fish in a barrel.

I do the same.

We reach the ice machine and he raises his right hand. We halt. He points down to something on the deck in front of the office door.

It's Pete's stupid talking parrot.

Somebody ripped it off its hook and tossed it to the ground. Looks like they stomped on it, too. There's a deep dent cracked into its bright yellow belly. I wonder if that annoying voice chip recorded something Cap'n Pete didn't want anybody else to hear. Maybe a girl's screams.

“Looks like a possible 10–36,” Ceepak whispers.

Vandalism.

We now have probable cause to search the premises.

Ceepak raises his pistol skyward. I keep mine aimed straight ahead. He'll do the door. I'll deal with whatever's on the other side once he swings clear.

He nods. I nod back.

His left hand twists the metal knob on the screen door. It's unlocked. Also rusty. He pulls it open. Slow. The door squeaks.

Ceepak peers through the window at the top of door number two, the fiberglass storm behind the screen.

“Clear,” he whispers. He tries the second door. “Unlocked.”

You'd think you'd lock your doors if you were inside sawing someone's head off.

“Going in.”

Ceepak speaks in quiet, terse bursts. I nod. I know what I'm supposed to do: cover his ass. He is putting himself in the most vulnerable position, making himself the first target. My job is to shoot anybody who shoots at him.

He raises his right leg. This door will be kicked open so he can keep his gun in front of his chest. He's done this before. Lots of times. They were always knocking down doors back in Baghdad. Busting up apartments doubling as bomb factories.

He kicks.

The cheap storm door nearly flies off its hinges. It swings open so fast it hits an interior wall and bounces right back. Ceepak kicks at it again, softer this time. Gives it more toe, less heel.

“Clear!” he shouts.

We storm into the front room.

“Clear,” I shout back because I need to shout something.

The room looks like it did when Cap'n Pete was showing us his shoebox full of treasures. No wonder the worst treasure hunter in Ceepak's club was finally able to actually find something: it was all stuff he had buried himself so he knew where to dig.

Ceepak points to the curtained partition separating the public space of the office from the private back room. The storage room. The room where, I've heard, Cap'n Pete keeps a cot for those late nights when he's been out on the continental shelf in his boat, fishing for blues, and doesn't return to dock until three or four in the morning. The same cot he probably slept on back in the ’80s, after those long nights of strenuous mutilation in the service of the Lord.

Ceepak snags my attention.

He's going into the back room.

I'm aiming my Glock forward again.

I nod.

He nods.

He takes in a deep breath, shoves the heavy blanket aside. It slides away like a wool shower curtain.

We step into the darkness. The room has no windows. No lights. Our eyes adjust.

When the shadows start to take on shapes that make sense, we see that the side walls are lined with industrial shelving. Metal racks with exposed nuts and bolts and diagonal slats like you'd use in your garage. The shelves are crammed with neatly arranged plastic storage bins stacked on top of each other. At the far wall, ten feet in front of us, I make out the shape of a small rollaway bed.

Ceepak flicks on his Maglite, swings the flashlight beam over to the bed.

Stacey is lying spread-eagled on the mattress. I can see her dyed hair but not her face.

She is lying on her stomach.