“So? What's that supposed to mean?” Mazzilli leans back in his chair and drapes his arms across his gut. “What's this seven-six-two special ball crap?”
“Means it's the same cartridge the United States Army issues to its snipers.”
Skipper's dad moans. “The army?”
“So the kid borrowed his dad's hunting rifle and stole some ammo from the army.” Bruno waves the air in front of his face like it's all no big deal. “Besides, if you already got the bullet, it's a cinch to catch the guy. I see it on TV all the time. You use your ballistics. It's like a science. So just do the damn ballistics and haul the kid in.” He wipes his hands together to signify that's all there is to it.
“Are we sure it's a kid?” A new voice is now heard. Keith Barent Johnson-or KBJ, like it says on the monogrammed hanky he's dabbing across his damp forehead. Mr. Johnson owns a slew of motels, most of which probably have their No Vacancy signs lit up for Labor Day weekend. I know he'd hate to have to flip off that first glowing word.
“Of course it's a kid, you schmuck!” Mazzilli practically screams. “Who else leaves a comic book as his calling card?”
“All right.” Chief Baines has heard enough debate. “Here's what we're going to do.”
The mayor raises his hand. “You're not gonna call the FBI are you, Buzz?”
Baines shoots an exasperated glance at him. The mayor raises both hands as if to say, “Sorry-I'll shut up now.”
Baines turns to Ceepak.
“John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to intensify your investigation. Make sure you've got something besides circumstantial evidence. We either catch him red-handed or else you need to build a rock-solid case.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Meanwhile, Santucci and I take charge of securing the boardwalk for the Labor Day event. If you need additional resources, ask.”
“I need Boyle.”
“He's your partner. If you need him for this, you've got him.”
“Yes, sir.”
Now the chief turns his attention to me.
“Did you sustain any injuries in the assault?”
“I'm good to go,” is all I say.
Fortunately, I was able to clean myself up in Morgan's restroom before the meeting started. I washed most of the paint gunk out of my hair and Rita gave me a souvenir Morgan's Surf and Turf T-shirt with a goofy-looking cow and crab dancing together on the back. When I changed shirts, I noticed I was a little bruised, but nothing serious. The worst part was drying my hair underneath the hot-air hand blower in the bathroom. I had to duck down, punch the button, and let the thing whirr on my scalp about seven different times.
The chief leans on the table, props himself up with his fists.
“Run this thing down, John. I'm counting on you.”
“I'd like to call in Dr. McDaniels. State CSI.”
Ceepak worked with McDaniels back in July. She's tops in her field-practically wrote the book on forensic investigation techniques. In fact, she did write one. A standard textbook. Ceepak showed it to me. He keeps a copy in the patrol car's glove compartment and another on his nightstand. Variations in blood-splatter patterns make for soothing bedtime reading.
“Call her,” the chief says, “but not officially, is all. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
I think this means Dr. McDaniels can help but only if nobody catches on that she is. Keep it local, keep it quiet. That's the message.
Baines now clears his throat, makes sure he still has everybody's attention. “We need to put a stop to whoever's doing this. Simultaneously, we need to throw a publicity blanket over our efforts. We must not engender panic. We will tell anyone who asks that tonight's incident was the reckless act of juvenile delinquents, the tragic consequence of underage drinking. Penny?” He turns to the local reporter. “Will you work with me on this?”
Since The Sandpaper mostly runs front-page stories about walkathons and unicyclists, the closest Penny Jennings has ever come to muckraking was this three-part series on “Cable TV Lineup Under Scrutiny.” She'll play along.
“People witnessed the attack,” she reminds him.
“Well, keep it vague, then. Just a prank that got out of hand. That kind of thing. No bullets or snipers, okay?”
“Are you issuing a gag order?” she asks.
“No. More like a gag request.” He gives her a special smile.
“Well, in that case …”
“Thank you. John?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Speedy results are what I'm looking for. Anything you need, call.”
“Roger that. Danny?”
Ceepak motions for me to follow him out of the dining room.
“Do that ballistics shit,” Mazzilli screams after us. “Works all the time.”
We hit the hallway.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Let's swing by my apartment. I need my kit.”
His evidence kit. His crime scene tools. His cargo pants.
“Then we need to hit the beach.”
“Which one?”
“I believe you called it Tangerine.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Qwick Pick Mini Mart on Ocean Avenue is a cop's paradise. They have a dozen different pots of coffee going at once, everything from Decaf Ginger Espresso to Chocolate Macadamia. They also have Krispy Kreme doughnuts that are supposedly fresh, even at one in the morning, which is what it is now. There's nothing like a chocolate-iced-glazed-with-sprinkles and a cup of hazelnut to jolt you into your second or third wind, especially if you also grab a Mountain Dew from up front, the ice barrel that looks like a big Pepsi can.
We came here after stopping at Ceepak's apartment because I need Advil. My ribs ache. I walk past the aisles filled with Combos and Chex Mix and Taystee Cakes to the one where the individual-serving-size medicine packets dangle on metal pegs. Heartburn, headache, hangover: they've got all the pain bases pretty well covered. I notice Ceepak over in Beach Needs rummaging around in the inflatable balls and sand buckets until he finds a spool of kite string.
At his apartment, he ran upstairs to grab his gear. Five minutes later, he hustled back down the steps in his cargo pants lugging an aluminum attaché case and his Surfmaster II metal detector.
This is what he does on his days off. He takes his metal detector down to the beach and hunts for buried treasure. You know: loose change, Rolexes, pirate booty.
“It helps me sharpen my forensic skills,” he says. “I unearth metal objects and attempt to construct a plausible history for them. Every found item has its own story. I try to decipher it.”
I hand a twenty to the cashier, get my change, then tear open two packets of Advil, swigging the caplets down with some cold, caffeine-rich Dew.
“All set?” Ceepak asks, paying for his string.
“Yeah. You?”
“Roger that. Let's hit the beach.”
We head out the door.
On the way over to Ceepak's, we stopped by the house and left my minivan in the parking lot, taking the Ford Explorer we normally patrol in on the job. We also heard from Kiger and Malloy. They had talked to the folks in both residences on either side of the water tower. Nobody had heard anything. Nobody saw anything. Our guys found nothing. No spent cartridges, no fingerprints, no more trading cards. Our shooter is holding on to his Phantom status.
“You think there's any significance to the comics he's choosing?” I ask as we pull off Ocean onto Tangerine.
“Certainly.”
“What?”
“Perhaps he sees himself as some sort of avenger. A mystery man lurking in the shadows, righting past wrongs.”
“Not your typical Sea Haven hobby.”
“Or”-Ceepak ignores me-“he could just be a kid with too many trading cards he can't sell on eBay. It's too early to connect all the dots.”
“So, what are we looking for down on the beach?”
“More dots.”