“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.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The Tower of Terror is that 250-foot-tall ride in the middle of the boardwalk.
It looks like the Seattle Space Needle-a steeple of steel girders and diagonal tie beams stretching up to the sky. On all four sides are these chairs you pay good money to sit in to be scared out of your wits. There are six chairs on each side with seat belts and padded shoulder harnesses. Twenty-four folks get hauled up to the top. Twenty-four folks get dropped about 240 feet before the brakes come on. It's like paying five bucks to ride an open-air elevator and have somebody snip the cable.
I only rode the Tower of Terror once, and I think my stomach is still somewhere up there, about halfway down.
From the top, before they drop you like a rock, you do, momentarily, get this incredible view-all the way up and down the beach. You can see the boardwalk below, the ocean off to the side. On a clear day, you can see all the way out to the Ship John lighthouse on the north end of the island. If George Weese makes it to the top of the Tower with an M-24 Sniper Weapon System, he could definitely rain down all sorts of terror.