“A cargo carrier?” I say.
“Roger that.” Ceepak is beaming. “Nice call, Danny.”
“Any idea what make, Officer Boyle?” McDaniels asks.
“No. I've never, you know, really studied-”
“I suspect a Thule or Yakima,” Ceepak says. “Judging by the rounded nose up front. Perhaps the Thule Cascade model, which is one of the largest on the market: seventeen, eighteen cubic feet. Opens on the side.”
“Could our Russian friend fit inside?” McDaniels asks.
“Easily. The Thule box I'm thinking about is almost six feet long, maybe three feet wide, a foot and a half tall. She'd be cozy inside but quite capable of operating her weapon system in an efficient manner-with plenty of room left over for ammunition and provisions. Water. Food.”
“Which might be why Weese walked up the side of the car on Oak Street,” McDaniels says. “He wanted to make sure his honey wasn't baking inside the plastic casket while they waited for Mr. Mook. Maybe George brought Natalia a cold Coke. The sweet bastard.”
“The sniper was up here?” I say. “Hidden in a cargo holder?”
“Quite clever,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels agrees. “Yep. Young Mr. Weese and his wife built themselves a handy-dandy gun turret on top of the family van.” No admiration in her voice this time, just disgust. “Completely innocuous. Seemingly harmless. Just another minivan with a box strapped on the roof. Only, this minivan turns out to be a minitank.”
“More like an armored personnel carrier,” Ceepak says.
McDaniels shrugs. “Tomato, tomahto.”
I climb down.
“It also explains why we never found any shell casings,” says Ceepak. “They ejected from the rifle, hit the sides, stayed inside the box.”
McDaniels nods.
I wonder if this is why Natalia, the sniper with the real bullets, missed us on the beach and outside Morgan's. Maybe firing from inside a cargo carrier takes some getting used to. Maybe she was still getting the hang of it on Wednesday and Friday and only got her groove going Saturday morning at Saltwater Tammy's. By Saturday afternoon, she could place one in the center of Mook's forehead.
“I'm certain they've now attached their customized cargo carrier to the top of the rental van. Well done, Danny,” Ceepak says. “Excellent work.” He says that, but he looks worried. So does Dr. McDaniels.
They're both go completely quiet so I speak up again.
“What if Natalia has something up there other than an M-24 sniper rifle? What if she has a machine gun or a grenade launcher or something?”
Ceepak nods grimly.
“Exactly.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
W're working on the money,” Chief Baines says over the radio.
Ceepak and I are driving toward the boardwalk. We don't know exactly where to go, but we know we need to be there now. It's one fifteen. Before we left for the World's Biggest Beach Party, we swung by the house. Ceepak wanted a few things: a recording of our interrogation with Weese, which a tech burned onto a CD so we could listen to it in our car; a pair of small, high-power binoculars; and the paintball gun he ripped off the counter at Paintball Blasters. I have no idea why he grabbed it, but it did come in handy when he nailed Weese up on the Mad Mouse.
“You think the damn kid is bluffing?” Baines says, his voice edgy. Every time he opens the microphone at his end I can hear a rowdy mob and snatches of music.
“No, sir. I think Weese is dead serious.”
“His father thinks the boy's bullshitting us. Says Natalia is long gone and George is too much of a wuss to do anything himself.”
“I don't think Mr. Weese knows his son very well or what sort of man he has become.”
“Okay. Fine. What do we do?”
“Search the parking lots for any minivans with cargo carriers up top.”
“Which parking lot?”
“All of them.”
“Jesus, John! Have you seen this place?”
“No, sir. We are currently en route.”
“There's cars parked everywhere. Half of them are damn minivans!”
“We'll try to narrow it down for you, sir.”
“There's about a jillion people-men, women, children, dogs. They're crawling all over the boardwalk and the beach.”
“Roger. I understand, sir. Check for open lines of fire. Clear shots from the parking lot to the boardwalk. Openings between buildings. Gaps. Concentrate on the most crowded sectors. The target-rich environments.”
“What's your ETA? What's your twenty?” It sounds like the chief has a head start on a panic attack.
“Northbound on Ocean,” Ceepak says flatly. “Approaching Kipper. Turning now. We should arrive in under a minute.”
We're moving pretty fast. No lights. No sirens. Once again, Ceepak doesn't want the bad guy to know we're coming. Might spook the little Russian lady up in her sweatbox if we come screaming in to nab her.
“Which damn parking lot?” The chief? I think he just lost it. “There's one every block for a mile!”
“Kipper and Beach Lane.”
“Hurry! We have, what? Forty-five minutes? Jesus!”
“Forty-three, sir. Keep in contact with the house. Let George Weese know the money is not an issue.”
“I don't like paying extortionists. Terrorists!”
“Neither do I, sir. If we work this right, we won't have to. Keep this channel open.”
Ceepak tosses the radio mic to me. I get the sense he doesn't want to waste any more time on Baines. Not now.
Public Parking Lot 4. There are eight other lots up and down Beach Lane butting up against the boardwalk. I see several gaps, openings between the brightly painted backs of buildings. In those clear spaces I can also see the mob of seminaked bodies bobbing and weaving, moving and grooving-cool young dudes and bodacious beach babes. I can hear 3 Doors Down two blocks up at the band shell. It sounds like they're doing their biggest hit, “Kryptonite.” After that, they'll probably do “Dangerous Game” or “Ticket To Heaven.” They both kind of fit today.
I have never seen so many vehicles jammed into these parking lots. I look north, I look south, there's not an empty spot anywhere.
“Where?” Ceepak surveys the scene. “Where.”
You never realize how many cargo carriers Thule and Yakima and Sears sell until you're wishing they only ever sold one. Everywhere I look, I see vans with boxes on top.
Ceepak punches the play button on the CD player. I hear Wheezer's cocky voice. Arrogant. So proud of his plan.
“Once the money is taken care of, you, Officer Ceepak, you will escort me to the airport where I will board Aeroflot flight 15 to Moscow.”
Ceepak hits the reverse button. The digits spin backward.
“He probably told us where,” Ceepak says. “He likes dropping clues. Hints.”
“Yeah. Because he likes laughing at us when we don't catch them.”
“Precisely.”
Ceepak punches play.
“Perhaps my subtle allusions were a tad too sophisticated for someone of your limited abilities.”
Weese gloating. Bragging about his big successful plan. What'd he call it? “The triumph of the son.” His father would see how big and important he had become.
“Life under the son,” I say out loud.
“Come again?”
“Go to that part. Where he talks about ‘the triumph of the son.’ ”
“Roger.”
Ceepak remembers. Finds it, fast.
“All is in readiness. The multitudes have assembled on the beach and boardwalk. I understand from my father that the Chamber of Commerce is expecting quite a turnout. Thousands and thousands of happy holiday revelers, none of whom, I'll wager, are particularly interested in dying today. But, alas, some may have to. For it is time for the triumph of the son! Time for the world to experience life under the son, as they say!”