If we don't crack this case by Labor Day, I may have to find a job pushing carts around the parking lot at Wal-Mart.
CHAPTER FOUR
Everyone's gone, and I'm dancing on the beach again.
Well, not quite everyone. Ceepak's still here.
I'm doing a solo number without any music to show him my approximate location during the paintball bombardment. The campfire's long gone and he's shining his Maglite on me.
“I was here …”
“Facing the street.”
“Right. Katie was facing me. She took a hit in her … you know.”
I don't want to say “ass” or “butt.”
“Her gluteus maximus.” Ceepak helps out. He looks up toward the beachfront homes on the far side of the dunes. “The shots were probably fired from the street. Or off one of those balconies.”
I look to the left and right of our entrance to the beach. There are three or four houses on either side. Modern jobs. All windows and right angles. They look like vinyl-sided shoe boxes stacked on top of each other, and, since this is beachfront property, every level has its own balcony or sun deck. Some of the houses even have widow's walks-a platform up on top of the roof. I think they call it that because that's where the widows of ship captains used to hang out and hope their husbands weren't really dead. Probably cursed god and the ocean some while they were up there, too. The higher elevation made it easier to scream at heaven.
“Danny? Focus.”
“Right.”
When I drift off like that, Ceepak usually reels me back in.
“Where was your radio located?”
“There.” I point to the trash barrel. “Propped on top.”
He takes one more look at the boom box lying in the sand on the ocean side of the trash barrel.
“Confirming that the shots came from the west.”
“From one of those balconies?” Ceepak crouches.
“I don't believe so. You say the paintball smacked you square in the chest.”
“Like somebody heaved a medicine ball at me.”
“I'd like to do a more comprehensive trajectory analysis, but judging from your impressions of the incident and the position of the radio, I'd say the shooter operated at street level. Perhaps firing from a car window.”
Ceepak stands. His face, as usual, doesn't say much, but I think he's relieved we're not dealing with some kind of rifleman up on a rooftop. He saw enough of those back in what the soldiers all call Bagh-nasty-dad. Snipers, mostly. Ceepak went in with the first wave, the guys hunting for the weapons of mass destruction nobody ever found because they never actually existed. Later, he was in this convoy that was almost blown up by one of those roadside bombs the locals like to hide inside everything from rusty oil drums to tricycle tubing. When the bomb blew, Ceepak's Humvee gunner went ballistic. Did some horrible stuff to several civilians. I think that's when Ceepak decided to rotate stateside when his tour and bounce-backs ended. Decided he'd pack up his medals and say so long to the army, which, up to that point, had been his whole life.
I hear him suck in some night air.
The way Ceepak squints up at those balconies and widow's walks? I know he's seeing bad guys with rocket-propelled grenades and AK-47s. He lost a lot of buddies back in the “sandbox.” Every now and then, he talks about it.
Every now and then.
“Come on,” he says. We start working our way up the sand. “The midnight gang's assembled and picked a rendezvous for the night.”
Now he's mumbling Springsteen lyrics. It's one of Ceepak's auto-focusing techniques. He remembers every song the Boss ever wrote-even ones Bruce has probably forgotten.
“They'll meet ‘neath that giant Exxon sign that brings this fair city light.”
This one's a classic. “Jungleland.” But I don't see any Exxon sign. The only light is off in the distance, about a half block up Tangerine. One of those orange-ish street lamps, its hazy beacon a dance club for the big flappy bugs that only come out at night.
We reach the dunes and seagrass. Ceepak crouches in front of a bench made from pressure-treated two-by-eights. It faces the ocean right where the beach ends and the rolled-out dune fencing starts. Nothing special. Just a place to sit and shake sand out of your shoes.
“See something?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Too many footprints.”
Ceepak stands up and dusts some sand off his pants.
People stop here to put on their sneakers or flip-flops or whatever before walking down to the street. You walk barefooted on hot asphalt in August, your feet are going to talk to you about it. Ceepak realizes it's such a high-traffic zone there's no way we're going to pick up any usable footprints or clues.
“We need to talk to some people.” He nods at the dark houses. “Find out if anybody saw or heard anything besides your music.”
“Right.” We had the radio blaring pretty loud, especially during the dance number. Mook was sending up his own personal noise pollution long before that. I'm sure some of the neighbors would give me an earful if they knew it was my Toasted Marshmallow Day party that disturbed their peace.
We crest the dune and walk down the short stretch of planks to the street. Ceepak hunkers down again. I do the same thing. Sometimes, it's like we play Simon Says.
He pulls a magnifying glass out of one of the pockets in his cargo pants. All I have in my shorts is a beer-bottle opener.
“Same story here.”
“Tire tracks?”
“Dozens,” he says.
He points to the sweeping arcs of tread marks and I see what he sees: Car after car drove down the dead-end street, dropped off the kids, unloaded all the beach stuff-much of which also had wheels: little red wagons, rolling ice chests, beach carts. We've got tire tracks on top of tire tracks.
“Nothing.” Ceepak bites his lip, shakes his head. TMI. Too Much Information. Nothing stands out. It all blends in.
“I don't believe paintball weapons expel shell casings.” Ceepak pulls out a notepad and jots something down. “I believe they act more like a cannon, propelling the ball out of the chamber. The ball stays intact until it strikes its target.”
“Yeah.” As one of the targets, I know how it strikes. I also know how it hurts.
“I need to do some research. But first, we need to knock on a few doors.”
It's almost one A.M. I'm sure the neighbors are going to love us.
“What about the q.t.?” I ask.
“Come again?”
“You know. The chief told us to keep this thing quiet. If we start asking questions, people will wonder what happened.” I point to my yellow-green chest.
Ceepak nods. Slow. Up and down, up and down. He's thinking.
“You make a valid point, Danny.”
“We'd have to tell them something.”
“Yes. But, I am disinclined to disseminate misinformation.”
The Code. He will not lie. If we want witnesses, now is probably the best time to talk to people-while memories are fresh. But if they ask us questions and we truthfully answer them, this thing could spin out of control fast.
“Perhaps we should do a little legwork first. I suspect the chief and Santucci are correct. This is most likely the work of teenagers who pose no imminent threat.”
“Right. The kind of guys who play mailbox baseball.”
“Excuse me?”
“You know-you drive around, lean out the window, and whack people's mailboxes with a baseball bat.”
“You've done this sort of thing?”
“Me? No. I've, you know … heard about it.”
“I see.”
I'm not lying. If I was, Ceepak would know and then he'd never trust me again. That's how The Code works.
“I'd like to visit this paintball arcade you mentioned,” he says. “On the boardwalk?”
“Sure. No problem.”
Ceepak punches the digiglo button on his Casio G-shock watch.