Great. We’re up against every character ever played by Steven Seagal.
“Plus,” says Botzong, “the Compact Tactical gives the shooter the features of the full-size USP USP45.”
“Such as the mechanical recoil reduction system,” adds Wilson. “But in a smaller, more concealable package.”
“Facilitating the assassination technique you described to us earlier,” Ceepak says to Wilson.
“Yeah. Your bad guy could hide this thing in a zippered pocket of his racing suit.”
At four, Gus Davis and the SHPD officers running security up on Pier Two start letting lucky locals pass through the metal detectors to be the “live audience” for tonight’s “Fun House Finale.”
Around six-thirty, we pick up another piece of evidence.
Gladys has found a motorcycle parked behind her restaurant when she dragged a bushel of rotting bok choy out the back door: a Harley, up on its kickstand and blocking the sliding door to her compost bin.
When nobody in her dining room claimed the motorcycle, Gladys called 9-1-1 so we’d come tow it away. Bill Botzong and his CSI crew borrowed a flatbed wrecker from my buddy George Hansen over at Undertow Towing and hauled the hog back to the municipal garage.
Every VIN (Vehicle Identification Number) on it has been filed down, even the hidden ones.
“We are dealing with dedicated professionals,” says Ceepak. “They, obviously, tracked Mr. Mandrake’s movements. Knew he frequented Veggin’ On The Beach. It would not surprise me if the shooter—tipped off by his accomplice surveilling activity up at the boardwalk—knew that Mandrake had exited the Green Zone. The gunman then parked behind the restaurant. While Mandrake was inside eating, the shooter strolled over to Shore Drive and took up his position at the intersection with the stop sign.”
“He went for a walk in his helmet and flight suit?” I say.
“Doubtful. However, I suspect, if we search the homes near the intersection, several will have backyard shower stalls.”
“No,” I say. “A Port-A-Potty.”
“Come again?”
“All summer they’ve been doing major renovations at that mansion on Shore Drive between Hickory and Gardenia. But they must’ve had problems with the permits, because I haven’t seen any workers there for weeks. Just their Port-A-Potty in the carport.”
“Which our shooter borrowed and used as a changing booth. Well done, Danny.”
Hey, if your routine patrol includes cruising up and down that street at 15
MPH
after guzzling a gallon of coffee, you’re always looking for a potential pit stop.
At 7:30, the lawyer finally arrives.
“I need a minute with my client,” Rambowski brusquely announces. Ceepak and I usher him and his three-thousand-dollar suit into the interview room.
“We’ll be back in fifteen,” Ceepak announces before relocking the door.
We head into the chief’s office. Hey, it’s close and it’s empty. The rest of the station is crawling with Fibbies and U.S. Attorneys and who knows who else.
“Nice office,” I say, and gesture at the chief’s very comfy, very padded, high-back rolling chair. “Nice chair.”
“You can take it, Danny. I prefer to stand.”
“Nah. Come on. You could lean back, prop your feet up on the desk—”
Ceepak’s personal cell phone interrupts me. I recognize the ringtone.
“Hello? No, Mom. We are not watching TV.”
Hey, the chief has a flat-screen TV in his bookcase. It’s tucked between a few Kiwanis Club plaques and a Hummel figurine of a cop shadowed by a guardian angel, the two of them helping a schoolkid cross a street. I snap on the TV. It’s tuned to the network that runs
Fun House
. At 7:30, they run some kind of Entertainment News show.
“Danny has found the program,” Ceepak says to his mom. “Yes, that’s Sea Haven. Our beach.”
The show is running a feature about “Brave Soozy K.” They show her strolling along the pristine sandy beach at daybreak, looking very thoughtful in her dove-gray tracksuit as a pink dawn breaks in the east and foamy waves crash hypnotically behind her.
“I know there’s a target on my back,”
Soozy says,
“but I won’t back down. I’ve come too far on this journey.…”
“Are you sure?” Ceepak says. “No, Mom, it’s just that Rita and I—”
His mom talks some more.
“Well, then, it’s all good. I’ll tell Rita. She’ll be thrilled to hear your decision. Don’t worry, Mom. We will. Love you, too.”
He folds up his phone.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“My mother tells me she is tired of eating walleye and shoveling snow.” He indicates the TV screen. “She has been watching the show ever since a few of her church friends told her I was the star.”
Now I’m grinning.
“Anyway, having seen Sea Haven in all its ‘sunny, funderful’ glory, she wants to move here. Provided, of course, I remain on the police force. She doesn’t like all the killings that seem to happen here.”
“She’s moving here? You’re kidding!”
He holds his hand up like he’s taking an oath. “Scout’s honor.”
“Awesome.”
“My mother also instructed me not to let anything bad happen to that nice young girl tonight.”
“Soozy?”
“Roger that. According to Mom, Ms. Kemppainen is, and I quote, ‘quite a pistol.’”
Christopher Miller pokes his head in the door.
“What’s up?” I say.
“Mandrake. The lawyer says they’re ready to talk.”
43
W
E SHOULD HAVE SOLD TICKETS TO THIS INTERVIEW
.
Every chair at the long table is filled: Ceepak, me, Chris Miller, Lisa Bonner, some guy from Washington who never takes off his sunglasses, three other extremely serious scowlers. Martin Mandrake sits at the head of the table. Ceepak is on his left; attorney Louis Rambowski is on his right.
The overflow crowd is in the observation room, watching us through the one-way mirror. Marty, the producer, is beaming, basking in his newfound role as The Government’s Star Witness.
Ceepak depresses a button on our digital recorder.
“This is Officer John Ceepak. It is Friday, August 27th, 20-hundred hours.”
Mandrake looks up at the ceiling, does the math in his head.
“It’s eight?”
“Affirmative,” says Ceepak.
“Jesus. I need to make a phone call.”
“Excuse me?”
“The show. It goes live in an hour. I need to talk to my associates. Make some last-minute adjustments.”
Ceepak purses his lips. “Mr. Mandrake, we have been quite accommodating—”
“No. All you’ve done is grant me my constitutional rights. But now I really
do
need a favor. It’s for the good of the show, which means it’s for the good of Sea Haven. I was supposed to do this bit at the open and close tonight. Show off the fifty-thousand-dollar cardboard check when Chip does the opening; hand the money to the winner’s charity in wrap-up at the end. Now somebody else has to go on camera in my place. They’ve only got an hour for hair and makeup. Help me out here, fellas, or do I need to call Mayor Sinclair? I have his cell number.”
The lawyer touches Mandrake on the sleeve. That’s how lawyers tell clients to shut up.
“My client intends to be extremely cooperative with all of you this evening,” says Rambowski, “should we, of course, come to terms on a quid pro quo agreement for his testimony against Roberto Lombardo, including a witness protection plan that might allow him to continue his creative efforts in the entertainment industry. We, therefore, request that you extend us the courtesy of making one last phone call before initiating our deliberations and discussion.”
Ceepak glances over at Christopher Miller. Miller gives him the slow “go ahead, we’ve got all night” nod.
“Very well,” says Ceepak. “Make your call, Mr. Mandrake, and please make it quick.”
“I have to!” Mandrake says, stabbing his stubby finger into a poor defenseless cell phone button. “We go live in just over fifty minutes.…”
While he waits for somebody to answer, it hits me: Martin Mandrake could walk away from this whole deal with a free pass and a cabin in Utah. I check out the law enforcement agents seated around the table. Most of them could care less about Mandrake orchestrating the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess. They want the big walleye: mob boss Roberto Lombardo. Ceepak and me, the two local-yokel beat cops, are the only ones who care about avenging the deaths of those caught up in Mandrake’s sick scheme to boost his show’s ratings.
And maybe Chris Miller. He’s seated across from me, eyes closed so he can massage them the way Ceepak massages his when life isn’t quite as good as the T-shirts proclaim.
“Grace? Get me Layla. I don’t care. I need to talk to her. Now. Find her.” He covers up the mouthpiece on his phone. Tries to charm us with his twinkling eyes and elfin dimples. Of course, his sinister goatee and coal-black eyes sort of undercut all that. “Layla, where are you? Well, get your ass over to the makeup truck. You need to go on. The bit with the big check at the top and bottom. Work it out with Chip. After he announces the finalists, you come on with the moola boola. And don’t ham it up too much, kid. Just look dignified. Put on a business suit. Leave a couple buttons undone up top. Smile. Millions of people are going to be watching.
“You’re welcome. You earned it, hon. And, don’t worry, I’ll be back in the saddle soon. Me? I’m fine. The guy was a lousy shot. No, babe. I don’t know why he wanted to shoot me. Look, sweetheart, I gotta run. Some people want to ask me a couple questions about this thing this afternoon. Go make yourself look prettier than you already do. Ciao.”
He thumbs off the phone.
“For the record,” he says, “that was Ms. Layla Shapiro, one of my associates on the set. And, yes, I call every lady under the age of thirty who works for me ‘hon,’ ‘babe,’ and ‘sweetheart.’ Sue me.”
One of the FBI guys actually chuckles.
Half an hour later, Louis Rambowski is finally satisfied with the deal being offered to his client.
If, and only if, the information he provides leads to the “arrest and conviction” of reputed crime boss Roberto Lombardo, the county prosecutor’s office will grant Martin Mandrake a full and unconditional pardon on all charges related to the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess.
“After all,” the shyster argued, “Mr. Mandrake did not pull the trigger in either homicide.” Then he waved his sparkling cufflinked arm in Ceepak’s general direction. “These officers are the ones you should be angry with, not my client. The police, in this instance, have not done their job; they have not apprehended the actual killers!”
“Louis?” said Miller, his voice calm, cool, and scary deep.
“Yeah?”
“Save it for the courtroom.”
Rambowski held up his hands, pouted out his lips, gave us the classic tough-guy “I’m-just-saying” gesture.
Anyway, that slowed us down for like five minutes.
Now it’s 8:50
P.M.
and Martin Mandrake finally has the floor.
44
“S
ORRY THAT TOOK SO LONG
,”
HE SAYS
. “I
WAS HOPING WE
could wrap this up and watch the show when it goes out live.”
Everybody glares at him. Nobody responds.
So I pipe up: “My cable box has a DVR. I’ll catch it later.”
“Okay,” says Christopher Miller in his role as big daddy mediator, “the Sea Haven P.D. gets first crack at the witness because, as Mr. Rambowski indicated earlier, they’re still trying to track down a killer.”
“Killers,” says Ceepak.
Mandrake and Rambowski arch up surprised eyebrows.
“The evidence we have gathered so far in our investigation leads us to believe that at least two hitmen were involved in both killings.”
“I didn’t ask for two,” says Mandrake. “I swear. Bobby didn’t charge for two, either. At least he didn’t tell me I was paying double—”
“So you freely admit that you, Martin Mandrake, did contact the Lombardo crime family and knowingly engage their services for the murders of Paul Braciole and Thomas Hess?”
“Yeah, but, well—that’s not how it works. Let me begin at the beginning, okay? I like to shoot craps. Is that a sin? Maybe. I’ll ask a priest next time I go to confession. Anyway, the Lombardos lent me some money so I could keep playing down in A.C. Unfortunately, I kept losing and they kept wanting their money back—plus interest at a rate even Goldman Sachs couldn’t get away with. But I had this bonus clause in my contract on
Fun House
. If I hit a certain ratings number, there’d be this unbelievably huge payday. Of course the target was set sky-high, so no way was I ever gonna cash in on it.” He smiles at Ceepak. “Then you showed up.”
“You’re referring to my inadvertent entrance into your reality television program when you were videotaping me without my permission during my off-duty hours at the Skee-Ball arcade?”