Free Fall (25 page)

“New Jersey also encourages gay couples to adopt,” says Ceepak.

“Really? Huh. That's weird. Anyway, I told Michael his adopted son wasn't really a ‘Rosen.' Dad agreed. He told Michael he should send the baby back to wherever he bought it because his so-called son Kyle would never be a legitimate grandson like Little Arnie. In fact …” Here David snickers. “Dad said, ‘given the lifestyle choices you have made, Michael, you will never,
ever
be capable of having a true family.'”

54

“S
O WHY WAS
D
AVID STARING AT HIS PHONE LIKE THAT
?” I
ASK
Ceepak when we hit the sidewalk outside 1500 Ocean Avenue. “Was he expecting Judith to call again?”

“My hunch is, in the conversation that ended as we arrived, David's wife had instructed him to be sure to mention something very specific to us. In fact, I suspect Judith told him exactly what to say and how to say it.”

“That bit about the fight at the restaurant?”

“It came out rather stilted, wouldn't you agree?”

“Yeah. Almost like he was reading a script.”

“Exactly. Judith wanted us to know about that altercation because her version gives her brother-in-law a motive for murder.”

“But what if David and Judith are the ones who are lying about what went down in that private dining room?”

“Such is our conundrum, Danny. Judith and David clearly suspect that, in our interview with Monae Dunn, we learned about the harsh words exchanged behind closed doors at The Trattoria. The truth of what caused that flareup, however, remains elusive.”

“So we should talk to Michael again?”

“Tomorrow. He's not going anywhere tonight.”

Well, if he does, or even tries, we'll hear about it. Our uniform guys are still keeping pretty close tabs on the homes and hotels of all the suspects at the top of our list: Christine, Michael, David, and Judith.

At this point, we're not really looking at Joy Kochman or Monae Dunn. Ms. Kochman really had no reason to murder Dr. Rosen because she didn't blame him for firing her. She knew her termination had been David and Judith's fault.

And Monae? The longer Dr. Rosen lived, the more presents she stood to receive from Michael.

My phone rings.

“It's Christine,” I say after a quick check of the Caller ID screen.

“Interesting,” says Ceepak.

I take that as my cue to go ahead and answer.

“Hello?”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Are you guys still on the job?”

“We're more or less wrapping things up. Calling it a day.”

“Am I still your number one suspect?”

“Come on, Christine.”

She laughs. “Look, I know you guys have a job to do. So, I'm sorry for earlier. I shouldn't have jumped ugly in your face like that.”

“That's okay. My face is used to being ugly-jumped.”

Ceepak, who can only hear my side of the conversation, shoots me a very quizzical look.

“So, Danny,” says Christine, “if, you know, you're knocking off for the night, you want to, maybe, hang out?”

“I'm not sure we should.”

“We could meet someplace very public. Would that work? I really want to see you. Make sure we're okay.”

To tell the truth, I wouldn't mind that either.

“Let me check with my boss,” I say.

“Sure. And Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Tell Ceepak I'm sorry for the things I said about him to his mother.”

“You said bad things about Ceepak? To his mother?”

I'm repeating it so Ceepak can hear. He raises both eyebrows in mock surprise and cracks a funny grin.

“I think you're forgiven,” I tell Christine.

“Great. So, you want to go grab a beer or something?”

“I thought you weren't supposed to drink beer.”

“I'm not. But you can. I'll just watch.”

“You going to be near your phone?”

“Yep.”

“I'll call you right back.”

I tap my phone's glass screen to end the call.

“Christine wants to get together tonight. Bad idea?”

“Not necessarily. Just make sure there are witnesses to your rendezvous. Pick a popular, crowded spot. And Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“Your ‘date,' if we can call it that, should conclude in that public space as well.”

Right. No hooking up, getting busy, or horizontal mambo.

I call Christine back and we agree to meet at The Sand Bar—a hot spot on the bay side of the island with three levels of party decks that overlook the sailboats in the marina.

It's always crowded.

We find a semi-quiet table on the second-floor terrace. I order a beer. Christine, a glass of ice-cold lemonade. I feel like I'm on a date with a nun, maybe a Mormon.

“I'm glad we could make this happen,” says Christine.

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“And I apologize if I've done anything to slow down your investigation.”

Did I mention that Christine looks particularly attractive this evening? I'm guessing The Mussel Beach Motel has a better selection of toiletries and body creams than Chateau Danny. Her hair is shiny and bouncy. Her breasts in her low cut top? Well, they're not shiny.

“No worries,” I say, seriously bemoaning the unfairness of Ceepak's “the date ends in a public place” edict.

“I can understand why some people might see me as some kind of angel of death. Ever since I left the ER, all I've worked with are elderly patients facing the end of their lives. And Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“It's been a blessing. Seriously. Seeing how peaceful my patients look when they pass over, well, it has really helped.”

“So who's the hottie, Boyle?”

I look up.

Joseph Ceepak is standing—make that teetering—next to our table. He has a mug of beer in his right hand, which explains the wobbly legs, and a curvy redhead in a tank top hanging on to his left arm.

There's no explaining that.

“Who's your hot date?” he asks again, sounding skeevier than ever.

“None of your business,” I say. “And yours?”

Mr. Ceepak turns his bleary eyes to the redhead. “What's your name again, sweetheart?”

“Joey?” she giggles. “How many times I gotta tell you? Heather. And you better remember it, because you're going to be screaming it all night!”

Mr. Ceepak turns back to me with a look of manly triumph in his bloodshot eyes. “What can I tell you, Boyle? I've still got it.”

I turn to Heather. “You heard him. He's still got it. So be sure you pick up a condom on your way back to the Motel No-Tell.”

Heather giggles. “That's funny.”

Mr. Ceepak doesn't agree. He frowns and glowers.

“Come on, Joey. The guy made a joke. How you have like, ‘it,' you know? Some kind of disease or whatever …”

“Yeah. I got it, babe, okay?”

The girl laughs again. “Now you said ‘I got it!'”

“Right. Very funny. Ha-ha-ha.”

“Relax, Joey,” Heather coos into Mr. Ceepak's hairy ear. She's tipsy, too. Margaritas and high heels are never a good mix.

“Joey's gonna be a millionaire,” she says, slurring most of the words. “And then, once he gets his money, him and me are gonna run down to Mexico and drink our margaritas out of glasses that look like sombreros.”

“Really?” I smirk a little. “Gee,
Joey
, I thought all you wanted was beer and pretzels.”

“In Mexico?” squeals the girl. “I don't think they have pretzels. Just nacho cheese Doritos.”

“How'd you two meet?” asks Christine, I guess to be polite.

I forgot: she's never been formerly introduced to Mr. Ceepak. Doesn't know who this drunken old douchebag is.

“At Joey's ride,” says Heather. “The Free Fall. I rode it like six times.”

“In her halter top,” adds Mr. Ceepak. “The StratosFEAR is a real boob-bouncer.”

“Joey?” Heather acts like she's embarrassed, even though I think that might be impossible.

Mr. Ceepak ignores her. Trains his lecherous eyes on Christine's chest.

“You'd look good riding up and down on my pole, too, honey.”

“Okay,” I say, standing up. “That's enough.”

“What? We're just having a little fun, right, Miss … what's your name?”

“Lemonopolous.”

And Mr. Ceepak's hackles shoot up.

“You're the tramp who's bleeding my ex-wife dry with lawyer bills?” He slams his beer mug down on our table. “You murdering little slut …”

Mr. Ceepak lunges at Christine.

Heather shrieks and flees the scene.

I spring forward, grab hold of Mr. Ceepak's wrist, and, using his own momentum, steer him toward the nearest exit.

Yeah. He's drunk and I've been studying jujitsu with his son.

We're halfway across the floor when Mr. Ceepak plants his heels and starts thrashing at me with both his arms.

“Turn me loose, Boyle.”

“Not gonna happen,” I say.

So he takes a swing at me with his free hand.

Which I duck.

And once his left hook whiffs over my head, I use his inertia to spin him around and yank his right arm behind his back.

When he tries to wiggle free, I tug up. Hard.

“Hey!” he screams. “That hurts.”

“That's the general idea.”

Richard Lewis, the Sand Bar's main bouncer and former Mr. New Jersey bodybuilder, comes storming up the stairs, his dreadlocks swinging.

“Yo, Danny?” Richard has what I'd call a Reggae accent. “What's going on here, brudda?”

“This old fart is causing trouble. Harassing the ladies.”

“Is that so?” says Richard, clucking his tongue and moving his incredible hulk across the floor.

I release my grip and shove Mr. Ceepak forward. Richard grabs him with both hands and hoists him an inch or two off the ground like he's a worthless sack of crap, which, by the way, he is.

“You causing trouble, mon?”

“No,” growls Mr. Ceepak. “Not tonight anyway.”

Then he turtles his head around to glare at me.

“Tomorrow? Well, like they say, Boyle, tomorrow is another freakin' day.”

55

A
BOUT THIRTY MINUTES AFTER
M
R
. C
EEPAK IS TOSSED OUT OF
the Sand Bar, Christine and I decide to call it a night.

“Big day tomorrow,” I say and stretch into a pretty phony yawn. I even pat my hand over my open mouth a couple times.

That makes Christine smile.

“Sorry,” I say. “It's the hour, not the company.”

I escort her down to the parking lot and her VW.

“Everything okay at the motel?” I ask.

“Yeah. Becca gave me a really nice room.” She moves closer. “Would you like to see it?” Her voice is extremely husky. And by husky, I do not mean the size of blue jeans chubby boys wear.

“Yes,” I say. “I'd love to come over. But …”

“I know,” says Christine. “You've got a murder to solve.”

“Something like that.”

She shrugs. “Can't blame a girl for trying.”

Then she goes up on her toes so she can kiss me.

I, naturally, kiss back.

I'll skip the juicy details but lets just say we linger.

When we finally break out of lip lock, both of us are a little discombobulated, our clothes slightly disheveled. I also notice I'm breathing a little more rapidly than when I'm, say, brushing my teeth.

“Thanks for standing up for me.” Christine leans her head against my chest. It's a good fit.

“Mr. Ceepak is a nasty piece of work,” I say.

“I hate when mean people like him try to push other people around. He reminds me
so much
of Shona and Judith. They shouldn't get away with the horrible stuff they do. Someone has to stop them.”

“And that's why God invented cops and soldiers,” I say, hoping to tamp down the smoldering anger I see burning in her eyes.

“Don't worry. I'm not going to do anything dumb or stupid, Danny.”

“Good. That's
my
job.”

Christine smiles.

We kiss one more time.

And then she putters away in her VW.

Tuesday morning, Ceepak and I roll in his detective-mobile to “The Gold Coast” jewelry shop at 1510 Ocean Avenue.

The store isn't open, but we press our badges against the glass-panel front door and the lone worker inside twists open the lock to let us in.

“Sorry to be intruding so early in the morning,” says Ceepak. “Is Cele Deemer available?”

“I'm Cele,” says the bony woman who opened the front door. Her skin is so tan and tight, it reminds me of an old leather suitcase with ribs.

“How can I help you, gentlemen?”

“Do you know Judith Rosen?”

“Certainly. We've been friends since high school. And don't you dare ask me how long ago that was.”

She laughs and brings a hand up to her enormous golden necklace, which halfway reminds me of the chest pieces chariot drivers used to wear. She's also wearing enough golden rings for a solo in a Christmas carol.

“Now then, officers—what's this all about?”

“We are investigating the murder of Mrs. Rosen's father-in-law.”

Ms. Deemer clucks her tongue a couple times. “Such a tragedy. How can I help?”

“You design and create your own jewelry?” asks Ceepak.

“That's right. I work exclusively in gold. Bracelets, rings, necklaces …”

“And do you use cyanide?”

She nods. “A liquid product called ‘Twenty-Four K.' Of course, I only use it in a very well ventilated space. I have an exhaust fan and fume hood right over my workbench in the back. Plus, I always wear chemical safety goggles, neoprene gloves, and a rubber apron whenever I work with it.”