Free Fall (24 page)

“I wouldn't use the word ‘spy,' but we did indeed ask Miss Joy and, later, Miss Christine to keep an eye on Dad. To monitor his physical and, yes, mental well-being. We were worried about him. Dementia is a serious problem for senior citizens. As we age, our brain shrivels.”

Yeah. Mine's doing it now.

“If you were so concerned,” says Ceepak, “why didn't you visit Dr. Rosen more often?”

More blinks. “Because we respected his privacy.”

“How often did your husband take money from his father?”

“Gosh, Dad was so generous. Through the years, we've all benefitted from his gifts.”

“I'm told Michael never asked his father for a dime.”

“And see how well he's done? With Michael, I think Dad's generosity was of the heart. It wasn't easy for Dad to accept his son's gayness.”

Yes, if Ceepak says black, this lady is going to say white.

“And please, Detectives, take into consideration all that David and I did to earn Dad's generosity. The many meals we ate with him …”

Which, I'm guessing, Dr. Rosen always paid for.

“How we were always available to join him on a moment's notice at a Broadway show or a symphony performance.”

Ditto on the tickets.

“We also surrendered a good deal of our own family life to David's father.”

“How so?” says Ceepak.

“Well, not to speak ill of the dead, but Dad was a bit of a control freak. One time, right after Little Arnie was born, Dad brought over all these classical records because he didn't like the Raffi music I'd been playing in the nursery. Said it would stunt Little Arnie's ‘intellectual development.'”

“So he imposed himself into your daily life?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, my husband found it very difficult to stand up to his father. I guess some boys always do. It's why we never have bottled water in our home.”

“Excuse me?”

“Dad didn't believe in bottled water. Once, when he came over to visit Little Arnie, he saw a few bottles of Poland Spring in our fridge. ‘Is that where my money is going?' is what Dad said to David because he had just given us a ten-thousand-dollar holiday gift. From that point on, I was forbidden to drink anything but tap water in my own home.”

“So all the money Dr. Rosen gave you came with a heavy price?”

“Exactly.”

Ceepak closes up his notebook.

“We may have more questions at a later time. Right now, we'd like to talk to David.”

“I'm sure he's still at the office.”

“By the way,” says Ceepak, “I couldn't help but notice the ring on your right hand. It's quite unusual.”

I check out the ring that's too tight for a finger on her right hand. It looks like a cigar band on a sausage.

“Thank you,” says Judith, admiring it herself. “Believe it or not, this was a Valentine's Day gift from Dad.”

“Your father-in-law gave you a ring?”

“In a way. He gave David a gift certificate worth several thousand dollars, suggested he use it to buy me something special for Valentine's Day. This was a few years ago. David and I had hit a rough patch. All marriages do, I suppose. Anyway, the gift certificate was for my girlfriend's shop. Cele Deemer. Runs the cutest little boutique—The Gold Coast on Ocean Avenue. She only sells her own incredible handcrafted jewelry. They're all one-of-a-kind items.”

“It's very creative.”

“Thank you. Can you see the keyhole in the center of the heart? I think that is so cute.”

“Indeed. Is it gold?”

“Fourteen karat. Gold is all Cele works with. It's why she calls her shop The
Gold
Coast.”

Ceepak nods.

I have to figure he's thinking what I'm thinking: Judith's friend, the local goldsmith, probably uses potassium cyanide in her work. She definitely could've loaned her gal pal a tablespoon or two last week.

Especially if Judith asked for it in her nicey-nice voice.

52

I
T
'
S NEARLY EIGHT WHEN WE CLIMB DOWN THE BACK STAIRCASE
from David and Judith Rosen's apartment.

Judith told us she would call her husband. “Let him know you boys are on your way.”

“She's going to coach him,” I say to Ceepak as we make our way around the side of the two-story building to the gravel-and-seashell driveway where the super-charged Ceepakmobile is parked.

“Such would be my supposition as well, Danny. However, at this juncture, there is little we can do to prevent spousal contact.”

Judging from his speech pattern (which is beginning to mimic Data's, the emotionless cyborg from “Star Trek The Next Generation”) and the fact that he said “spousal contact” (in a way that sounded a lot like “conjugal visit”), I believe Ceepak is shifting into his robotic mode because, inside his big analytical brain, the chipmunks are chugging along at warp speed on his mental treadmills.

He's starting to figure something out.

“We'll drive down to Sinclair Enterprises,” he says. “Interview David.”

“Have we heard anything from Bill Botzong about when his team will be done with their cyanide data mining?” I ask.

“Bill sent me a text. His forensics team has all the raw data and will work through the night to analyze the information to see if they can extract any interesting patterns or clusters that might implicate one or more of our suspects.”

We cruise down Ocean Avenue.

Things are pretty quiet. There's some ambling life in the misty pools of light flooding the miniature golf courses. The summer's first lines of giddy kids and smiling parents have formed outside Custard's Last Stand and the Scoop Sloop. A few Ocean Avenue restaurants look like they're doing a brisk dinner business.

But most of the shops are closed up for the night.

Including “The Gold Coast: A Handcrafted & Unique Adornment Shoppe” at 1510 Ocean Avenue—conveniently located just five doors down from the worldwide headquarters of Sinclair Enterprises at 1500.

Why do I think Bill Botzong's MCU data miners are going to strike cyanide gold on Ocean Avenue?

The offices of Sinclair Enterprises look like one of those boiler rooms where telemarketers work; calling people at dinner time.

I think the ground-level space used to be a clothing store. Maybe a hair salon. The walls are painted the same color as guacamole. Bright green poles, spaced at intervals in tidy rows, hold up the drop-panel ceiling. A maze of gray cubicles fills most of the wide-open, industrial-strength-carpeted floor.

A few busy beavers are still clacking on computer keyboards or barking orders into phones for “ten two-pound bags of malted milk powder” and “seven sleeves of two hundred-count six-ounce snow cone cups” while saying, “no, we don't need any more multicolored spoon straws.”

The only decoration on the bare walls (where you can still see the outlines of the shelving units that used to be mounted there) are a few push-pinned posters for Sinclair Enterprises brand new thrill ride, The StratosFEAR; one or two “RE-ELECT MAYOR SINCLAIR: LEADING THE WAY TO ANOTHER SUNNY, FUNDERFUL DAY” posters; and a cartoon map of tourist attractions with gold stars slapped on top of the various outlets of the Sinclair Empire: Cap'n Scrubby's Car Wash, The Scoop Sloop, Do Me A Flavor, The Seashellerie, Sand Buggy Bumper Cars, and on and on.

The mayor must own thirty different properties up and down the island.

David Rosen is seated at a desk behind see-through cubicle walls. It looks like he's inside a ten-by-ten shower stall.

David is hunched over in his chair, rubbing the top of his bald head. A telephone is jammed tight against his ear.

“Yes, dear. Yes. Of course. Yes, dear.”

We move into the open space that serves as David's door. Ceepak raps his knuckles on the closest wall.

David whips around in his swivel seat. Looks like a startled ferret.

“They're here. I know. Okay. I will. Yes. I know. Okay. Right.”

He keeps inching closer to his desk where the phone cradle waits to put him out of his misery. I notice he has a Bart Simpson desk clock, too.

“Judy? Okay. Yes. I know.”

And, finally, he hangs up.

“My wife,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “Wants me to pick up a few things on the way home.”

“
At this hour?
” I'm thinking but then I remember: most of the booze stores stay open till midnight.

“Are you free to talk?” asks Ceepak.

“Sure,” says David, gesturing at the two chairs facing his desk. “Take a seat.”

“Hey, Dave?”

It's that guy Bob. The manager from Sinclair's rides on the pier. He grabs hold of a panel and pokes his head into the cubicle.

“Hey, Bob.”

“Heard about your dad. How you holding up?”

“I'm hanging in.”

“Good. You need anything …”

“Thanks.”

“Just wanted to pop in and say major kudos on Shaun McKinnon. He is
awesome
. Fantastic find, buddy. We should hire all our ride operators from Ohio.” He makes a finger pistol and shoots it at Ceepak. “This McKinnon is almost as good as your dad.”

Ceepak does not say a word.

“Oh-kay. Gotta run,” says Bob. Fortunately, he leaves.

“Can I ask you a quick favor, Detective?” says David. “Could you have a word with your mother? Judith tells me she heard from a friend that a Mrs. Adele Ceepak is bankrolling Christine, again. Advancing her money to pay her legal bills?”

“And why is that a problem?”

“Because, hello? She murdered my father.”

“Do you have proof to substantiate your claim?”

“Christine Lemonopolous gave my dad the fatal pill. What more proof do you need?”

“Something to establish malice aforethought. Evidence that she provided your father his morning medications with criminal intent.”

“Anybody could have placed that poisoned pill into your dad's meds organizer,” I explain.

“Really?” David says sarcastically. “Like who?”

“Ms. Dunn, the night nurse,” says Ceepak. “Joy Kochman, the home health aide who was dismissed to make room for Christine Lemonopolous. She visited your father last week. Your brother Michael is a suspect. So is your wife, Judith.”

Ceepak pauses.

“And you.”

53

D
AVID LAUGHS
. “M
E
? T
HAT
'
S RICH
.”

Ceepak ignores him and concentrates on the scrawled questions inside his spiral notebook. “A few years ago, you purchased your wife a handcrafted gold ring, is that correct?”

“You mean that heart thing? Yeah. That was Dad's idea. For Valentine's Day. He gave me a gift certificate worth five thousand bucks from this boutique up the block called The Gold Coast. He'd heard Judith say how much she liked the rings in that shop. It's all one-of-a-kind stuff. Expensive. Dad even told me what to have inscribed inside.”

“And what was that?”

“Something like ‘Be mine, Valentine.' I remember it rhymed.”

“Did your father often give you romantic advice?” asks Ceepak.

David bristles.

“Does this line of questioning have anything to do with your murder investigation, Detective?”

“It might,” I say, so Ceepak doesn't have to break the stare-down he's got going on with David.

“So,” I continue, “you guys made out pretty good with your dad's will?”

“Yeah,” says David, smiling like the kid who got the biggest scoop of ice cream on his slice of Thanksgiving pie. “Of course, we could've done better if dad hadn't done that silly ‘mitzvah' for those two lazy caregivers, Christine and Monae.”

“Lazy?” says Ceepak.

“Come on. How hard can that job be? You push a guy around in a wheelchair. You open a can and make him soup. You change his poopy diaper. For this you should be paid fifteen dollars an hour? I've got guys working at our car washes for less than minimum wage. They're happy just to have the work and to be in America. I should've hired one of their wives or girlfriends to take care of dad.”

“Are you surprised that your father didn't leave anything to your younger brother?”

“No. Michael hasn't lived here for years. He hasn't had to deal with Dad on a daily basis like I have. We earned that money, detective. We
earned
it.”

Someone new knocks on David's cubicle wall.

It's Shawn Reilly Simmons. Yes, we've dated. Back when she was just Shawn Reilly. Guess she works for Mayor Sinclair now, too. She's carrying a stack of mail.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Hey.”

“What's up, Shawn?” says David, sitting up in his chair. Smiling. He even smooths out his goatee.

“Some mail landed on my desk for one of your new hires. Guy named Shaun McKinnon?”

“New StratosFEAR operator. Came down from Ohio.” He motions for Shawn to hand him the rubber-banded bundle. “I'll take care of it.”

“Thanks. Good seeing you again, Danny.”

And she bops out of the office.

Ceepak's eyes follow her.

He has that thoughtful look on his face again but doesn't say a word.

For a couple seconds, the only sound in the cubicle is the BOINK-BOINK of David playing mail-stack-guitar with that taut rubber band. It could be “Country Roads, Take Me Home.”

His eyes dart down to his phone like he's waiting for Judith to call and ream him out again.

“Well,” he finally says. “Guess you two have heard about the big fight Michael and I had Friday night?”

Okay. David is acting extremely strange. Like a nervous guy at a party trying to make small talk with a girl he knows is too pretty to listen to him but he has her cornered behind the couch.

“See, Dad took us both to The Trattoria and Michael made his big announcement about how he and his ‘partner' Andrew had just adopted an African-American baby. I guess in California gay people can do that sort of thing.”