“He was taking so many meds,” I mumble. “It’d be so easy to do …”
“Roger that. Ladies? We need to take you home and then Danny and I need to pay a visit to the Rosens.”
We’re not going there to sit shiva.
We’re going there to officially open our murder investigation.
36
WE DROP OFF CEEPAK’S MOM AND WIFE AND THEN SWING BY the house to pick up Chief of Detectives Ceepak’s new undercover vehicle: an unmarked Ford Taurus Interceptor.
The sleek black beauty’s bright white and red LED emergency lights are hidden all over the car: behind the thick black grill up front, along the black rim of the trunk in the back, across the top of the tinted-black windshield. Called The Undercover Stealth, the brand new Ford rides on 22-inch Forgiato black wheels and Nitto tires, also black. To tell you the truth, Ceepak’s new ride looks extremely sinister.
Remember those budget cuts I was telling you about? They did not affect the purchase order for the new Ceepakmobile. I’m pretty sure one of Mayor Sinclair’s biggest political contributors runs our local Ford dealership.
We climb into the rolling stealth bomber, savor that new cop-car scent, then cruise over to David and Judith’s apartment at 315-B Tuna Street (yes, some streets in the center of Sea Haven are named after fish).
“This murder investigation will be different than any we have undertaken in the past,” Ceepak remarks as he pilots the incredibly smooth-riding vehicle up Ocean Avenue.
“Yeah,” I say. “None of our other victims were ninety-four years old.”
“True. This is also the first time we know exactly how the murder was done. We already have our weapon: a small capsule filled with potassium cyanide powder.”
That’s right. In the past, we’ve had to spend a lot of time on forensics and bullet trajectories and crime-scene analysis to figure out exactly how the deed was done. This time, we already know the How. We just need the Who and the Why.
“Guess there’s no need to call Bill Botzong,” I say.
Botzong is the head of the New Jersey State Police’s Major Crimes Unit. He and his crew of crime-scene technicians do all that snazzy stuff they do on the CSI TV shows for police departments, like ours, that can’t afford a high-tech lab full of gizmos and gadgets.
“Actually, Danny, we will, once again, be soliciting Bill’s assistance. Hopefully, he and his team can help us track down the source of the potassium cyanide, a chemical with a wide variety of industrial uses.”
Ceepak. The guy probably started doing his cyanide homework the day he asked Chief Rossi for permission to go to Dr. Kurth for a toxicology screening on a 94-year-old’s corpse.
He fills me in with more cyanide details. How it can be distilled from the kernels of certain nuts such as almonds. How its bluish hue is why cyanide and cyan (blue) toner cartridges are word-root cousins.
“A lethal dose can be as low as one point five milligrams per kilogram of body weight.”
And Dr. Rosen didn’t weigh very much.
It’d be easy to hide a lethal dose of cyanide inside something the size of an Extra Strength Tylenol capsule, which, Ceepak reminds me, was done, by someone who’s still at large, in the Chicago area—way back in 1982. That’s why pain reliever bottles are so hard to open these days—even with your teeth, especially when you have a hangover. And why you now see “caplets” or “gel caps” instead of “capsules” on the shelves at CVS.
“Doing a quick Google search,” Ceepak continues, “I found several sources of ninety-eight percent pure cyanide, available in powder, crystals, or briquette form.”
“No way.”
“It’s a quite common chemical compound, Danny. One frequently used by jewelers to clean tarnish from gold and silver.”
“So, which one of our suspects owns a jewelry store?”
Ceepak actually chuckles. “If only it were that simple.”
Yeah.
But if it were, they wouldn’t give you a super dude detective car.
“Well,” I say, as Ceepak makes the right turn onto Tuna Street, “I guess we know that Christine was the one who gave Dr. Rosen his final and fatal pills.”
“True. However, someone else could have very easily put the poisoned pill into Dr. Rosen’s medical organizer without Christine knowing it.”
“The first time I met Monae, the night nurse, she was filling up the tiny compartments in Dr. Rosen’s weekly box with pills and capsules.”
Ceepak nods. “Ms. Dunn is definitely on our short list, Danny.”
Oh-kay. I didn’t even know we had a list of suspects, let alone a short one.
“Who else?” I ask.
“Dr. Rosen’s family, of course: Michael, David, and Judith. And then, I’m afraid, we must take a hard look at Christine Lemonopolous.”
Ceepak’s list?
They could be the assassins Dr. Rosen was so worried about.
37
315-B TUNA STREET, DAVID AND JUDITH ROSEN’S HOME, IS actually the upstairs apartment in a classic two-story, vinyl-sided beach house.
We climb up the back steps to an outdoor deck. Ceepak raps his knuckles on the regular door in the center, not the sliding glass patio doors down near the charcoal grill; those take you into a dining room with a card table covered with a red-white-and-blue paper tablecloth from the Party Store. While we wait, I study the roofline. I have a feeling the Rosens’ bedroom ceilings are pretty steep—the way they would be if you lived in an attic.
David Rosen opens the door. He’s still wearing the white shirt and suit pants he wore to the funeral, but he’s taken off his tie, unbuttoned his top button, and untucked his shirttails. He’s also gripping a twelve-ounce can of Milwaukee’s Best Premium beer—always the cheapest brand in every package store.
“Detective Ceepak. Boyle. Come on in.”
He leads us into the kitchenette of his tiny home. I notice a guitar propped up in a corner.
“Again,” says Ceepak, “condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you. And thank you for attending the services. I wanted to play my guitar at the funeral. Maybe do my slow hand version of ‘Stairway To Heaven.’ Judith wouldn’t let me. Hey, who was that little old lady who came with you?”
“My mother. She knew your father from the Sea Haven Senior Center. Thought very highly of him.”
“Huh. Small world.”
David yanks open the refrigerator. Looks around for something to eat. Doesn’t find anything to his liking. Closes the door.
“Hey, do you or your mom know a guy named Joseph Ceepak? ‘Ceepak’ is such an unusual name, it kind of stuck with me.”
“He is my father.”
“Really?” David smiles and nods like a kid who just guessed what was inside his birthday surprise bag. “Okay. I thought there might be a connection. He’s working for us. Sinclair Enterprises.”
“So I have heard.”
“I head up the HR Department. That’s Human Resources. Anyway, the other day, Friday I think, we get some mail, a Guns And Ammo magazine or something, that’s been forwarded to Joseph Ceepak, c/o Sinclair Enterprises, 1500 Ocean Avenue, Sea Haven, New Jersey. That’s our address …”
“David?” this from Judith out in the living room. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”
“Just a second,” says David, eager to finish his story. “Every year, it’s the same thing. We hire so many seasonal employees, I end up playing mailman from early June to just after Labor Day.”
“Fascinating,” says Ceepak even though David is boring me to death.
“So, is your dad still at the Smugglers Cove Motel, or has he moved in with you and your mom?”
Now Judith, dressed in her black funeral dress, clutching a clear plastic cup filled with white wine, comes into the kitchen.
“David? Why are you bringing this up, now?”
“I still have Mr. Ceepak’s magazine. I’d like to make sure I forward it to the right location …”
Judith
rolls her piggy eyes. “Honestly, David. You can be such a child.”
And she walks away.
“It’s my job, Jude. Okay? My job?”
“Right,” she snaps back. “You’re the head of human resources for the mayor’s far-flung empire of tourist traps. That’s why he pays you soooo much money …”
“We’ve been number one in revenues on the island, four years running.”
Judith ignores her husband as we all follow her into the living room.
“Do we have any wine that’s not in a box?” Judith says to the walls. “This tastes like crap.”
“No,” counters David, “it tastes like crap we can afford.”
“I brought some Pinot Grigio,” says Michael, sort of sprawled on the couch. I think he’s half-tanked. “It’s in the fridge.”
Judith returns to the kitchen.
“Have you gentlemen come to sit shiva with us?” asks Michael. “Because you’re in luck! My loving partner Andrew just FedExed us a fabulous Kosher sympathy basket.” He gestures to a wicker basket overflowing with shiny goodies: snack packages, bags of dried fruit, shrink-wrapped baked goods. “There’s apple cake, rugelach, Brazilian cashews, hummus, pretzel thins …”
“Actually,” says Ceepak, “we have some news.”
“About what?” says Judith, coming back from the kitchen with a fresh cup of white wine and the bottle she poured it from. “Your father’s magazine subscriptions?”
“Oh, leave my big brother alone,” says Michael with flick of his wrist and, I swear, a snarky little giggle. “Cease fire. At least for today. The poor boy just buried his daddy.”
Why do I think there’s a half-empty pitcher of cosmopolitans in that refrigerator, too?
“What’s the big news, Detective Ceepak?” asks Judith, her snout twitching between her rubbery, blubbery cheeks.
“Is Ceepak a Polish name?” asks David, taking a big swig of bargain basement beer. I notice he’s wearing a Bart Simpson wrist-watch. Not your typical funeral accessory.
“David?” Michael says it this time. “Honestly. Keep it up, and I’m calling off my truce.”
“What? I’m just interested. ‘Ceepak’ isn’t a name you hear all that often …”
Man, this “sitting shiva” is turning out to be worse than some booze-soaked Irish wakes I’ve been to.
Ceepak moves to the center of the room.
Everyone stops drinking and/or giggling when he does.
They usually do.
“We heard from Dr. Rebecca Kurth, the County Medical Examiner.”
“You’re kidding me,” says David, setting his beer can down on a nearby table.
“Coaster,” says Judith.
David finds one. “You guys really went ahead and wasted our taxpayer dollars doing an autopsy on a ninety-four-year-old man?”
“Unbelievable,” mutters his wife.
“This is why Dad’s property taxes are through the roof.”
“When did you become so right-wing, David?” snips Michael.
“When he realized you liberals were bankrupting this country’s future,” says Judith.
“Your father,” says Ceepak, cutting off the family feud, “was, as we feared, poisoned.”
“What?” says David. “No way. That’s impossible.”
“To the contrary. Dr. Kurth found the evidence to be persuasive and conclusive. Someone slipped a cyanide capsule into your father’s medicines.”
“Christine,” mutters Judith. “I knew it. I told you.”
She glares at me. Hard.
“I hope you’re happy, Officer Boyle. Seems your hot little girlfriend is also a cold-blooded murderer.”
38
“CHRISTINE?” SAYS MICHAEL. “YOU’RE INSANE, JUDITH. WHY ON earth would that sweet little nurse kill Dad-ums?”
“Because she’s psychotic.”
“Oh, come on …”
“Why did she attack my sister?”
“The woman is sick,” says David, swilling the dregs out of the bottom of his beer can.
Judith turns on him. “Shona? My sister?”
“No. I meant Christine. She has that STD. We never should’ve let Dad hire her.”
“Um, excuse me,” says Michael. “I believe you two were the ones who recommended Ms. Lemonopolous for the job. You even persuaded Dad to terminate that first gal, what was her name? Kaufman?”
“Kochman,” says Judith. “Joy Kochman.”
“At the time we suggested that Christine take over for Joy,” says David, “we didn’t know she was a crazy person.”
“Did you at least check her references?” asks Michael.
“We didn’t have time,” says David defensively. “Joy Kochman had to go.”
“Why?”
“She became a problem, okay? You weren’t here, Michael …”
“And you were.” Michael rolls his eyes like he’s heard that a million times.
“Michael’s right, David,” says Judith. “We should’ve done a thorough background check. Especially since her last patient, Mrs. Crabtree, also ended up dead.”
Well, duh, I feel like saying.
The lady was old. That’s what happens. But I don’t say a word. Neither does Ceepak. Sometimes eavesdropping on one of these family squabbles can give you all sorts of useful information.
“Oh, my,” says Michael with a mock gasp and a fluttering Southern Belle hand over his heart. “Her previous patient died, too? Is Christine Lemonopolous a serial killer? An Angel of Death like that nurse over in England who killed four patients? We based an episode of ‘Crime And Punishment’ on him. Best ratings of the season.”
“Well, now you can do a new show,” snips Judith, refilling her wine. “All about a nurse who gets away with murder because she has friends in the police department who’ll do anything to protect her no matter how many clients she attacks or elderly invalids she bumps off.”
And now Ceepak has heard enough.
“We are sorry to bring you this news while you are in mourning.”
Michael gestures toward the gift basket again. “You sure you don’t want apple cake?”
“No, thank you,” says Ceepak.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
“However,” says Ceepak, “we must request that none of you leave Sea Haven for the next several days as we attempt to ascertain who it was that murdered Dr. Rosen.”
“What?” says Judith. “Surely you don’t suspect one of us.”
“Calm down,” says David reaching over to give his wife baby pats on her dimpled knee.
Judith recoils from her husband’s touch. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down, David.”
“I’m just saying …”
“I heard what you said. You said ‘calm down.’”
“Officers?” says Michael. “Do you really suspect that someone in this room murdered my father?”
“It’s a possibility,” says Ceepak.
“How can you think such a thing?” This from David.
“We have our reasons.”
“Well, what are they?” demands Judith.
And since Ceepak won’t tell a lie, he goes ahead and tells the truth: “The night before his murder, your father spoke with Rabbi Bronstein. Told the rabbi he was quote surrounded by assassins end quote. We suspect he meant all of you and, perhaps, his home health aides.”
The Rosens shut up and sip their drinks. Silently.
Finally, Michael pipes up. “I’m due back in L.A. on Wednesday. But I could book a different flight. There are some things I need to take care of here in New Jersey.”
“What sort of things?” says Judith.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“I would,” says David.
“Production issues,” says Michael, kind of coyly. “The same production issues I told you about last night, David.”
David narrows his eyes. Michael narrows his. The two brothers look like they could launch into some serious neck-throttling at a
ny second.
“Rest assured,” says Ceepak, “we will do everything in our power to bring this matter to an expeditious resolution.”
“Besides, Michael,” says Judith, with a smirk, “you might want to be here after Dad’s will goes through probate.”
Michael flutters his eyes. “Why?”
“To collect your inheritance.”
“Ha!” is all Michael has to say about that.
“Be advised,” says Ceepak, “probate can be a long, tedious process.”
David shakes his head. “Steven Robins over at Bernhardt, Hutchens, and Catherman has already paid the filing fee and given the Surrogate Court a death certificate and a copy of the will.”
“Who, pray tell, is this Steven Robins?” says Michael.
“Dad’s lawyer,” says Judith. “You’d know that if you lived here.”
“Oh, I’d know so much more than that if I lived here,” says Michael.
“Steven Robins is also executor of Dad’s will,” adds David. “He’s calling in a couple favors. Working the weekend. Pushing us to the head of the line. Says it’s a very simple estate so we should be good to go tomorrow or Tuesday at the latest.”
“Would this be the will he recently altered?” says Michael.
“I guess.”
“Did he give you two and Little Arnie even more goodies?”
“We don’t know,” says Judith.
“You haven’t seen these alterations?”
“Of course not. That’s a private matter between Dad and his lawyer.”
Michael sneers at that. “Yeah. Right.”
Ceepak clears his throat. “We need to conduct a few more interviews …”
“Why don’t you just go arrest the homicidal nurse and save us all a lot of time and aggravation?” asks Judith. “I’m sure Mrs. Crabtree’s family would be happy to see Christine pay for what she did to their mother, too!”
“Trust me, Mrs. Rosen,” says Ceepak. “If the evidence indicates that Christine Lemonopolous is the culprit, in this or any other murder, we will, indeed, arrest her and hold her for trial.”