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
DAVID LAUGHS. “ME? THAT’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.”
“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 f
amily.’”
54
“SO WHY WAS DAVID 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
ABOUT THIRTY MINUTES AFTER MR. CEEPAK IS TOSSED OUT OF the Sand Bar, Christine and I decide to call it a night.