Free Fall

  “Really? What happened?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it, Danny. Not right now. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Stay here. I need to talk to Mrs. Oppenheimer.”

  “She’ll lie, Danny.”

  I nod and grin. “Thanks for the tip.”

  Mrs. Shona Oppenheimer and Officer Santucci are waiting for me out on one of the decks hanging off the back of the house.

  “Mrs. Oppenheimer?” I say. “What happened here tonight?”

  “I wanted to print out a new diet I’d found on line for my sister, but Christine was hogging the printer with paperwork related to her position with Dr. Rosen.”

  “Dr. Rosen?”

  “Arnold Rosen, DDS. The retired dentist who lives in that big house up in Cedar Knoll Heights. It’s still the nicest piece of shorefront property on the island. It sits atop a bit of a bluff above the dunes, so Sandy’s storm surge didn’t swamp it.”

  I nod. The folks in Cedar Knoll Heights were lucky.

  “Dr. Rosen is ninety-four,” Mrs. Oppenheimer continues. “Not drilling too many teeth these days.”

  Santucci chuckles. Guess these two had hit if off in my absence.

  “Christine works at the dentist’s home during the day, seven to seven. She works here nights.”

  “So,” I say, “you two were fighting over the printer?”

  “Hardly,” says Mrs. Oppenheimer. “Apparently, some paper became jammed in the feeder, and Christine started using the most foul language imaginable in front of my very impressionable young son.”

  “Your son was in the room with the printer?” I say because that’s not where the son said he was.

  “No. He was in his room. But Christine was shouting so loudly, I’m sure he heard every word. That’s when I calmly asked Christine to leave.”

  “But as I understand it, she lives here. Takes care of Samuel.”

  “That was always a temporary arrangement. I can find other pediatric home health aides. In fact, I already have.”

  “I can verify that,” says Santucci. “She called the, uh …”

  “AtlantiCare Agency. They’re sending someone over right away.”

  “So, you’re evicting Christine?” I say.

  “You bet I am,” says Mrs. Oppenheimer. “She was like a wild animal. Charged at me. Kicked me in the shin.”

  She rubs her leg so I know which one got whacked.

  “I grabbed her by the neck to keep her at bay. But she kept swinging and trying to kick at me. I had to exert a great deal of effort to protect myself. I wouldn’t be surprised if I bruised her neck something fierce.”

  I rub my face a little. “You know, Mrs. Oppenheimer, Ms. Lemonopolous told me a very different story …”

  “Oh, I’m sure she did. But don’t let those big brown eyes fool you, officer. That woman is a crazed monster.”

  3

  SO, BASICALLY, WE’RE IN A “SHE SAID/SHE SAID” SITUATION.

  Both sides give completely different versions of what happened and the one semi-independent witness, Mrs. Oppenheimer’s son, can only tell us that he saw the two women whaling on each other in his living room.

  So I ask all three parties to write up their statements—in separate rooms. Santucci and I will head back to the house (that’s what we call the SHPD headquarters) and fill out a “review only” Case Report. In other words, there isn’t enough evidence to request an arrest warrant or to charge anybody with anything. Just enough for me to hunt and peck through the paperwork.

  Fortunately, Christine agrees to leave the Oppenheimer residence.

  “Permanently,” sneers Mrs. Oppenheimer before I separate the parties again.

  “Do you have someplace safe you can go?” I ask Christine when her former employer is out of the room.

  “Yes. I also work for Dr. Rosen. I’ll be fine.”

  Santucci and I head back to the house and do our duty.

  I type up our report with one finger on the computer. If I could text it with my thumbs, it would take a lot less time.

  A little after eleven, I climb into my Jeep and head for home. On the way, I stop at Pizza My Heart and pick up a slice. With sausage and peppers.

  I blame my heartburn on Santucci.

  I’m sacked out and dreaming about driving a jumbo jet down the New Jersey Turnpike, looking for a rest stop with a parking lot big enough for a 747, when my cell starts singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Land Of Hope And Dreams.” That’s not part of the dream. That’s my ringtone for John Ceepak.

  “Hey,” I mumble.

  “Sorry to wake you.”

  I squint. The blurry red digits tell me it’s 2:57 A.M.

  “That’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

  “We have a situation.”

  “Is everything okay with Rita? Your mom?”

  “Affirmative. However, I was having difficulty falling asleep this evening so I went into the other room to monitor my police scanner.”

  Yes, some people drink a glass of warm milk or pop an Ambien. Ceepak? He chills with cop chatter.

  “Do you remember Katie Landry’s emergency room nurse friend Christine Lemonopolous?” he asks.

  “Sure. In fact, she was involved in an incident a couple hours ago down in Beach Crest Heights. Santucci and I took statements.”

  “I heard her name come across the radio. Cam Boyce and Brad Hartman were working the night shift when nine-one-one received a complaint of a woman sleeping in her car outside a residential property in Cedar Knoll Heights. They investigated and identified the ‘vagrant’ as Christine Lemonopolous.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Eighteen-eighteen Beach Lane in the Heights.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  You may think it odd that Ceepak would run out of his house at two-thirty in the morning to make sure a woman he barely knows is okay.

  Not me.

  I’ve been working with the guy for a while now. This is what he does. He jumps in and helps first, asks questions later.

  Before he came to Sea Haven, Ceepak was an MP over in Iraq, where he won just about every medal the Army gives out including several for rushing in and saving the lives of guys he didn’t know—even when common sense (and my intestines) would’ve said run the other way.

  Cedar Knoll Heights is, as the name suggests, a slightly elevated stretch of land overlooking the beach. That elevation? It saved the million-dollar homes lining Beach Lane in The Heights from Super Storm Sandy’s full wrath and fury.

  When I reach 1818, I see Ceepak’s six-two silhouette standing ramrod straight beside a dinged-up VW bug. It’s not Ceepak’s ride. He drives a dinged-up Toyota.

  The VW is parked in a crackled asphalt driveway leading up to a three-story mansion. The lawn is a tangle of sand, weeds, and sea grass.

  “Thanks for joining me,” says Ceepak.

  I know I must look like crap, having crawled out of the rack with chin drool and bed hair, a problem Ceepak will never know. He’s thirty-seven, been out of the Army for a few years, but still goes with the high-and-tight military cut.

  Christine waves to me from behind the wheel of her VW.

  I wave back.

  I haven’t seen Christine Lemonopolous in years. Now, we bump into each other twice in one night.

  Ceepak motions for me to step out to the street with him.

  He wants to discuss something “in private.”

  “So, you and Santucci sent Ms. Lemonopolous up here to Dr. Rosen’s home?”

  “Right. She told me Dr. Rosen would let her spend the night.”

  Ceepak cocks an eyebrow. “In the driveway?”

  “No. She’s one of his home health aides. I figured he had a spare room for her.”

  “Perhaps. But Ms. Lemonopolous never requested accommodations from Dr. Rosen. Not wishing to disturb his rest, she chose, instead, to spend the night in her vehicle. Neighbors complained. Boyce and Hartman swung by to arrest her for vagrancy.” r />
  “Now what?” I ask.

  “I promised Cam and Brad that we would find a more appropriate venue for Christine to spend the night.”

  And Ceepak is a man of his word.

  “Well, she can’t go back to where she’s been staying,” I say. “There was an altercation. And she doesn’t have a place of her own.”

  “So she informed me. Christine has hit hard times, Danny.”

  “You guys talked?”

  Ceepak nods. “Apparently, she left her high-paying position in the trauma center at Mainland Medical.”

  “Did she say why?”

  Ceepak shakes his head. “Nor did I ask. At this juncture, it is none of my business. I have no need to pry into her personal affairs.”

  Like I said earlier, it’s been a rough year for a lot of folks in Sea Haven. Ceepak’s wife, Rita, for instance, lost her catering business when all the big parties and beach bashes quit pitching their tents around town—even before Sandy blew into town. She’s back waitressing at Morgan’s Surf and Turf.

  I glance at my watch. 3:22 A.M.

  “Christine is due back here for her nursing shift at oh-seven-hundred hours,” says Ceepak.

  So, she could grab some more Z’s—if we can find a place for her to crash for a few hours.

  “I was hoping, Danny, that, given your numerous female friends, you might know someone who could take Christine in for the remainder of the night.”

  I go down a mental checklist. I do have a lot of gal pals. Kara Cerise. Barb Schlichting. Dawn Scovill. Heidi Noroozy. What can I say? It was a long, cold, lonely winter. But I don’t know any of those ladies well enough to barge in on them at three-thirty in the morning with a stray cat.

  And I can’t have her stay at my place. It’s tiny. Christine’s a curvaceous hottie. Do the math.

  Ceepak can’t take Christine to his apartment, either. His adopted son, T.J., may be off at the Naval Academy in Annapolis (freeing up the fold-out sofa) but he and his wife (plus Barkley the dog) share a very cramped one-bedroom apartment over the Bagel Lagoon bake shop. Ceepak’s mother moved to Sea Haven last winter, but she’s in an “adults only” condo complex. And by adults, they mean people over the age of fifty-five without kids or grandkids.

  “Should we take her to the house?” I suggest. “Let her bunk in one of the jail cells?”

  “Probably not our best option,” says Ceepak.

  Finally, it hits me. “How ’bout Becca?”

  Our mutual friend Becca Adkinson’s family runs the Mussel Beach Motel. It’s the first week of June. The summer season won’t really start for another couple of weeks. They probably have a few vacant rooms.

  “Excellent suggestion, Danny.”

  Yeah. I just hope Becca and her dad agree.

  Oh, by the way, Becca’s father, Mr. Adkinson? He’s the guy who ran for mayor against Hubert H. Sinclair.

  The guy who lost.

  4

  BECCA SAYS YES.

  “I’ll escort you over there,” I tell Christine.

  Hey, I’m wide-awake now. Besides, it’s already Saturday. My day off.

  Before Ceepak leaves, he tells me to “keep my calendar open” next week.

  “I’ve asked Chief Rossi to assign you to a one-week stint with me starting Monday.”

  Finally. Good news. “What’s up?”

  “Annual SHPD pre-season ride inspections. As you know, there are many brand-new amusements on the boardwalk this summer.”

  True. After Sandy hit, almost all the rides on the boardwalk had to be replaced. You might remember our Mad Mouse roller coaster. Well, Sandy turned it into a water park ride. A photograph of its twisted steel carcass sitting out in the Atlantic Ocean was on the front page of newspapers everywhere in the days after the storm.

  “Some of these new rides,” Ceepak continues, “may, in my estimation, have criminal records.”

  “Huh?”

  “Sinclair Enterprises has installed a ‘Free Fall’ on its pier. It is ‘used equipment,’ Danny, purchased from Fred’s Fun Zone, a ragtag amusement park near Troy, Michigan where, according to my research, the Free Fall was responsible for one death and several injuries.”

  Ceepak. The guy does criminal background checks on amusement park rides.

  “Plain clothes?” I say.

  “Roger that,” says Chief of Detectives Ceepak.

  “Awesome.”

  Baggy shorts and a shirt loose enough to hide a holster. My kind of uniform.

  “The rides really don’t open till ten or eleven,” says Ceepak.

  “You want to grab breakfast at the Pancake Palace first? Say, nine-thirty?”

  “That’ll work. My mother and her senior citizen group are taking a bus trip to the boardwalk Monday. Want to make sure everything is up to snuff.”

  “You don’t think they’re going to ride the rides, do you?”

  “Actually, with my mother, you never know.”

  True. Adele Ceepak is what they call a pistol. Or a firecracker. Something that sizzles and pops and does things you weren’t expecting.

  I escort Christine and her VW up to the Mussel Beach Motel.

  Becca, who’s bubbly and blonde, meets us out front in a pair of sloppy sweats.

  “Saving another damsel in distress, Danny Boy?” she jokes with a yawn. That’s her cute way of saying thanks one more time for what went down in the Fun House last summer. It’s a long story. Remind me. I’ll tell you sometime.

  “You remember Katie’s friend, Christine?” I say.

  “Sure. Rough night, huh?”

  Christine smiles. “Something like that.”

  “You still at the hospital?”

  “No. I’m mostly working as a home health aide these days.”

  “Cool. Well, you must be tumblewacked. Come on. I put you on the first floor …”

  “How much do we owe you?” I ask.

  “It’s on the house,” says Becca. “Hey, it’s what Katie would want.”

  Becca had been one of Katie Landry’s best friends, too. A lot of people were. Katie had been like that.

  “Thanks, Beck,” I say. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow, Christine.”

  I head toward my Jeep.

  “Hey, Danny,” calls Becca. “There’s two beds in the room if you want to just crash here tonight instead of driving all the way back to your place.”

  “It’d be fine with me, Danny,” adds Christine.

  I think about it. For two seconds.

  “Good night, Becca. See you tomorrow, Christine.”

  I don’t look back. I just keep on walking.

  Hey, it’s what Ceepak would do.

  5

  I RACK UP A GOOD SEVEN HOURS OF SACK TIME AND CRAWL OUT of bed a little after eleven.

  This is why they invented Saturdays.

  I tidy up my apartment. Okay, I pick up the socks and boxer shorts off the floor and toss then into a plastic hamper I should probably replace because I think it used to be white. Now it’s sort of grayish.

  Hungry, I hop into my Jeep and head off in search of grilled Taylor Pork Roll, eggs, and cheese on a roll with salt and ketchup. It’s a Jersey thing.

  A little after one, I swing by the tired mansion on Beach Lane. 1818 looks even worse in the sunshine. It’s not storm damage. It’s time damage.

  I’m in a clean polo shirt, shorts, and flip-flops. I also forgot to shave. Like I said, it’s Saturday.

  When I rap my knuckles on the screen door, Christine answers it. She’s in a cheery smock decorated with kittens and puppies, loose fitting green scrub pants, and pink-and-white running shoes. She smiles when she sees it’s me. I try not to wince when I notice how much make-up she had to trowel onto her neck to hide her ring of bruises.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” she whispers back.

  “You okay?” I ask, wondering why she is whispering.

  “Yeah. Dr. Rosen’s still asleep.”

  I guess when you’re ninety-four,
the rules about when you should wake up on Saturday are even looser.

  “Thanks for setting me up with Becca last night.”

  “Sure. So, do you have some place to stay tonight?” I’m whispering now, too. Don’t want to wake the old guy up.

  “Yes. Dr. Rosen is letting me have the other guest bedroom.”

  “The other one?”

  “The night nurse, Monae, already lives here. She’s asleep right now, too, because she stays up all night, every night. Makes sure Dr. Rosen doesn’t fall again. That’s why he needs the twenty-four-hour awake care. He slipped and fell a while ago. Broke his hip on the terrazzo tile floor in the kitchen.”

  I flinch. Terrazzo is hard stuff. Falling on it would feel like whacking your leg with a bowling ball.

  “He went to rehab, did PT. He’s still not great on his feet, though. Balance issues. Neuropathy in his feet.”

  “Did you get everything out of Mrs. Oppenheimer’s place?”

  “Not yet. Monae’s brother and sister are going to help me move the rest. I don’t have much. Mostly clothes. Couple books.”

  “When do you plan to do this?”

  “Tonight. Shona won’t be home. She has big plans with the Rosens.”

  Okay. Now I’m confused. “Mrs. Oppenheimer’s coming up here while you’re down at her place?”

  “I’m sorry. Dr. Rosen’s son, David, is married to Judith who is Shona’s sister. Those are the Rosens that Shona’s seeing tonight; David and Judith.”

  “So, did Mrs. Oppenheimer help you land this job with her sister’s father-in-law?”

  She nods. I get the sense this is something else she just doesn’t want to talk about right now.

  “Well, I’m free tonight,” I say. “If you guys need any help with the move.”

  “What?” Christine shoots me a sly and dimpled grin. “It’s Saturday night, Danny Boyle. Don’t you have a hot date?”

  “Nope. Not tonight.”

  “Really?”

  I hold up my hand like a Boy Scout. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Good to know.”

  Yes, I believe Christine Lemonopolous, the lovely Greek goddess, is flirting with me. Not that I mind. Hey, it’s Saturday. I’m off-duty. I have a pulse.

  Feeling the need to blow off a little steam, I head over to the Sunnyside Playland Video Arcade.