Rolling Thunder

think he would supply one of them with the chemical compound they needed to induce a heart attack in their wife.”

“Who’s this Hausler?” asks Botzong.

“A local dentist who was romantically linked for a short period of time with Ms. Baker.”

“Marco?”

“Putting him on the list.”

“Here is his business card,” says Ceepak. “When we interviewed Dr. Hausler, he had a pretty solid alibi for the time of death.”

“Any reason he’d want to kill Mrs. O’Malley, too?” asks Botzong.

“None that is readily apparent.”

“Okay, let’s make Mr. O’Malley and those who might want to frame him our prime targets,” says Botzong. “You two guys were there when Mrs. O’Malley died, right?”

We nod.

“Did you see anything up on that roller coaster? Anything hit you as hinky?”

“Not at the time,” says Ceepak.

“Could Mr. O’Malley have injected his wife with an undiluted dose without her knowing it?”

“Perhaps,” says Ceepak. “If he waited until the ride started rolling. Used the commotion and excitement to cover his actions.”

“If he injected a large enough dose,” says Miller, “the effects would be almost instantaneous.”

Yeah. She’d have a “heart attack” by the time they hit the second hill.

“Kevin O’Malley was sitting right behind her,” I add. “He could have jabbed her in the neck. The headrests in the roller coaster cars had those slotted vents-like in a sports car, you know? He could’ve poked the needle right through one of the openings.”

“And why does Kevin O’Malley want us to arrest his old man for murder?” asks Botzong

“With the death of his mother and the incarceration of his father,” Ceepak explains, “Kevin O’Malley would assume total control of the O’Malley family empire.”

“Maybe Kevin did it when they were climbing that first hill,” I say. “Gravity pins his mom’s head to the back of the seat. He leans forward like he wants to tell her something. Bam! Pokes her with the poison dart!”

Everybody around the marble countertop is sort of staring at me now. I hypothesize out loud more dramatically than most cops.

“Are their video cameras on the roller coaster track?” asks Botzong.

“Yes,” says Ceepak. “I noticed several. The operator in the control room most likely uses their video feeds to monitor the ride.”

“We need to track down the digital recordings from last Saturday morning,” Botzong says to his team. “Might help us see what actually went on up there.”

“Sir?” says Carolyn Miller. “I seriously doubt whether they record the input from those track cameras. After all, they’re utilized for operational purposes, not enhanced security.”

True. You don’t get many shoplifters on a roller coaster ride.

“The dead air,” I mumble.

“Come again?” says Ceepak.

“Cliff Skeete did that live remote broadcast on WAVY. He was riding the ride with the O’Malleys and all the local big wigs. When they all started screaming ‘heart attack,’ the station took him off the air. But they were probably rolling tape on his feed at the station. Recording it. We could also hear what happened.”

Half of the State Police Major Crimes Unit is working the phones, calling up doctors, surgeons and pharmaceutical supply companies.

Meanwhile Ceepak and I race up Ocean Avenue to the studios of WAVY.

So it’s only fitting that we’re listening to their live broadcast from the Rolling Thunder on the radio in our police cruiser.

It’s nine fifty-nine A.M. One minute to blastoff.

“And so,” we hear Mr. O’Malley say into Skeeter’s microphone, “I hereby dedicate the Rolling Thunder to my late wife, Mrs. Jacqueline O’Malley-a woman who loved family and fun more than anything in the world.”

I wait for him to say, “so I’m sorry I killed her,” but he doesn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. O’Malley,” says Skeeter in his deep-and-velvety voice, the same one he used whenever he would intro a Barry White track when we did wedding gigs together back in the day. “Thank you for those truly touching and inspirational words.”

And then he shifts gears.

“Are we ready to do this thing? Boo-yeah! Let the thunder roll!”

My cell phone starts blaring Springsteen’s “Born to Run.”

Samantha Starky’s ringtone.

I ignore it.

Ceepak, who is currently behind the wheel, punches off the radio.

“Go ahead and answer it, partner.”

“It’s a personal call. Sam Starky. I’ll let it bounce over to voice mail.”

Ceepak gives me this pursed-lip look to say, “It’s okay this one time.”

Bruce is screaming, “tramps like us” as I flip open the phone.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey, Danny. Where are you?”

“On the job.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Hey-thanks for getting me home last night. I was kind of tanked. Three drinks, you know?”

“Sure.”

“So, did that other girl spend the night at your place?”

“Yeah. She had nowhere else to go.”

I refuse to say “but I didn’t sleep with her.” If Sam thinks that, well, it’s her problem.

“Hey, a bunch of us are down here at the new roller coaster.

“Sounds like fun.”

Roller coasters usually are-as long as no one jabs you in the back of the neck with a hypodermic on that first hill.

“You want to come hang out with us? So far, no one’s had a heart attack.”

She’s making a joke. I’m not laughing.

“Of course, we’re stuck in this incredibly long line-longer than last weekend and I thought it might be neat if you came down and rode with us and then maybe you and me could have the talk we need to have if we want to do this the right way.”

“Do what?”

She takes a breath. A rare occurrence. “Break up.”

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m on the job.”

“I know, but … well … it’s Saturday.”

“So?”

“Saturday is supposed to be a day off.”

“Not for a cop running a case. Come on. You know that.”

I gesture to a squat and boxy building sandwiched between Pizza My Heart and Captain Video-the not so glamorous WAVY studios. Ceepak sees it, pulls to the curb.

“I gotta run, Sam.”