Samuel Oppenheimer. He’s in a wheelchair and clutching a cordless phone. He looks terrified.
“Over there!” he shouts, pointing to a sunken, white-on-white living room.
I see the back of a raven-haired lady in a purple tracksuit. She is throttling a kinky-haired, younger woman in yellow scrubs who is wildly swinging her arms and trying to kick her way free. But the older woman has her hands locked in a vice grip on the younger woman’s throat, and that keeps the nurse far enough away that her slaps, scratches, and kicks don’t land.
I move closer.
I can’t see the younger woman’s face. It’s buried beneath a whirlwind of flailing curls.
“Break it up!” I shout.
“Knock it off!” adds Santucci.
I grab hold of the strangler’s shoulder.
She snaps her head around. All sorts of chunky gold jewelry clatters on her neck and ears as she shoots me a dark and dangerous look. I half expect her to hiss.
But her brain finally kicks in and she realizes there is a uniformed police officer in her living room with his hand firmly attached to her clavicle.
Now her eyes go all wide and terrified.
She drops her chokehold.
The nurse gags and reflexively brings her hands up to her neck.
“Thank goodness you’re here!” says the older woman.
I quickly scan her face. Her hair is jet black, her nose perfect, her skin taut and wrinkle-free. She looks like she wears makeup in her sleep.
“That vile creature attacked me!” she screeches in my face.
“You … attacked …
“I did no such thing.”
“Ma’am?” I say. “I need you to move to the other side of the room.”
“This is my home-”
“Now!”
Yeah. I sort of shouted it.
“Mom?” says the boy, up in the higher level in his wheelchair. “Please? Do like he says.”
“You heard Officer Boyle,” says Santucci. “Move it.”
I look over to the nurse.
She’s my age. Maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. A mountain of dark, curly hair. Olive skin. Chocolate brown eyes that aren’t quite dark enough to hide her fear.
And, of course, I know her.
It’s Christine Lemonopolous. One of my old girlfriend Katie Landry’s best buds.
“Christine?” I say, arching up an eyebrow, hoping for a good explanation.
Her lips quiver into what she probably hoped might end up as a smile. It doesn’t.
“Can you breathe?” I ask. “Is your airway clear?”
She nods.
“What’s this all about?” I ask.
“I didn’t do anything, Danny.”
“Liar,” snarls the other one.
“I swear on Katie’s grave.” Christine’s voice is raw and raspy. “I didn’t do anything!”
Like I said, there’s nothing worse than hearing that from an old friend.
Especially when she drags the late, great love of your life into it.
2
It’s a good thing the McMansion has so many rooms.
It’s time to separate the combatants.
The lady of the house is fuming in one corner of the sunken living room. Christine stands in the other. The boy with the phone is parked near the blizzard colored sofa, shaking his head.
I know how he feels.
“Ma’am?” I say to the woman in the designer tracksuit. “Your name, please?”
“Shona Blumenfeld Oppenheimer. Widow of
She puts “Arthur” in italics when she says it. I guess I’m supposed to be impressed. I’m not sure why but, then again, I don’t know that many impressive people.
“Mrs. Oppenheimer,” I say, “I need you to wait in another room.”
“Why?”
“He’s separating the parties involved in the altercation,” snaps Santucci, who, I guess, paid attention in cop class that day. “It’s what we do when attempting to ascertain what happened in a dispute such as this one you two got goin’ on here.”
“You’re going to take
“No, ma’am.” I nod toward the boy. “We need to talk to your son first.”
“I’m his mother. I should be there.”
“No, ma’am. You should not.”
“He’s not well. I’m going to call my lawyer.”
I give her a confused look. “Why?”
“To make sure everything is …” I can tell she’s struggling to find the right word. “Legal!”
Found it.
“Don’t worry, it will be,” says Sal. “Officer Boyle here was trained by John Ceepak.”
“Who?” says Mrs. Oppenheimer as she and Santucci finally move out of the living room.
“Biggest overgrown Boy Scout you could ever meet. Come on, I’ll tell you all about him …”
I grin. Santucci actually handled that pretty well.
“Christine?” I say when they’re out of the room.
“Yes, Danny?”
“Your neck okay?”
“It hurts.”
“Do you want an ambulance?”
“No. I don’t think it will swell up any more.”
“How ’bout you wait in the kitchen? Maybe put some ice on it?”
“Good idea.”
She leaves and I move into the upper living room. Take a seat in a very comfy, very white chair. The boy in the wheelchair is staring at the phone in his lap. Turning it over and over.
“You’re Samuel Oppenheimer?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You feeling good enough to talk?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Great. So, you’re the one who called nine-one-one?”
“Yeah.”
“Good for you. Smart move.”
Samuel looks up. We make eye contact. “Thanks,” he says.
“So,” I say with a shrug. “What happened?”
“They got into a fight, I guess. My mom’s been sort of stressed lately.”
“What do you mean?”
“She and my nurse, Christine, have been getting on each other’s nerves. They used to be friendly. Not
