“I’m in one-eleven. There’s a parking spot right outside the door. Sorry about the bed. I forgot to make it this morning. Oh, you might want to pick up some toilet paper, too. I was running a little low.”
Christine surprises me with another hug.
“Thank you, Danny.”
She scurries off into the house.
“So,” I say, “should we call Dr. Kurth?”
“Roger that,” says Ceepak, shifting back into Robocop mode. “The rattling of his bed prior to his death adds fuel to my mother’s suspicions. It could have been death throes, the sudden, violent movements those dying often make immediately prior to their passing …”
“Or?”
“It could’ve been a convulsion, Danny. From cyanide poisoning.”
And so we call Dr. Kurth.
Ceepak has her office, home, and cell numbers.
Yes, over the past few years, we’ve kept the county medical examiner’s office kind of busy.
We finally reach her on her cell. At her daughter’s soccer game. Ceepak puts her on speakerphone.
“Sorry to disturb you, Rebecca.”
“What’s up, John?”
“We need a quick autopsy.”
There is an awkward pause.
So Ceepak continues. “Arnold Rosen passed away this morning.”
“The dentist?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Wasn’t he like a hundred years old?”
“Ninety-four.”
“And you want me to do an autopsy on a ninety-four year old dentist because …?”
“Suspicions have been aroused regarding the circumstances of his death.”
So far, so good. Ceepak hasn’t had to say, “
“I don’t know, John …”
“You could limit the toxicology screen.”
“To what?”
“Cyanide poisoning.”
“Seriously? Who would want to poison a ninety-four-year-old man?”
“Dr. Kurth?”
“Yes, John?”
“If you find the poison, I promise you, Danny and I will move heaven and earth to find the answer to that question.”
Another pause.
Maybe a sigh.
Hard to tell on a cell phone.
“Dr. Rosen is Jewish, correct?” says Dr. Kurth.
“Roger that.”
“Okay. They’re going to want to hold his funeral ASAP. If we’re doing this, we need to do it today.”
Yet another pause. So I pipe up. “Are we doing it?”
“Yes,” says Dr. Kurth. “Where’s the body?”
Ceepak looks at me. I shrug. The hearse we saw earlier didn’t have anything like “Fred’s Funeral Home” decals plastered all over it.
“We’ll get back to you with that information,” says Ceepak.
“Hurry. My other daughter’s birthday is today. We’re doing a cookout and ball bounce.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
“You boys owe me one.”
“Roger that,” I say while Ceepak nods.
He thumbs off the phone.
We both look back at the beach house.
Now it’s Ceepak’s turn to sigh.
Because he knows we have to walk back inside and say, “
Should be fun.
25
Heading back into the beach house through the back door, we hear a lady screaming her head off.
Judith.
“Severance pay? Are you insane, Michael?”
“She worked for Dad for six months …”
“Christine gets nothing,” says David. “Zip. Nada.”
“She humiliated my sister in open court …”
Ceepak clears his throat. Loudly.
We’re cops. We don’t get to eavesdrop without announcing our presence.
“Excuse us,” he says when we step into the room where the Rosen family stands arguing around their late father’s empty hospital bed.
Judith beams us her singing nun smile again, squeezes her chubby pink thighs together to squelch her rage.
“We have arranged alternate housing for Ms. Lemonopolous,” Ceepak announces.
“Thank you,” gushes Michael. “I was a little worried. Does she need money? Because I could lend her …”
“Oh no, Michael,” says Judith, sweeter than corn syrup. “You don’t need to do that. It’s a kind and generous offer, but Dad paid Miss Christine a very substantial salary. I’m sure she’ll be fine without the family’s continued assistance.” Judith, who really shouldn’t wear miniskirts, locks her focus on Ceepak. “Do you officers need something else? We have so many preparations to attend to. Our rabbi, Dr. Bronstein, is on his way over to help us make the necessary arrangements.”
“Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “Where is Dr. Rosen’s body?”
“Excuse me?”
“Which funeral home will you be using?”
“Grossman amp; Mehringer. Why?”
“The county medical examiner, at our request, is going to perform a post mortem toxicology screening.”
“What?” this from Michael. “An autopsy?”
Guess he produces cop shows out in Hollywood.
“You’re joking right?”
“No, sir. We want to eliminate even the slightest possibility that your father was poisoned.”
“Poisoned?” says Judith, her smile slipping dangerously close to a sneer. “Dad was ninety-four years old. He passed away in his sleep. Please, officers, allow him to die with a modicum of dignity.”
“Besides,” says David, “doesn’t this ‘county medical examiner’ have more important duties to attend to? It’s Saturday. They’ll get time and a half. That’s why Dad’s property taxes are so high.”
Michael stays mum.
“What if we don’t approve of this autopsy?” says Judith. “Surely, as his family, we have a say in this matter.”
