That’s from Ceepak’s personal bible.
Mr. Ceepak shakes his head. “I fear for your immortal soul, son. Helping Adele defy God’s Holy Word? ‘A wife is bound to her husband as long as he lives!’ That’s from the Bible, too.”
“So is that guy with boils all over his butt,” I say, remembering the Book of Job from my stint in Catholic High School.
Mr. Ceepak has a confused look on his face again; the one he used to get when he was tanked all the time.
Someone raps knuckles on the glass windows.
Bob.
He raises his arm. Taps his wristwatch. Shoots me and Ceepak a wink and a smile.
“Duty calls, boys,” says Mr. Ceepak, gesturing toward the squalid little shack’s flimsy door to let us know it is time for us to go. “And Johnny, as you probably know, only certified operators are allowed inside the control booth while the ride is running. So, I gotta ask you boys to leave. Now.” He gulps down another chug from his warm orange juice jug.
Ceepak puts his hand on the door. “Stay away from my mother.”
“Yeah, yeah. I heard you the first time.”
Ceepak and I walk out of the booth. Manager Bob follows after us.
“Your dad sure has one heck of a work ethic, Detective Ceepak. And don’t worry. The guys in HR have another factory-trained and certified operator all lined up. Fellow by the name of Shaun McKinnon. Should be on the job Monday. Coming down from Ohio. We’ll be able to give your pop a couple nights off. Maybe you two can catch up and smooth things over.”
“That, Bob, is never going to happen.”
As we walk around the StratosFEAR, I see why Mr. Sinclair was so eager to open his new ride: There is a line, maybe a hundred people long, snaking through the switchbacks and down the pier.
Behind me, I hear a chorus of high-pitched squeals and screams as the open-air chairs whoosh down the girder tower at breakneck speed.
“Awesome,” I hear a couple kids on line say in breathless anticipation of their own plunge.
And guess who’s at the end of the line?
Judith Rosen and her son, Little Arnie. Thirteen or maybe fourteen, he’s wearing a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap (sideways) on his boy band blonde head. Fortunately, Mrs. Rosen isn’t wearing a miniskirt today, just tight jeggings and an unfortunate tank top. It looks like she’s smuggling neck pillows around her waist.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosen,” says Ceepak when he sees her.
“Good afternoon, detective. Little Arnie was growing restless at home.”
“Understandable,” says Ceepak.
“So, have you heard anything?”
“From the M.E., you mean?”
“Yes. The, uh, tests you wanted done.”
Both Ceepak and Judith are trying very hard not to use words like “medical examiner,” “autopsy,” and “toxin screening” in front of the late Arnold Rosen’s only grandson.
“No, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “These things sometimes take days.”
“I see. David, of course, works for Sinclair Enterprises,” Judith continues. “So, we’re lucky. We get free tickets for all the rides; discount coupons for the restaurants and car washes. Comes in handy. Just about the only decent perk they give him …”
“Well, enjoy your day as best you can,” says Ceepak. “And again, our condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you,” says Judith. “Officer Boyle?”
Yikes. I’m sort of surprised she remembers my name.
“Yes, ma’am?” I say.
“I understand you’ve met my sister, Shona? You’ve even been to her house?”
Oh. I get it now. We’re still talking in code but she’s letting me know that she knows I was the OIC the night her nephew called 911.
“Quick question.” She still sounds as Midwestern sweet as sugar-frosted corn flakes. “Why did you side with Christine Lemonopolous?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you only photograph her injuries? Why not my sister’s?”
“I, uh …”
“Mrs. Rosen,” says Ceepak, “if you have queries about police procedure, past or present, might I suggest that you come to our offices to have them answered?”
“Of course. I just think you made a bad call, Officer Boyle. So be careful. Keep an eye on Ms. Lemonopolous. That girl has an extremely short fuse. I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before she hurts or injures someone else.”
29
I head back to my apartment to grab some clothes and toiletries for my temporary move to Ceepak’s place.
I also want to check up on Christine. See how she’s doing. Keep an eye on that short fuse of hers. Wouldn’t want my apartment to blow up while’s she’s using it. I’d never get back my damage deposit.
The Sea Village Apartment Complex sits halfway between what you might call “downtown” Sea Haven and the southern tip of the island where the rich folks like Shona Oppenheimer live.
I park my Jeep and head to Room 111. I fish in my cargo shorts for the keys before remembering, duh, I gave them to Christine.
So I knock on the door.
“Danny?”
Christine’s voice would probably be muffled more if my front door weren’t the cheapest kind they sell at Home Depot.
“Yeah.”
“Just a second.”
I hear a chain slide. Knobs turn.
She’s using locks I forgot I even had.
“Hey!” she says when the door swings open.
Her curly hair is damp. Her face is scrubbed clean. She’s dressed in a cute, chocolate colored blouse and is working one of my threadbare towels into her left ear. I hope the towel was actually clean and didn’t just pass my early morning sniff test.
“Come on in,” Christine says, her voice cheery and a little nervous. Yes, this is weird. We haven’t even been on a date but it’s like we’re doing the whole “Honey, I’m home” bit from some ancient sitcom.
“I just need to grab a few things,” I say.
“Sure. Make yourself at home.”
I glance around the room. I love what Christine has done with the place.
Well, mostly, she’s lit a fancy vanilla-scented candle to cover up the smell of my gym clothes (I really should wash that stuff more often). She’s also draped a couple colorful scarves over the window and put some flowers in an empty pickle jar on my kitchenette table. Looks nice.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I added a few girly-girl touches.”
“No problem. Just need to grab some clothes and my shaving stuff.”
“Sure.” She moves left. I go right. The room is so tiny we have to dance around each other to maneuver.
“I can’t thank you enough, Danny.”
“No worries.”
