So he takes a swing at me with his free hand.
Which I duck.
And once his left hook whiffs over my head, I use his inertia to spin him around and yank his right arm behind his back.
When he tries to wiggle free, I tug up. Hard.
“Hey!” he screams. “That hurts.”
“That’s the general idea.”
Richard Lewis, the Sand Bar’s main bouncer and former Mr. New Jersey bodybuilder, comes storming up the stairs, his dreadlocks swinging.
“Yo, Danny?” Richard has what I’d call a Reggae accent. “What’s going on here, brudda?”
“This old fart is causing trouble. Harassing the ladies.”
“Is that so?” says Richard, clucking his tongue and moving his incredible hulk across the floor.
I release my grip and shove Mr. Ceepak forward. Richard grabs him with both hands and hoists him an inch or two off the ground like he’s a worthless sack of crap, which, by the way, he is.
“You causing trouble, mon?”
“No,” growls Mr. Ceepak. “Not tonight anyway.”
Then he turtles his head around to glare at me.
“Tomorrow? Well, like they say, Boyle, tomorrow is another freakin’ day.”
55
About thirty minutes after Mr. Ceepak is tossed out of the Sand Bar, Christine and I decide to call it a night.
“Big day tomorrow,” I say and stretch into a pretty phony yawn. I even pat my hand over my open mouth a couple times.
That makes Christine smile.
“Sorry,” I say. “It’s the hour, not the company.”
I escort her down to the parking lot and her VW.
“Everything okay at the motel?” I ask.
“Yeah. Becca gave me a really nice room.” She moves closer. “Would you like to see it?” Her voice is extremely husky. And by husky, I do not mean the size of blue jeans chubby boys wear.
“Yes,” I say. “I’d love to come over. But …”
“I know,” says Christine. “You’ve got a murder to solve.”
“Something like that.”
She shrugs. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Then she goes up on her toes so she can kiss me.
I, naturally, kiss back.
I’ll skip the juicy details but lets just say we linger.
When we finally break out of lip lock, both of us are a little discombobulated, our clothes slightly disheveled. I also notice I’m breathing a little more rapidly than when I’m, say, brushing my teeth.
“Thanks for standing up for me.” Christine leans her head against my chest. It’s a good fit.
“Mr. Ceepak is a nasty piece of work,” I say.
“I hate when mean people like him try to push other people around. He reminds me
“And that’s why God invented cops and soldiers,” I say, hoping to tamp down the smoldering anger I see burning in her eyes.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything dumb or stupid, Danny.”
“Good. That’s
Christine smiles.
We kiss one more time.
And then she putters away in her VW.
Tuesday morning, Ceepak and I roll in his detective-mobile to “The Gold Coast” jewelry shop at 1510 Ocean Avenue.
The store isn’t open, but we press our badges against the glass-panel front door and the lone worker inside twists open the lock to let us in.
“Sorry to be intruding so early in the morning,” says Ceepak. “Is Cele Deemer available?”
“I’m Cele,” says the bony woman who opened the front door. Her skin is so tan and tight, it reminds me of an old leather suitcase with ribs.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?”
“Do you know Judith Rosen?”
“Certainly. We’ve been friends since high school. And don’t you dare ask me how long ago that was.”
She laughs and brings a hand up to her enormous golden necklace, which halfway reminds me of the chest pieces chariot drivers used to wear. She’s also wearing enough golden rings for a solo in a Christmas carol.
“Now then, officers-what’s this all about?”
“We are investigating the murder of Mrs. Rosen’s father-in-law.”
Ms. Deemer clucks her tongue a couple times. “Such a tragedy. How can I help?”
“You design and create your own jewelry?” asks Ceepak.
“That’s right. I work exclusively in gold. Bracelets, rings, necklaces …”
“And do you use cyanide?”
She nods. “A liquid product called ‘Twenty-Four K.’ Of course, I only use it in a very well ventilated space. I have an exhaust fan and fume hood right over my workbench in the back. Plus, I always wear chemical safety goggles, neoprene gloves, and a rubber apron whenever I work with it.”
“Wise precautions,” says Ceepak.”
“Well, it’s extremely toxic. Fatal if ingested.” Ms. Deemer gasps. “Is that what happened to Dr. Rosen?”
Ceepak doesn’t answer. Instead, he asks, “Where do you store your cyanide solution?”
“In my workshop.”
I glance toward the rear of the shop. There is a flimsy goldsequined curtain hanging on a rod above an open doorway. Anybody could breeze through and help themselves to anything on Ms. Deemer’s supply shelves. Her workshop security situation is, in a word, nonexistent.
“A while back,” says Ceepak, “we understand you created a ring for your friend, Judith Rosen.”
“Actually, her husband was my client.” She laughs. “It was supposed to be a big, romantic Valentine’s Day gift. Well, on Valentine’s Day, David gives Judith a gift certificate that his father came in and bought for him. A
“Yes, ma’am. Do you see David and Judith socially?”
“David? Not really. I see him on the sidewalk sometimes. He works just up the block.”
“And Judith?”
“I see her maybe once or twice a month. Her gym is around the corner.” She leans in like she’s going to let us in on some big, juicy secret. “I think she only goes to the gym to get a massage. You know what I mean?” Here she uses her hands to mime her cheeks bloating up like blowfish. “Anyway, sometimes, when her son is at school, Jude drops by with pasta or pizza.”
“Is David ever involved in these lunches?”
