“Everything her husband wasn’t,” adds Michael.
Franz holds up his hands. “What can I say? I was and remain the perfect package. But hey, I’m sorry the little dude lost his granddaddy.” Now Franz scratches the shaggy hair behind his ear like a flea-bitten dog. “Maybe I should pay him a visit. Assuage his emotional anguish with an ice cream cone or something.”
“A little over fourteen years ago,” says Revae Dunn, very drily, “Mr. Gruber’s sperm sample, then known as Donor One-four-three, fertilized Mrs. Rosen’s egg in a Petri dish and created the child named Arnold David Rosen.”
“Dig it,” says Gruber, cocking a thumb toward Revae. “According to Ms. Dunn, here, I’ve spawned like a hundred and fifty kids. Who knew? I just did it for beer money, man. Seventy five bucks a pop for reading lascivious letters to Penthouse and, you know-choking my chicken.”
I just nod and try to smile.
“After that horrible dinner on Friday night with Father, where both he and David belittled my choice of adoption,” says Michael, “I warned my brother. Told him I was
Ceepak leans forward.
“What exactly did you say?”
“I told David that he and Dad shouldn’t look down their noses at my adopted son. I also suggested that he who laughs last laughs loudest and that, judging by Little Arnie’s Germanic good looks, I wouldn’t be surprised if he, for all practical purposes, was adopted as well. Like I said, I let David know that I was very close to finding out the whole truth.”
Franz Gruber does a little wiggle-fingered wave.
“It was me, man. And yo, if this generous Hollywood mogul is willing to provide compensation to the tune of fifty thousand big dollars, I have no qualms about totally rescinding my confidentiality agreement with the clinic and going public.”
Ceepak focuses on Michael. “So on Friday night, you told your brother you knew that his son might not be his grandfather’s legitimate ‘bloodline heir’?”
Michael smirks. “I did indeed. Right there in the restaurant parking lot after Monae drove Dad-ums home. And you know what, detectives? It felt good. Really, really good.”
“And when you heard your father’s provisions for his grandson in his will?”
“That, I confess, felt horrible. It meant I had missed my deadline. I should’ve completed this task sooner. Before my father died. But it occurs to me, that’s probably why David and/or Judith poisoned the poor bastard: to prevent him from learning the god-awful truth and completely cutting them out of his will.”
“Danny?” says Ceepak.
I’m up. We need to leave. Now.
Our suspect list?
It’s down to two.
57
Michael agrees to return to the Sea Spray hotel.
“I can’t wait to see which one of them slipped Daddy the pill. Judith or David. Maybe both!”
“You realize, of course,” says Ceepak, “that you are partially responsible for driving them to do what they did?”
“And you know what, Detective Ceepak? I don’t care. I’d do it again. Gladly. I finally realized that my father never really loved me. That no matter how many gifts I showered on him, how much money I made, how many awards and honors I won, I’d never be anything to him but a big, embarrassing mistake. So I’m glad one of those two greedy ingrates finally killed him. Saved me the trouble.”
When we’re back in Ceepak’s car, I ask how we’re going to figure out which of the two Rosens killed their father or father-in-law.
“They may have worked together,” says Ceepak. “Co-conspirators. However, our first step is identifying which of them procured the cyanide.”
Ceepak’s still counting on Botzong’s cyanide shipping information to fill in a bunch of blanks.
Personally, my money is on Judith in the jewelry shop with the cyanide jug.
And a funnel. She’d need it to pour the liquid into the gel caps.
But that would probably dissolve the capsules.
Okay, I’m counting on Botzong, too.
We head back to Sea Haven.
Ceepak contacts Sal Santucci-my partner the night Christine and Shona had their wrestling match at the southern tip of the island-who is stationed outside David and Judith’s home.
“Kindly go upstairs and inform Mrs. Rosen that we are coming over to ask her a few questions.”
We arrive at 315-B Tuna Street.
Sal Santucci and his partner, Cath Hoffner, have parked their cruiser in the only shady spot on the street. Fortunately, it’s right in front of the house where David and Judith rent the upstairs apartment.
Ceepak and I make our way around the side of the building and climb up the steep back steps to David and Judith’s deck.
It takes three knuckle raps on the door before somebody opens it.
“Hi.” It’s Little Arnie. Franz Gruber’s kid.
“Is your mother home?” asks Ceepak.
“I guess.”
“May we speak with her?”
“I guess.” He nudges his head toward the living room. “She’s in there.”
His mother is seated on the sofa, sipping a glass of white wine. It’s only a little after noon but I suppose it’s five o’clock somewhere-as Ceepak’s dad likes to say whenever he pops a brewski for breakfast.
We head toward the sofa. Little Arnie heads for his bedroom to close the door and daydream about shooting the curl and hanging ten if, you know, he soaked up any of Gruber’s “surfing genes” in that petri dish.
“Why on earth do you two need to talk to me?”
Judith is not even pretending to smile today.
“And how dare you send those two police officers up here to harass me? Why haven’t you people arrested Christine Lemonopolous?”
“Well, for one thing,” I say, “we’re pretty sure Ms. Lemonopolous didn’t do anything to be arrested for.”
“But you put
“We also continue to monitor Ms. Lemonopolous’s whereabouts,” says Ceepak,
“You should. She poisoned my father-in-law. She attacked my sister. She killed Mauna Faye Crabtree and all those other old people she used to work for …”
Ceepak cuts her off. “No, Mrs. Rosen, she did none of those things. We know about Franz Gruber.”
“Who?”
“Sperm donor one-four-three, whose semen you selected when you could not conceive a child utilizing your husband’s sperm.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“We just came from Avondale. The Garden State Reproductive Science Center.”
“That’s where you went for fertility treatments,” I add. “Right?”
“So? We were having trouble conceiving in the traditional manner. And both David and I desperately wanted children.”
“Highly ranked staff at the Reproductive Science Center,” says Ceepak, “told us how you ended up choosing a blonde, athletic, and intelligent sperm donor when your husband’s sperm repeatedly failed to fertilize your
