it’s very expensive-over five hundred dollars for half a gram of the pure stuff.
None of our suspects’ names show up in Botzong’s report of recent sales:
Bobby McCue
Buggy Bobby’s Fumigation and Pest Control
25 Spruce Street
Clare Thalken Harrington
The Treasure Chest
2311 Ocean Avenue
David Magayna
Dave’s Roof Rat Removal Inc.
101 Swordfish Street
Cele Deemer
The Gold Coast Fine Jewelry
1510 Ocean Avenue
Bart Smith
Sinclair Enterprises
1500 Ocean Avenue
“Of course,” says Ceepak.
“What?”
“We need to head over to 1500 Ocean Avenue.”
“Sinclair Enterprises?”
“Yes. We need to talk to ‘Bart Smith.’ He is our murderer.”
59
“So, who’s Bart Smith?” I ask as we drive back to the worldwide headquarters of Sinclair Enterprises.
“If the theory I have been formulating is correct, he is an alias created by David Rosen.”
I remember David Rosen’s Bart Simpson watch and desk clock. Maybe he took John Smith, the most obvious alias in the world, and added a little Simpsons twist.
The compact printer in Ceepak’s new ride is spitting out the details of “Bart Smith’s” potassium cyanide purchase: 97 % analytical grade; came from a company in New Delhi, India. Mr. Smith purchased half a gram for $499.99 and billed it to Sinclair Enterprises.
The lethal oral dose of potassium cyanide? 200 mg or 0.2 grams. A rounded teaspoon of the powder would be about two and a half times the amount needed to kill a person. Bart Smith’s sample? If it really went to David Rosen, he could’ve killed his dad sixty times over.
“So David had the poison sent to his office but to a fake name. I can understand why. But there had to be a chance it would wind up on the wrong desk.”
“Not really,” says Ceepak. “Do you remember my father’s ‘Guns And Ammo’ magazine?”
“Somebody brought it to David.”
“And the stack of mail that arrived at fifteen hundred Ocean Avenue for the second ride operator, Shaun McKinnon?”
Right. My friend Shawn Reilly Simmons gave it to David Rosen.
“As head of Sinclair Enterprises’ human resources department,” says Ceepak, “David Rosen was responsible for making certain all the company’s short-term summer hires received their forwarded mail.”
“So,” I say, “he knew that if he cooked up a name nobody at the company recognized and had a package sent to that name care of the office, it would eventually find it’s way to his cubicle.”
“Such has been my supposition, Danny.”
“And he killed his father because of what Michael said on Friday night? That he was close to proving that Little Arnie wasn’t his father’s legitimate ‘living legacy.’”
“Which,” Ceepak says, “would’ve jeopardized David and Judith’s favored state in Dr. Rosen’s will-if he lived long enough to amend it in light of Michael’s revelations.”
“But wait a second-how come he ordered the cyanide before he knew any of this stuff? I mean, no way he ordered it after dinner on Friday night and got the package in time to doctor the pills first thing Saturday morning.”
“I suspect that David had been contemplating terminating his father’s life for quite some time.”
“Why?”
“To free him from the unrelenting pressure of his wife’s harangues. I’m sure Judith was constantly badgering David, telling him they deserved their full inheritance,
I finish Ceepak’s though by paraphrasing Judith’s drunken late-night remarks to her father-in-law: “If only Dr. Rosen did everybody a favor and died.”
“Indeed. I suspect Judith’s constant, emasculating outbursts took their toll on David. He saw an easy way to slip free before his spirit was completely crushed. He purchased the cyanide but couldn’t find the courage to actually do the deed until Michael’s thinly veiled threats on Friday night pushed him over the brink.”
“He murdered his own father.”
Ceepak nods grimly. “However, I feel certain that, in David’s eyes, he merely hastened his father’s exit from this world; shortening the old man’s life by a few meaningless months.”
“But it’s still murder. Right?”
“Roger that.”
We arrive at Sinclair Enterprises around 2 P.M.
David Rosen is sitting on the far side of the floor in his glass box, working his phone.
“Hey, how’s it going, fellas?”
Seems Bob, the manager from the StratosFEAR, is visiting headquarters today, too.
“Fine,” says Ceepak, his eyes laser-locked on David. “Nice of you to inquire.”
“You know, Detective Ceepak, your pops gets off work early today. Might be a good time for you two to grab a little chow, knock back a couple cold brewskis, bury the hatchet.”
“Not going to happen,” I say. “We’re busy. Need to arrest someone for murder.”
“Really?” says Bob, eagerly. “Who?”
“Danny?” says Ceepak, shaking his head.
“Excuse us,” I say to Bob.
Ceepak and I march across the wide room. Bob goes over to a nearby copy machine and pretends like he’s ready to collate a couple documents. But I can tell, he has his eyes glued on Ceepak and me.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble in a whisper.
“It’s all good,” Ceepak whispers back. “However, we can only arrest David Rosen when we have sufficient evidence to press formal charges.”
“So you’re hoping he confesses?”
Ceepak nods. Then, outside David’s cubicle, he clears his throat.
“Hugh? I’m going to have to call you back. It’s those cops again. Right. I’m not sure. Okay. You’re the boss. Appreciate it.”
He hangs up the phone.
“Mayor Hugh Sinclair,” he says like he expects us to be impressed.
We’re not.
“He’s in the neighborhood. Might pop in to say howdy.”
Ceepak ignores what, I’m guessing, David hoped would be a threat.
