officers out in the street, adjusting their gun belts.
“Why have those two police officers been parked there all day?” he asks.
“It’s part of our new neighborhood watch program,” I crack. “Every day, we pick one house in a neighborhood and watch it. Today is your lucky day.”
“What? You think I’m some kind of flight risk?”
“Are you?” asks Ceepak.
“Of course not. I didn’t do anything, why would I run away?”
“Look,” I say. “We know Michael and your wife backed you into a corner. That Michael told you …”
He ignores me. Turns to Ceepak. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, sir. Not yet.”
“Then get off of my property.”
“Technically, sir, this is not your property. You are a renter and therefore …”
“Come back when you have an arrest warrant.”
“Yes, sir. We will. We’ll also come back when we have a search warrant.”
“You’re going to search my home, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Several times,” I add. “If we have to.”
David storms around the side of the house and makes his way to that back staircase.
Ceepak waits until he hears David’s footfalls climbing the steps. Then we stroll into the street to have a word with Santucci and Hoffner.
“Sal?” says Ceepak.
“Sir?”
“We have reason to believe that Mr. David Rosen murdered his father.”
“I thought it was the wife,” says Cath Hoffner, his partner. “She’s such a witch, you know?”
I nod. Surprisingly, so does Ceepak.
“Currently,” he adds, “the husband, David Rosen is our primary suspect in what might have been a conspiracy to commit murder. However, we need to gather more evidence. Right now, everything we have is solid but highly circumstantial. We need to find a more direct link.”
“Don’t worry,” says Santucci. “While you guys are digging up your direct links and whatnot, Hoffner and me won’t let the guy out of our sight.”
“Appreciate it. We’re working up a twenty-four/seven duty detail that should have your relief out here by nineteen hundred hours.”
“Cool. You think the Chief could maybe send somebody out with sandwiches for us so we don’t have to desert our post? Maybe a couple cold drinks?”
“We’ll make it happen,” says Ceepak.
I’m about to reach for my radio and put in the food and drink request when my cell phone starts chirping.
Ceepak nods his permission for me to answer it.
“Hello?”
“Danny?” It’s Becca. “Sorry to bother you at work …”
“What’s up?”
“Well, right after the cop car you guys had staking out my parking lot pulled away, Christine took off.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Yeah. Down to Roxbury Drive. Isn’t that where this whole mess got started?”
Becca’s right.
102 Roxbury Drive is Shona Oppenheimer’s address.
62
I tell Ceepak what’s up.
“Let’s roll,” he says, practically ripping a car door off its hinges.
“Shouldn’t we be chasing down evidence against David?” I say as we blast off in reverse, slam into drive, and squeal wheels up Tuna Street.
“We are in a holding pattern until the various search warrants come down. We can spare thirty minutes to prevent Ms. Lemonopolous from doing something foolish that could haunt her for the rest of her life.”
I’m remembering what Christine told me.
How she hates when mean people push other people around. “
Has she decided to go vigilante on us and administer a little swift and righteous justice on Shona Oppenheimer?
With Ceepak at the wheel, we race down the length of the island in about twelve minutes. The smoky black Taurus’s interior no longer has that New Car scent. It smells more like a fried fan belt.
We reach Beach Crest Heights.
My high school buddy Kurt Steilberger is once again on clipboard duty inside the guardhouse.
Ceepak fishtails to a stop with the nose of our vehicle maybe one inch away from his gate. I pop out of the passenger side door, so Kurt can see something besides smoky black glass, strobing lights, and shiny black sheet metal.
“Kurt?”
“Oh. Hey, Danny. Cool car.”
“Did you just let a Volkswagen in?”
“Yeah. Couple minutes ago.”
“Open the gate!” I shout.
“What’s up?”
“Open. The. Gate!”
Ceepak gooses the gas pedal. The engine roars. The gate still doesn’t budge.
It’s like Kurt can’t find the button.
Finally, as I slip back into my seat, the gate arm creeps skyward. When Ceepak knows he has half an inch clearance, we blast off again.
“Hang left,” I say. “One-oh-two is down the block.”
We shoot up the street.
Christine’s VW is parked in the driveway outside the three-story mansion.
The front door to the house is wide open.
We’re up and out of the car just in time to hear Shona Oppenheimer screaming at Christine.
“Get the hell out of here!”
“B-b-but …”
“Leave or I’ll call the police.”
Ceepak takes that as his cue.
“Police!” he shouts.
Christine backs out the door.
She has something clutched in her left hand.
It glints in the sun.
“Christine?” I holler.
She whirls around.
I see what’s in her hand: A slim, foil-wrapped box.
Shona Oppenheimer comes out on the porch.
“Arrest this woman!” she snarls. “She’s trespassing. She should be …”
And then she recognizes me.
