Free Fall

28

We tell Mrs. Ceepak about her husband’s presence on the island then try to persuade her to install a burglar alarm (and maybe a machine-gun nest up on the roof).

She thinks a home security system would be a “silly waste of money. That’s why we have the nice young guards in the gatehouse.”

So Ceepak and I decide we’ll try, once more, to persuade his skeevy dad to leave the poor woman (who just happens to be filthy rich) alone.

We have to wait through ten drops of the StratosFEAR ride till Mr. Ceepak gets his 3 P.M. break.

“Roses have always been her favorite,” says Mr. Ceepak. “I used to bring her a single rose every time I took her out on a date.”

Why do I think the young Joe Ceepak used to pluck those roses off a neighbor’s bush ten seconds before knocking on Adele’s front door?

The three of us are squeezed inside a cramped, glassed-in building. The free fall ride’s control shack. Outside, the walls are painted sky blue with wispy clouds. There’s even a sign labeling this tiny booth “Mission Control.”

Inside, the walls are sheets of bare plywood and two-by-fours. Windows ring the upper third of the hexagonical hut, turning it into a hothouse reeking of vomit.

“Sorry about the stench, boys,” says Mr. Ceepak, who sits on a stool near a metal box of chunky control buttons and knobs. A mop handle leans against the wall. Its stringy head is soaking in a murky bucket near Joe Ceepak’s feet.

“Couple college kids got tanked on beer before riding the ride. Blew chunks like puke geysers when they landed. Vomit splattered everywhere. I had Ben mop it up before sending him over to Adele’s. Good kid, that Ben. Hard worker. Type of boy that would make any father proud.”

Mr. Ceepak takes a swig from a quart jug of warm orange juice. I might be the next to hurl.

“You know, Johnny, I would’ve delivered those flowers myself but, like you told Bob and the guys at Sinclair Enterprises, this ride can only stay open if there’s a factory-trained and certified operator running things in the control booth. For now, that’s me. They got me working twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week. Not that I mind. The pay is decent. The overtime is even better. And son, not that you care-I need the cash.”

“Sir,” says Ceepak, “I will only say this one more time: stay away from my mother and her money.”

“Her money? Who said anything about her money?”

“I know why you are here.”

“Well, you should. From what Bob tells me, you’re the one who told them they had to hire me. And for that, I am eternally grateful …”

“For the record,” says Ceepak, “I never instructed Sinclair Enterprises to specifically hire you.”

“Geeze, Johnny. Why do you always have to be such a hard case? Maybe you should talk to a cop shrink. Work on your anger-management issues. Does this town seriously have some kind of law against people surprising their wives with flowers?”

“She is not your wife.”

“Says who?”

“The State of Ohio and an ecclesial tribunal of the Catholic Church, which granted her an annulment.”

“In defiance of God’s holy word? No church can do that, son. Even if they have a Pope.”

“Sorry, sir. They did.”

“‘I hate divorce, says the Lord God of Israel.’ Malachi. Two-sixteen. That’s from the Bible.”

“Stay away from her. Or you will be arrested.”

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.”