Free Fall

37

315-B Tuna street, David and Judith Rosen’s home, is actually the upstairs apartment in a classic two-story, vinyl-sided beach house.

We climb up the back steps to an outdoor deck. Ceepak raps his knuckles on the regular door in the center, not the sliding glass patio doors down near the charcoal grill; those take you into a dining room with a card table covered with a red-white-and-blue paper tablecloth from the Party Store. While we wait, I study the roofline. I have a feeling the Rosens’ bedroom ceilings are pretty steep-the way they would be if you lived in an attic.

David Rosen opens the door. He’s still wearing the white shirt and suit pants he wore to the funeral, but he’s taken off his tie, unbuttoned his top button, and untucked his shirttails. He’s also gripping a twelve-ounce can of Milwaukee’s Best Premium beer-always the cheapest brand in every package store.

“Detective Ceepak. Boyle. Come on in.”

He leads us into the kitchenette of his tiny home. I notice a guitar propped up in a corner.

“Again,” says Ceepak, “condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you. And thank you for attending the services. I wanted to play my guitar at the funeral. Maybe do my slow hand version of ‘Stairway To Heaven.’ Judith wouldn’t let me. Hey, who was that little old lady who came with you?”

“My mother. She knew your father from the Sea Haven Senior Center. Thought very highly of him.”

“Huh. Small world.”

David yanks open the refrigerator. Looks around for something to eat. Doesn’t find anything to his liking. Closes the door.

“Hey, do you or your mom know a guy named Joseph Ceepak? ‘Ceepak’ is such an unusual name, it kind of stuck with me.”

“He is my father.”

“Really?” David smiles and nods like a kid who just guessed what was inside his birthday surprise bag. “Okay. I thought there might be a connection. He’s working for us. Sinclair Enterprises.”

“So I have heard.”

“I head up the HR Department. That’s Human Resources. Anyway, the other day, Friday I think, we get some mail, a Guns And Ammo magazine or something, that’s been forwarded to Joseph Ceepak, c/o Sinclair Enterprises, 1500 Ocean Avenue, Sea Haven, New Jersey. That’s our address …”

“David?” this from Judith out in the living room. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”

“Just a second,” says David, eager to finish his story. “Every year, it’s the same thing. We hire so many seasonal employees, I end up playing mailman from early June to just after Labor Day.”

“Fascinating,” says Ceepak even though David is boring me to death.

“So, is your dad still at the Smugglers Cove Motel, or has he moved in with you and your mom?”

Now Judith, dressed in her black funeral dress, clutching a clear plastic cup filled with white wine, comes into the kitchen.

“David? Why are you bringing this up, now?”

“I still have Mr. Ceepak’s magazine. I’d like to make sure I forward it to the right location …”

Judith rolls her piggy eyes. “Honestly, David. You can be such a child.”

And she walks away.

“It’s my job, Jude. Okay? My job?”

“Right,” she snaps back. “You’re the head of human resources for the mayor’s far-flung empire of tourist traps. That’s why he pays you soooo much money …”

“We’ve been number one in revenues on the island, four years running.”

Judith ignores her husband as we all follow her into the living room.

“Do we have any wine that’s not in a box?” Judith says to the walls. “This tastes like crap.”

“No,” counters David, “it tastes like crap we can afford.”

“I brought some Pinot Grigio,” says Michael, sort of sprawled on the couch. I think he’s half-tanked. “It’s in the fridge.”

Judith returns to the kitchen.

“Have you gentlemen come to sit shiva with us?” asks Michael. “Because you’re in luck! My loving partner Andrew just FedExed us a fabulous Kosher sympathy basket.” He gestures to a wicker basket overflowing with shiny goodies: snack packages, bags of dried fruit, shrink-wrapped baked goods. “There’s apple cake, rugelach, Brazilian cashews, hummus, pretzel thins …”

“Actually,” says Ceepak, “we have some news.”

“About what?” says Judith, coming back from the kitchen with a fresh cup of white wine and the bottle she poured it from. “Your father’s magazine subscriptions?”

“Oh, leave my big brother alone,” says Michael with flick of his wrist and, I swear, a snarky little giggle. “Cease fire. At least for today. The poor boy just buried his daddy.”

Why do I think there’s a half-empty pitcher of cosmopolitans in that refrigerator, too?

“What’s the big news, Detective Ceepak?” asks Judith, her snout twitching between her rubbery, blubbery cheeks.

“Is Ceepak a Polish name?” asks David, taking a big swig of bargain basement beer. I notice he’s wearing a Bart Simpson wrist-watch. Not your typical funeral accessory.

“David?” Michael says it this time. “Honestly. Keep it up, and I’m calling off my truce.”

“What? I’m just interested. ‘Ceepak’ isn’t a name you hear all that often …”

Man, this “sitting shiva” is turning out to be worse than some booze-soaked Irish wakes I’ve been to.

Ceepak moves to the center of the room.

Everyone stops drinking and/or giggling when he does.

They usually do.

“We heard from Dr. Rebecca Kurth, the County Medical Examiner.”

“You’re kidding me,” says David, setting his beer can down on a nearby table.

“Coaster,” says Judith.

David finds one. “You guys really went ahead and wasted our taxpayer dollars doing an autopsy on a ninety-four-year-old man?”

“Unbelievable,” mutters his wife.

“This is why Dad’s property taxes are through the roof.”

“When did you become so right-wing, David?” snips Michael.

“When he realized you liberals were bankrupting this country’s future,” says Judith.

“Your father,” says Ceepak, cutting off the family feud, “was, as we feared, poisoned.”

“What?” says David. “No way. That’s impossible.”

“To the contrary. Dr. Kurth found the evidence to be persuasive and conclusive. Someone slipped a cyanide capsule into your father’s medicines.”

“Christine,” mutters Judith. “I knew it. I told you.”

She glares at me. Hard.

“I hope you’re happy, Officer Boyle. Seems your hot little girlfriend is also a cold-blooded murderer.”