Free Fall

52

It’s nearly eight when we climb down the back staircase from David and Judith Rosen’s apartment.

Judith told us she would call her husband. “Let him know you boys are on your way.”

“She’s going to coach him,” I say to Ceepak as we make our way around the side of the two-story building to the gravel-and-seashell driveway where the super-charged Ceepakmobile is parked.

“Such would be my supposition as well, Danny. However, at this juncture, there is little we can do to prevent spousal contact.”

Judging from his speech pattern (which is beginning to mimic Data’s, the emotionless cyborg from “Star Trek The Next Generation”) and the fact that he said “spousal contact” (in a way that sounded a lot like “conjugal visit”), I believe Ceepak is shifting into his robotic mode because, inside his big analytical brain, the chipmunks are chugging along at warp speed on his mental treadmills.

He’s starting to figure something out.

“We’ll drive down to Sinclair Enterprises,” he says. “Interview David.”

“Have we heard anything from Bill Botzong about when his team will be done with their cyanide data mining?” I ask.

“Bill sent me a text. His forensics team has all the raw data and will work through the night to analyze the information to see if they can extract any interesting patterns or clusters that might implicate one or more of our suspects.”

We cruise down Ocean Avenue.

Things are pretty quiet. There’s some ambling life in the misty pools of light flooding the miniature golf courses. The summer’s first lines of giddy kids and smiling parents have formed outside Custard’s Last Stand and the Scoop Sloop. A few Ocean Avenue restaurants look like they’re doing a brisk dinner business.

But most of the shops are closed up for the night.

Including “The Gold Coast: A Handcrafted amp; Unique Adornment Shoppe” at 1510 Ocean Avenue-conveniently located just five doors down from the worldwide headquarters of Sinclair Enterprises at 1500.

Why do I think Bill Botzong’s MCU data miners are going to strike cyanide gold on Ocean Avenue?

The offices of Sinclair Enterprises look like one of those boiler rooms where telemarketers work; calling people at dinner time.

I think the ground-level space used to be a clothing store. Maybe a hair salon. The walls are painted the same color as guacamole. Bright green poles, spaced at intervals in tidy rows, hold up the drop-panel ceiling. A maze of gray cubicles fills most of the wide-open, industrial-strength-carpeted floor.

A few busy beavers are still clacking on computer keyboards or barking orders into phones for “ten two-pound bags of malted milk powder” and “seven sleeves of two hundred-count six-ounce snow cone cups” while saying, “no, we don’t need any more multicolored spoon straws.”

The only decoration on the bare walls (where you can still see the outlines of the shelving units that used to be mounted there) are a few push-pinned posters for Sinclair Enterprises brand new thrill ride, The StratosFEAR; one or two “RE-ELECT MAYOR SINCLAIR: LEADING THE WAY TO ANOTHER SUNNY, FUNDERFUL DAY” posters; and a cartoon map of tourist attractions with gold stars slapped on top of the various outlets of the Sinclair Empire: Cap’n Scrubby’s Car Wash, The Scoop Sloop, Do Me A Flavor, The Seashellerie, Sand Buggy Bumper Cars, and on and on.

The mayor must own thirty different properties up and down the island.

David Rosen is seated at a desk behind see-through cubicle walls. It looks like he’s inside a ten-by-ten shower stall.

David is hunched over in his chair, rubbing the top of his bald head. A telephone is jammed tight against his ear.

“Yes, dear. Yes. Of course. Yes, dear.”

We move into the open space that serves as David’s door. Ceepak raps his knuckles on the closest wall.

David whips around in his swivel seat. Looks like a startled ferret.

“They’re here. I know. Okay. I will. Yes. I know. Okay. Right.”

He keeps inching closer to his desk where the phone cradle waits to put him out of his misery. I notice he has a Bart Simpson desk clock, too.

“Judy? Okay. Yes. I know.”

And, finally, he hangs up.

“My wife,” he says with a nervous chuckle. “Wants me to pick up a few things on the way home.”

“At this hour?” I’m thinking but then I remember: most of the booze stores stay open till midnight.

“Are you free to talk?” asks Ceepak.

“Sure,” says David, gesturing at the two chairs facing his desk. “Take a seat.”

“Hey, Dave?”

It’s that guy Bob. The manager from Sinclair’s rides on the pier. He grabs hold of a panel and pokes his head into the cubicle.

“Hey, Bob.”

“Heard about your dad. How you holding up?”

“I’m hanging in.”

“Good. You need anything …”

“Thanks.”

“Just wanted to pop in and say major kudos on Shaun McKinnon. He is awesome. Fantastic find, buddy. We should hire all our ride operators from Ohio.” He makes a finger pistol and shoots it at Ceepak. “This McKinnon is almost as good as your dad.”

Ceepak does not say a word.

“Oh-kay. Gotta run,” says Bob. Fortunately, he leaves.

“Can I ask you a quick favor, Detective?” says David. “Could you have a word with your mother? Judith tells me she heard from a friend that a Mrs. Adele Ceepak is bankrolling Christine, again. Advancing her money to pay her legal bills?”

“And why is that a problem?”

“Because, hello? She murdered my father.”

“Do you have proof to substantiate your claim?”

“Christine Lemonopolous gave my dad the fatal pill. What more proof do you need?”

“Something to establish malice aforethought. Evidence that she provided your father his morning medications with criminal intent.”

“Anybody could have placed that poisoned pill into your dad’s meds organizer,” I explain.

“Really?” David says sarcastically. “Like who?”

“Ms. Dunn, the night nurse,” says Ceepak. “Joy Kochman, the home health aide who was dismissed to make room for Christine Lemonopolous. She visited your father last week. Your brother Michael is a suspect. So is your wife, Judith.”

Ceepak pauses.

“And you.”