Free Fall

57

Michael agrees to return to the Sea Spray hotel.

“I can’t wait to see which one of them slipped Daddy the pill. Judith or David. Maybe both!”

“You realize, of course,” says Ceepak, “that you are partially responsible for driving them to do what they did?”

“And you know what, Detective Ceepak? I don’t care. I’d do it again. Gladly. I finally realized that my father never really loved me. That no matter how many gifts I showered on him, how much money I made, how many awards and honors I won, I’d never be anything to him but a big, embarrassing mistake. So I’m glad one of those two greedy ingrates finally killed him. Saved me the trouble.”

When we’re back in Ceepak’s car, I ask how we’re going to figure out which of the two Rosens killed their father or father-in-law.

“They may have worked together,” says Ceepak. “Co-conspirators. However, our first step is identifying which of them procured the cyanide.”

Ceepak’s still counting on Botzong’s cyanide shipping information to fill in a bunch of blanks.

Personally, my money is on Judith in the jewelry shop with the cyanide jug.

And a funnel. She’d need it to pour the liquid into the gel caps.

But that would probably dissolve the capsules.

Okay, I’m counting on Botzong, too.

We head back to Sea Haven.

Ceepak contacts Sal Santucci-my partner the night Christine and Shona had their wrestling match at the southern tip of the island-who is stationed outside David and Judith’s home.

“Kindly go upstairs and inform Mrs. Rosen that we are coming over to ask her a few questions.”

We arrive at 315-B Tuna Street.

Sal Santucci and his partner, Cath Hoffner, have parked their cruiser in the only shady spot on the street. Fortunately, it’s right in front of the house where David and Judith rent the upstairs apartment.

Ceepak and I make our way around the side of the building and climb up the steep back steps to David and Judith’s deck.

It takes three knuckle raps on the door before somebody opens it.

“Hi.” It’s Little Arnie. Franz Gruber’s kid.

“Is your mother home?” asks Ceepak.

“I guess.”

“May we speak with her?”

“I guess.” He nudges his head toward the living room. “She’s in there.”

His mother is seated on the sofa, sipping a glass of white wine. It’s only a little after noon but I suppose it’s five o’clock somewhere-as Ceepak’s dad likes to say whenever he pops a brewski for breakfast.

We head toward the sofa. Little Arnie heads for his bedroom to close the door and daydream about shooting the curl and hanging ten if, you know, he soaked up any of Gruber’s “surfing genes” in that petri dish.

“Why on earth do you two need to talk to me?”

Judith is not even pretending to smile today.

“And how dare you send those two police officers up here to harass me? Why haven’t you people arrested Christine Lemonopolous?”

“Well, for one thing,” I say, “we’re pretty sure Ms. Lemonopolous didn’t do anything to be arrested for.”

“But you put me under house arrest?”

“We also continue to monitor Ms. Lemonopolous’s whereabouts,” says Ceepak,

“You should. She poisoned my father-in-law. She attacked my sister. She killed Mauna Faye Crabtree and all those other old people she used to work for …”

Ceepak cuts her off. “No, Mrs. Rosen, she did none of those things. We know about Franz Gruber.”

“Who?”

“Sperm donor one-four-three, whose semen you selected when you could not conceive a child utilizing your husband’s sperm.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“We just came from Avondale. The Garden State Reproductive Science Center.”

“That’s where you went for fertility treatments,” I add. “Right?”

“So? We were having trouble conceiving in the traditional manner. And both David and I desperately wanted children.”

Yeah, I’m thinking. So they could give Arnold Rosen a grandson and cash in on his millions.

“Highly ranked staff at the Reproductive Science Center,” says Ceepak, “told us how you ended up choosing a blonde, athletic, and intelligent sperm donor when your husband’s sperm repeatedly failed to fertilize your harvested eggs.”

“What? Who told you these lies?”

“The same people who told Michael. Michael then told David what he had uncovered on Friday night, after that acrimonious dinner at The Trattoria restaurant.”

“But,” I say, “Michael didn’t have his big dramatic finish until today when Franz Gruber came to the clinic and freely admitted to being your son’s father.”

Judith laughs. “For a multimillionaire, Michael can be such a baby. Trying to smear David and me like this? Attempting to turn his only nephew into an illegitimate bastard? Why can’t he just get over the fact that, as a gay, he will never, ever be able to call himself a real father, no matter how many black babies he adopts?”

Ceepak shifts gears.

“Mrs. Rosen, we know you have spent a good deal of time with your friend Cele Deemer in her jewelry store.”

“So?”

“Ms. Deemer uses cyanide.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“It’s right there on the shelf in her workshop,” I say.

“Look, detectives, how many times do I have to say this? Christine Lemonopolous did it. She’s the one who gave my father-in-law the poison. I told David she was trouble. That his father needed to fire her.”

“Because she wouldn’t do as you requested and spy on Dr. Rosen?” says Ceepak.

“For the last time, detective, we did not ask Christine to spy on Dad. We asked her to keep an eye on David’s father. There’s a difference. A big difference. But David is such a weakling. He couldn’t persuade his father to fire Christine, no matter how many times I told him he had to do it. Then, Christine attacks my sister? I tell David, ‘See? The girl is violent! For your father’s safety, we need to get rid or her!’ David finally grows a pair and says something to his father, but his father tells him to mind his own business.”

Judith shakes her head in disgust, sloshes a little more Pinot Grigio into her glass.

“Poor Arnold Rosen,” she continues after a bracing gulp of vino. “One son is a bona fide homosexual, the other is such a wimp he doesn’t know how to be a man. I have to hold his hand, tell him what to do …”

I guess Little Arnie has heard enough.

He comes marching into the living room.

“Stop saying all that bull crap about Dad.”

“Go to your room, young man.”

“No. I heard what you said. Dad isn’t a wimp.”

“Go. To. Your. Room.” Judith slams down her wine.

Little Arnie flinches. Like he knows what comes next: a slap or a punch or a flying glass.

“Do we need to remove your son?” says Ceepak.

“What?” Judith acts like she’s shocked.

“If you give us further reason to suspect that child abuse is taking place in this home …”

“Child abuse? Arnold is my son. I will discipline him as I see fit.”

“No, ma’am. There are limits. Even to parental authority.”

“I’m okay,” says Little Arnie. “Really. I just don’t like her trash-talking Dad.”

Judith shakes her head. “You see what I have to deal with? I’m the only adult in the whole house …”

Ceepak gives me a look. “Danny?”

We’ve been together long enough for me to read his mind. He wants me to spend a little time with Arnie. Make sure the kid is truly okay; that the domestic violence situation is under control.

“Come on, Arnie.” I nod my head toward the door to his bedroom. “Let’s let these two finish up their talk. You got an X-Box?”

“PS3.”

“Cool.”

He leads the way. I follow.