Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

“Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak.

“So you’ll call this Harvey Nussbaum for Christine?”

“Danny and I will pay Ms. Lemonopolous a visit tomorrow. We will advise her of your generous offer and see if that is how she would like to proceed.”

“Good. Now eat your spaghetti before your meatballs get cold.”

And, once again, Ceepak and I both do like his mother says.

If I ever needle point a sampler to hang on my wall, I think it’ll be these lyrics from Bruce Springsteen’s “The Ghost Of Tom Joad”:

Wherever there’s somebody fightin’ for a place to stand

Or a decent job or a helpin’ hand

Wherever somebody’s strugglin’ to be free

Look in their eyes Mom you’ll see me .

From the live version, of course-the one with Tom Morello from Rage Against The Machine wailing on the fuzz-box electric guitar solos; not Bruce’s original acoustic version off the Nebraska album.

So, first thing Saturday morning, I text Christine to let her know Ceepak and I want to swing by and talk with her about the TRO, maybe even lend her a “helpin’ hand.”

“DO YOU GUYS NEED A COPY?” she texts back.

“COULDN’T HURT,” I thumb to her.

“OK. C U IN A FEW.”

I swing by the Bagel Lagoon to pick up Ceepak.

He’s sitting with Rita and their dog, Barkley, at the bottom of the attached staircase that leads up to their apartment.

“Hey, Danny,” says Rita.

“Hey.”

Barkley doesn’t bark. He slumps to the ground. And farts. Barkley is old.

Ceepak fans the air in front of his face. “Sorry about that.”

“That’s okay,” I say. “All I smell are the onions and garlic coming out of the kitchen’s exhaust fan.”

Rita knuckle-punches Ceepak in his bulging arm muscle. “See? I told you not to let Barkley have a bite of your bagel.”

“My bad,” says Ceepak. He raises a brown paper sack. “Thought we’d take Christine and Dr. Rosen some fresh-baked bagels this morning.”

“Sounds like a plan. They’re expecting us.”

“Then it’s all good.”

Ceepak kisses Rita.

“This won’t take too long,” he says when they finally break.

“Hurry home.”

“Roger that.”

And they kiss again. I look up and pretend like I’m fascinated by the Bagel Lagoon’s gutter system or something. Ceepak and Rita? They don’t need a Tunnel of Love. They smooch whenever and wherever they feel like smooching.

Even if Barkley cuts the cheese.

Which, of course, he does.

Onions and garlic, again.

With a hint of pumpernickel.

On the ride over to Dr. Rosen’s house, Ceepak drifts into his super-serious analytical mode.

“You say Mrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine when you and Santucci entered her home?”

“That’s what it looked like to me. The ligature bruises on Christine’s neck were so bad, I made a photographic record for evidence-in case we ever needed it.”

“Good crime-scene technique, Danny.”

“Hey, don’t forget, I was trained by the best.”

Ceepak, of course, totally ignores the compliment.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine,” he muses, “yet she is the one requesting the restraining order? Curious.”

“She probably wants to beat Christine to the punch; stop Christine from requesting a restraining order against her .”

“It’s a possibility, Danny.”

I can tell that this case, if we can call it that, intrigues him. Ceepak’s a lot like Sherlock Holmes. He’s not happy unless his big brain is busy noodling out a solution to a puzzling problem.

A very pretty African-American woman, about the same age as Christine, greets us at the door.

She’s wearing royal blue nurse’s scrubs and toting a plastic pill organizer; a big one with 28 compartments. I’m guessing Dr. Rosen’s on a lot of medications-maybe one for every year of his life.

“Are you Danny?” she asks.

“That’s right. And this is my partner, John Ceepak.”

“I’m Monae Dunn,” she says with a smile. She has a good one. Her long, straight hair is pulled back with a headband the same bright blue as the rest of her uniform.

“Is Christine here?” asks Ceepak. Probably because he isn’t busy admiring Monae’s body like some people I know.

“No. She ran over to Kinko’s, so I’m covering. Trying to get Dr. Rosen’s medicines organized. You ever know anybody to need so many pills? I bet this blue one is to prevent him from having side effects from this green one.” She sees Ceepak’s brown paper bag. “Did you boys bring bagels?”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “Fresh-baked.”

“Uhm-hmm,” she says knowingly. “Well don’t just stand there letting them go all cold. Come on in. Arnie’s on the phone with his son Michael. Michael lives in Hollywood. He’s a gay.”

Ceepak and I just nod.

“They’re on speakerphone because Arnie refuses to put in his hearing aids when he knows company is coming.”

We follow Ms. Dunn into the house, which looks like it hasn’t been redecorated since 1960-something. Except for the walls. Those looks like an art museum dedicated to a single subject: the life and times of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy with a fantastic smile. There must be over two dozen framed photographs of the same shaggy-haired kid. Blowing out birthday candles. Playing baseball. Riding a BMX bike. At Disney World. Sea World. The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. LEGOLAND.

I have a feeling the blonde boy is Dr. Rosen’s grandson, even though he’s so good-looking that he could also be the kid who came with the picture frames.

We move into what I’m guessing used to be the dining room. Now there is a hospital bed set up where the table used to be-a look that doesn’t really fit in with the whole New England seaside cottage style of the rest of the house. I notice a couple Dentist figurines set up on a sideboard. Most have to do with yanking teeth out of mouths with pliers.

Dr. Rosen is sitting in a wheelchair near the hospital bed and talking into a cordless phone.

“Arnie?” blurts Monae. “Visitors. Christine’s police officer friends.” She reaches for Ceepak’s bagel bag. “Let me put those in the kitchen …”

She leaves and Dr. Rosen raises a hand to let us know he’ll be with us shortly.

The former dentist looks a little weary and shrunken as he slumps forward in his wheelchair. He’s wearing a navy blue Adidas jogging suit and Velcroed running shoes. His hair is white and neatly combed to the side. His upper lip sports a trim and very dignified mustache. There is an oxygen tank strapped into a hand trolley next to his wheelchair. Clear plastic tubing runs from the canister’s regulator valve up to a thin nosepiece jammed up into his nostrils.

“Michael?” Dr. Rosen says to the phone. “I have visitors. Exalted members of the local constabulary.”

He shoots us a wink. And I can tell, the guy might be ninety-four, but he’s still sharp, with it, and kind of funny.

“Okay, Dad,” says the voice on the speakerphone. “But seriously, call the guys at Best Buy. They’ll come over and install it for you.”

My eyes drift over to an adjoining room where I see the unopened cardboard carton for a Panasonic TC-P55ST50-their 3-D, high-def TV with a 55-inch-wide plasma screen. I also see unopened Amazon and Barnes and Noble boxes stacked on the couch. And on the floor.

“It’s a very generous gift, Michael,” says Dr. Rosen. “But …”

“No buts. I gave Best Buy my credit card number. They’ll hook up the satellite dish, too.”

Okay. Now I’m drooling like Homer Simpson in a doughnut factory.

“But,” says son Michael on the speakerphone, “the guys from Best Buy can’t do your exercises for you. Did Monae set up the recumbent bike?”