Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

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.”

David laughs. “Me? That’s rich.”

Ceepak ignores him and concentrates on the scrawled questions inside his spiral notebook. “A few years ago, you purchased your wife a handcrafted gold ring, is that correct?”

“You mean that heart thing? Yeah. That was Dad’s idea. For Valentine’s Day. He gave me a gift certificate worth five thousand bucks from this boutique up the block called The Gold Coast. He’d heard Judith say how much she liked the rings in that shop. It’s all one-of-a-kind stuff. Expensive. Dad even told me what to have inscribed inside.”

“And what was that?”

“Something like ‘Be mine, Valentine.’ I remember it rhymed.”

“Did your father often give you romantic advice?” asks Ceepak.

David bristles.

“Does this line of questioning have anything to do with your murder investigation, Detective?”

“It might,” I say, so Ceepak doesn’t have to break the stare-down he’s got going on with David.

“So,” I continue, “you guys made out pretty good with your dad’s will?”

“Yeah,” says David, smiling like the kid who got the biggest scoop of ice cream on his slice of Thanksgiving pie. “Of course, we could’ve done better if dad hadn’t done that silly ‘mitzvah’ for those two lazy caregivers, Christine and Monae.”

“Lazy?” says Ceepak.

“Come on. How hard can that job be? You push a guy around in a wheelchair. You open a can and make him soup. You change his poopy diaper. For this you should be paid fifteen dollars an hour? I’ve got guys working at our car washes for less than minimum wage. They’re happy just to have the work and to be in America. I should’ve hired one of their wives or girlfriends to take care of dad.”

“Are you surprised that your father didn’t leave anything to your younger brother?”

“No. Michael hasn’t lived here for years. He hasn’t had to deal with Dad on a daily basis like I have. We earned that money, detective. We earned it.”

Someone new knocks on David’s cubicle wall.

It’s Shawn Reilly Simmons. Yes, we’ve dated. Back when she was just Shawn Reilly. Guess she works for Mayor Sinclair now, too. She’s carrying a stack of mail.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Hey.”

“What’s up, Shawn?” says David, sitting up in his chair. Smiling. He even smooths out his goatee.

“Some mail landed on my desk for one of your new hires. Guy named Shaun McKinnon?”

“New StratosFEAR operator. Came down from Ohio.” He motions for Shawn to hand him the rubber-banded bundle. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks. Good seeing you again, Danny.”

And she bops out of the office.

Ceepak’s eyes follow her.

He has that thoughtful look on his face again but doesn’t say a word.

For a couple seconds, the only sound in the cubicle is the BOINK-BOINK of David playing mail-stack-guitar with that taut rubber band. It could be “Country Roads, Take Me Home.”

His eyes dart down to his phone like he’s waiting for Judith to call and ream him out again.

“Well,” he finally says. “Guess you two have heard about the big fight Michael and I had Friday night?”

Okay. David is acting extremely strange. Like a nervous guy at a party trying to make small talk with a girl he knows is too pretty to listen to him but he has her cornered behind the couch.

“See, Dad took us both to The Trattoria and Michael made his big announcement about how he and his ‘partner’ Andrew had just adopted an African-American baby. I guess in California gay people can do that sort of thing.”

“New Jersey also encourages gay couples to adopt,” says Ceepak.

“Really? Huh. That’s weird. Anyway, I told Michael his adopted son wasn’t really a ‘Rosen.’ Dad agreed. He told Michael he should send the baby back to wherever he bought it because his so-called son Kyle would never be a legitimate grandson like Little Arnie. In fact …” Here David snickers. “Dad said, ‘given the lifestyle choices you have made, Michael, you will never, ever be capable of having a true family.’”

“So why was David staring at his phone like that?” I ask Ceepak when we hit the sidewalk outside 1500 Ocean Avenue. “Was he expecting Judith to call again?”

“My hunch is, in the conversation that ended as we arrived, David’s wife had instructed him to be sure to mention something very specific to us. In fact, I suspect Judith told him exactly what to say and how to say it.”

“That bit about the fight at the restaurant?”

“It came out rather stilted, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yeah. Almost like he was reading a script.”

“Exactly. Judith wanted us to know about that altercation because her version gives her brother-in-law a motive for murder.”