Chris Grabenstein - Free Fall

Santucci and his partner Cath Hoffner see us pull into the driveway behind David’s vehicle. The two uniforms emerge from their patrol car, most likely to find out what’s up. As David climbs out of his Subaru, he sees the two officers out in the street, adjusting their gun belts.

“Why have those two police officers been parked there all day?” he asks.

“It’s part of our new neighborhood watch program,” I crack. “Every day, we pick one house in a neighborhood and watch it. Today is your lucky day.”

“What? You think I’m some kind of flight risk?”

“Are you?” asks Ceepak.

“Of course not. I didn’t do anything, why would I run away?”

“Look,” I say. “We know Michael and your wife backed you into a corner. That Michael told you …”

He ignores me. Turns to Ceepak. “Am I under arrest?”

“No, sir. Not yet.”

“Then get off of my property.”

“Technically, sir, this is not your property. You are a renter and therefore …”

“Come back when you have an arrest warrant.”

“Yes, sir. We will. We’ll also come back when we have a search warrant.”

“You’re going to search my home, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Several times,” I add. “If we have to.”

David storms around the side of the house and makes his way to that back staircase.

Ceepak waits until he hears David’s footfalls climbing the steps. Then we stroll into the street to have a word with Santucci and Hoffner.

“Sal?” says Ceepak.

“Sir?”

“We have reason to believe that Mr. David Rosen murdered his father.”

“I thought it was the wife,” says Cath Hoffner, his partner. “She’s such a witch, you know?”

I nod. Surprisingly, so does Ceepak.

“Currently,” he adds, “the husband, David Rosen is our primary suspect in what might have been a conspiracy to commit murder. However, we need to gather more evidence. Right now, everything we have is solid but highly circumstantial. We need to find a more direct link.”

“Don’t worry,” says Santucci. “While you guys are digging up your direct links and whatnot, Hoffner and me won’t let the guy out of our sight.”

“Appreciate it. We’re working up a twenty-four/seven duty detail that should have your relief out here by nineteen hundred hours.”

“Cool. You think the Chief could maybe send somebody out with sandwiches for us so we don’t have to desert our post? Maybe a couple cold drinks?”

“We’ll make it happen,” says Ceepak.

I’m about to reach for my radio and put in the food and drink request when my cell phone starts chirping.

Ceepak nods his permission for me to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Danny?” It’s Becca. “Sorry to bother you at work …”

“What’s up?”

“Well, right after the cop car you guys had staking out my parking lot pulled away, Christine took off.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“Yeah. Down to Roxbury Drive. Isn’t that where this whole mess got started?”

Becca’s right.

102 Roxbury Drive is Shona Oppenheimer’s address.

I tell Ceepak what’s up.

“Let’s roll,” he says, practically ripping a car door off its hinges.

“Shouldn’t we be chasing down evidence against David?” I say as we blast off in reverse, slam into drive, and squeal wheels up Tuna Street.

“We are in a holding pattern until the various search warrants come down. We can spare thirty minutes to prevent Ms. Lemonopolous from doing something foolish that could haunt her for the rest of her life.”

I’m remembering what Christine told me.

How she hates when mean people push other people around. “ They shouldn’t get away with the horrible stuff they do. Someone has to stop them .”

Has she decided to go vigilante on us and administer a little swift and righteous justice on Shona Oppenheimer?

With Ceepak at the wheel, we race down the length of the island in about twelve minutes. The smoky black Taurus’s interior no longer has that New Car scent. It smells more like a fried fan belt.

We reach Beach Crest Heights.

My high school buddy Kurt Steilberger is once again on clipboard duty inside the guardhouse.

Ceepak fishtails to a stop with the nose of our vehicle maybe one inch away from his gate. I pop out of the passenger side door, so Kurt can see something besides smoky black glass, strobing lights, and shiny black sheet metal.

“Kurt?”

“Oh. Hey, Danny. Cool car.”

“Did you just let a Volkswagen in?”

“Yeah. Couple minutes ago.”

“Open the gate!” I shout.

“What’s up?”

“Open. The. Gate!”

Ceepak gooses the gas pedal. The engine roars. The gate still doesn’t budge.

It’s like Kurt can’t find the button.

Finally, as I slip back into my seat, the gate arm creeps skyward. When Ceepak knows he has half an inch clearance, we blast off again.

“Hang left,” I say. “One-oh-two is down the block.”

We shoot up the street.

Christine’s VW is parked in the driveway outside the three-story mansion.

The front door to the house is wide open.

We’re up and out of the car just in time to hear Shona Oppenheimer screaming at Christine.

“Get the hell out of here!”

“B-b-but …”

“Leave or I’ll call the police.”

Ceepak takes that as his cue.

“Police!” he shouts.

Christine backs out the door.

She has something clutched in her left hand.

It glints in the sun.

“Christine?” I holler.

She whirls around.

I see what’s in her hand: A slim, foil-wrapped box.

Shona Oppenheimer comes out on the porch.

“Arrest this woman!” she snarls. “She’s trespassing. She should be …”

And then she recognizes me.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Ma’am?” says Ceepak, striding up the walkway to the front steps. “What seems to be the problem?”

Shona waggles a disgusted hand at Christine. “This one. She has the nerve to invade my privacy …”

“It’s Samuel’s birthday,” says Christine.

“So?” says Shona.

“I didn’t want him to think I’d forgotten.”

“Well, we’d all rather you did. You are not welcome here, Christine. And if you keep harassing me and my family, I will have another Restraining Order issued against you and this time it’ll stick!”

Christine tries to hand the shiny package to Shona. “Will you at least give this to Samuel?”

“Hell, no. It’s probably poison. Like the stuff you gave to Arnold Rosen.”

“Actually,” says Ceepak, climbing up the steps to put his big body between Shona and Christine, “we currently suspect that your brother-in-law, David, was the one who poisoned Dr. Rosen.”

“I know. Judith called me. Are all the cops in this town as crazy as you two?”

“No,” I say, hiking up the steps to stand beside Ceepak. “We’re special.”

I take Christine by the elbow and give her a police escort down to her parked vehicle.

“You can drop your gift off with Kurt in the guardhouse,” I whisper. “He’ll make sure it gets delivered.”

“It’s a game Samuel wanted. For his X-box.”

“Awesome.”

I hold open the door to Christine’s ride.

“David killed his father?” she says after she slides in behind the wheel.

“Yeah. We think so.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That it is.”

While the two of us take a moment to ponder the monstrosity of what David Rosen did, up on the porch, I can hear poor Ceepak asking Shona Oppenheimer if she “wants to press trespassing charges.”

“I’m thinking about it!”

“Then,” Ceepak says, “you should know, since your property is not marked, fenced in, or enclosed and I observe no notice against trespassing being otherwise given …”