Free Fall by Chris Grabenstein Page A

second,” I say. “You want to pay for Christine’s lawyer?”
    â€œHeavens, yes. Somebody has to! I’m sure she’s earning little more than minimum wage working for Dr. Rosen. She can’t afford a lawyer. The girl doesn’t even have a home of her own. She’s living in Arnie’s house in a guest bedroom.”
    â€œMother,” says Ceepak, “an expert criminal defense attorney such as Harvey Nussbaum can cost upwards of three hundred dollars per billable hour.”
    â€œSo? I’m rich, remember?”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œBesides, this is what Aunt Jennifer would want me to do with all that money she left me. See that sampler on the wall?”
    â€œYes,” I say. “I was admiring it earlier.”
    â€œWell, it originally belonged to Aunt Jennifer. Did you read what it says, Daniel?”
    â€œNo. I couldn’t really make out the words …”
    Mrs. Ceepak pushes back her chair.
    â€œI’ll get it, Mother,” says her son.
    â€œThank you, dear.”
    Ceepak goes to the wall and carefully lifts the framed sampler off its hook.
    â€œRead it,” says his mom.
    Ceepak’s not much on making speeches (another reason he hated being Chief of Police so much). But he does what his mother tells him to.
    He reads the needlepointed words:
    â€œ Do all the good you can ,
    By all the means you can ,
    In all the ways you can ,
    In all the places you can ,
    At all the times you can ,
    To all the people you can ,
    As long as ever you can .”
    Okay. I think I finally know how Ceepak became Ceepak. He inherited it from his Great Aunt Jennifer.
    â€œThat’s a quote from John Wesley,” says Mrs. Ceepak. “He wasn’t a Catholic but, still, it’s a good prayer.”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” says Ceepak.
    â€œSo you’ll call this Harvey Nussbaum for Christine?”
    â€œDanny 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.”
    â€œGood. Now eat your spaghetti before your meatballs get cold.”
    And, once again, Ceepak and I both do like his mother says.

13
    I F I EVER NEEDLEPOINT 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.”
    â€œDO YOU GUYS NEED A COPY?” she texts back.
    â€œCOULDN’T HURT,” I thumb to her.
    â€œOK. 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.
    â€œHey, Danny,” says Rita.
    â€œHey.”
    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.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œMy bad,” says Ceepak. He raises a brown paper sack. “Thought we’d take Christine and Dr. Rosen some fresh-baked bagels this morning.”
    â€œSounds like a plan. They’re expecting us.”
    â€œThen it’s