Free Fall by Chris Grabenstein Page B

all good.”
    Ceepak kisses Rita.
    â€œThis won’t take too long,” he says when they finally break.
    â€œHurry home.”
    â€œRoger 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.
    â€œYou say Mrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine when you and Santucci entered her home?”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œGood crime-scene technique, Danny.”
    â€œHey, don’t forget, I was trained by the best.”
    Ceepak, of course, totally ignores the compliment.
    â€œMrs. Oppenheimer was strangling Christine,” he muses, “yet she is the one requesting the restraining order? Curious.”
    â€œShe probably wants to beat Christine to the punch; stop Christine from requesting a restraining order against her .”
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œAre you Danny?” she asks.
    â€œThat’s right. And this is my partner, John Ceepak.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œIs Christine here?” asks Ceepak. Probably because he isn’t busy admiring Monae’s body like some people I know.
    â€œNo. 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?”
    â€œYes, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “Fresh-baked.”
    â€œUhm-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.
    â€œThey’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