Крис Грабенштайн - Free Fall

that. “So, you live here? Take care of Samuel?”

“Yes. Part-time. He needs help with his G-I tube. And seizures. I’m basically on call all night long. Sleep in the guest room closest to Samuel’s bedroom with a baby monitor. On weekends I clean the house and do the laundry. Stuff like that.”

“You still do weekdays at Mainland Medical?”

Mainland Medical is the hospital on the far side of the causeway that operates our Regional Trauma Center. It’s where the Medevac helicopter took Katie Landry when a sniper who was gunning for me shot her instead. Christine was one of Katie’s emergency room nurses.

“No,” says Christine, kind of softly. “I left Mainland a while ago.”

“Really? What happened?”

“I’d rather not talk about it, Danny. Not right now. Okay?”

“Sure,” I say. “Stay here. I need to talk to Mrs. Oppenheimer.”

“She’ll lie, Danny.”

I nod and grin. “Thanks for the tip.”

Mrs. Shona Oppenheimer and Officer Santucci are waiting for me out on one of the decks hanging off the back of the house.

“Mrs. Oppenheimer?” I say. “What happened here tonight?”

“I wanted to print out a new diet I’d found on line for my sister, but Christine was hogging the printer with paperwork related to her position with Dr. Rosen.”

“Dr. Rosen?”

“Arnold Rosen, DDS. The retired dentist who lives in that big house up in Cedar Knoll Heights. It’s still the nicest piece of shorefront property on the island. It sits atop a bit of a bluff above the dunes, so Sandy’s storm surge didn’t swamp it.”

I nod. The folks in Cedar Knoll Heights were lucky.

“Dr. Rosen is ninety-four,” Mrs. Oppenheimer continues. “Not drilling too many teeth these days.”

Santucci chuckles. Guess these two had hit if off in my absence.

“Christine works at the dentist’s home during the day, seven to seven. She works here nights.”

“So,” I say, “you two were fighting over the printer?”

“Hardly,” says Mrs. Oppenheimer. “Apparently, some paper became jammed in the feeder, and Christine started using the most foul language imaginable in front of my very impressionable young son.”

“Your son was in the room with the printer?” I say because that’s not where the son said he was.

“No. He was in his room. But Christine was shouting so loudly, I’m sure he heard every word. That’s when I calmly asked Christine to leave.”

“But as I understand it, she lives here. Takes care of Samuel.”

“That was always a temporary arrangement. I can find other pediatric home health aides. In fact, I already have.”

“I can verify that,” says Santucci. “She called the, uh …”

“AtlantiCare Agency. They’re sending someone over right away.”

“So, you’re evicting Christine?” I say.

“You bet I am,” says Mrs. Oppenheimer. “She was like a wild animal. Charged at me. Kicked me in the shin.”

She rubs her leg so I know which one got whacked.

“I grabbed her by the neck to keep her at bay. But she kept swinging and trying to kick at me. I had to exert a great deal of effort to protect myself. I wouldn’t be surprised if I bruised her neck something fierce.”

I rub my face a little. “You know, Mrs. Oppenheimer, Ms. Lemonopolous told me a very different story …”

“Oh, I’m sure she did. But don’t let those big brown eyes fool you, officer. That woman is a crazed monster.”

3

So, basically, we’re in a “she said/she said” situation.

Both sides give completely different versions of what happened and the one semi-independent witness, Mrs. Oppenheimer’s son, can only tell us that he saw the two women whaling on each other in his living room.

So I ask all three parties to write up their statements-in separate rooms. Santucci and I will head back to the house (that’s what we call the SHPD headquarters) and fill out a “review only” Case Report. In other words, there isn’t enough evidence to request an arrest warrant or to charge anybody with anything. Just enough for me to hunt and peck through the paperwork.

Fortunately, Christine agrees to leave the Oppenheimer residence.

“Permanently,” sneers Mrs. Oppenheimer before I separate the parties again.

“Do you have someplace safe you can go?” I ask Christine when her former employer is out of the room.

“Yes. I also work for Dr. Rosen. I’ll be fine.”

Santucci and I head back to the house and do our duty.

I type up our report with one finger on the computer. If I could text it with my thumbs, it would take a lot less time.

A little after eleven, I climb into my Jeep and head for home. On the way, I stop at Pizza My Heart and pick up a slice. With sausage and peppers.

I blame my heartburn on Santucci.

I’m sacked out and dreaming about driving a jumbo jet down the New Jersey Turnpike, looking for a rest stop with a parking lot big enough for a 747, when my cell starts singing Bruce Springsteen’s “Land Of Hope And Dreams.” That’s not part of the dream. That’s my ringtone for John Ceepak.

“Hey,” I mumble.

“Sorry to wake you.”

I squint. The blurry red digits tell me it’s 2:57 A.M.

“That’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

“We have a situation.”

“Is everything okay with Rita? Your mom?”

“Affirmative. However, I was having difficulty falling asleep this evening so I went into the other room to monitor my police scanner.”

Yes, some people drink a glass of warm milk or pop an Ambien. Ceepak? He chills with cop chatter.

“Do you remember Katie Landry’s emergency room nurse friend Christine Lemonopolous?” he asks.

“Sure. In fact, she was involved in an incident a couple hours ago down in Beach Crest Heights. Santucci and I took statements.”

“I heard her name come across the radio. Cam Boyce and Brad Hartman were working the night shift when nine-one-one received a complaint of a woman sleeping in her car outside a residential property in Cedar Knoll Heights. They investigated and identified the ‘vagrant’ as Christine Lemonopolous.”

“Where are you now?”

“Eighteen-eighteen Beach Lane in the Heights.”

“I’m on my way.”

You may think it odd that Ceepak would run out of his house at two-thirty in the morning to make sure a woman he barely knows is okay.

Not me.

I’ve been working with the guy for a while now. This is what he does. He jumps in and helps first, asks questions later.

Before he came to Sea Haven, Ceepak was an MP over in Iraq, where he won just about every medal the Army gives out including several for rushing in and saving the lives of guys he didn’t know-even when common sense (and my intestines) would’ve said run the other way.

Cedar Knoll Heights is, as the name suggests, a slightly elevated stretch of land overlooking the beach. That elevation? It saved the million-dollar homes lining Beach Lane in The Heights from Super Storm Sandy’s full wrath and fury.

When I reach 1818, I see Ceepak’s six-two silhouette standing ramrod straight beside a dinged-up VW bug. It’s not Ceepak’s ride. He drives a dinged-up Toyota.

The VW is parked in a crackled asphalt driveway leading up to a three-story mansion. The lawn is a tangle of sand, weeds, and sea grass.

“Thanks for joining me,” says Ceepak.

I know I must look like crap, having crawled out of the rack with chin drool and bed hair, a problem Ceepak will never know. He’s thirty-seven, been out of the Army for a few years, but still goes with the high-and-tight military cut.

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