Free Fall Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œPermanently,” sneers Mrs. Oppenheimer before I separate the parties again.
    â€œDo you have someplace safe you can go?” I ask Christine when her former employer is out of the room.
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œHey,” I mumble.
    â€œSorry to wake you.”
    I squint. The blurry red digits tell me it’s 2:57 A . M .
    â€œThat’s okay. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”
    â€œWe have a situation.”
    â€œIs everything okay with Rita? Your mom?”
    â€œAffirmative. 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.
    â€œDo you remember Katie Landry’s emergency room nurse friend Christine Lemonopolous?” he asks.
    â€œSure. In fact, she was involved in an incident a couple hours ago down in Beach Crest Heights. Santucci and I took statements.”
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œWhere are you now?”
    â€œEighteen-eighteen Beach Lane in the Heights.”
    â€œI’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.
    â€œThanks 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