“Your dad sure has one heck of a work ethic, Detective Ceepak. And don’t worry. The guys in HR have another factory-trained and certified operator all lined up. Fellow by the name of Shaun McKinnon. Should be on the job Monday. Coming down from Ohio. We’ll be able to give your pop a couple nights off. Maybe you two can catch up and smooth things over.”
“That, Bob, is never going to happen.”
As we walk around the StratosFEAR, I see why Mr. Sinclair was so eager to open his new ride: There is a line, maybe a hundred people long, snaking through the switchbacks and down the pier.
Behind me, I hear a chorus of high-pitched squeals and screams as the open-air chairs whoosh down the girder tower at breakneck speed.
“Awesome,” I hear a couple kids on line say in breathless anticipation of their own plunge.
And guess who’s at the end of the line?
Judith Rosen and her son, Little Arnie. Thirteen or maybe fourteen, he’s wearing a Philadelphia Phillies baseball cap (sideways) on his boy band blonde head. Fortunately, Mrs. Rosen isn’t wearing a miniskirt today, just tight jeggings and an unfortunate tank top. It looks like she’s smuggling neck pillows around her waist.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Rosen,” says Ceepak when he sees her.
“Good afternoon, detective. Little Arnie was growing restless at home.”
“Understandable,” says Ceepak.
“So, have you heard anything?”
“From the M.E., you mean?”
“Yes. The, uh, tests you wanted done.”
Both Ceepak and Judith are trying very hard not to use words like “medical examiner,” “autopsy,” and “toxin screening” in front of the late Arnold Rosen’s only grandson.
“No, ma’am,” says Ceepak. “These things sometimes take days.”
“I see. David, of course, works for Sinclair Enterprises,” Judith continues. “So, we’re lucky. We get free tickets for all the rides; discount coupons for the restaurants and car washes. Comes in handy. Just about the only decent perk they give him …”
“Well, enjoy your day as best you can,” says Ceepak. “And again, our condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you,” says Judith. “Officer Boyle?”
Yikes. I’m sort of surprised she remembers my name.
“Yes, ma’am?” I say.
“I understand you’ve met my sister, Shona? You’ve even been to her house?”
Oh. I get it now. We’re still talking in code but she’s letting me know that she knows I was the OIC the night her nephew called 911.