“Quick question.” She still sounds as Midwestern sweet as sugar-frosted corn flakes. “Why did you side with Christine Lemonopolous?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you only photograph her injuries? Why not my sister’s?”
“I, uh …”
“Mrs. Rosen,” says Ceepak, “if you have queries about police procedure, past or present, might I suggest that you come to our offices to have them answered?”
“Of course. I just think you made a bad call, Officer Boyle. So be careful. Keep an eye on Ms. Lemonopolous. That girl has an extremely short fuse. I’m certain it’s only a matter of time before she hurts or injures someone else.”
I head back to my apartment to grab some clothes and toiletries for my temporary move to Ceepak’s place.
I also want to check up on Christine. See how she’s doing. Keep an eye on that short fuse of hers. Wouldn’t want my apartment to blow up while’s she’s using it. I’d never get back my damage deposit.
The Sea Village Apartment Complex sits halfway between what you might call “downtown” Sea Haven and the southern tip of the island where the rich folks like Shona Oppenheimer live.
I park my Jeep and head to Room 111. I fish in my cargo shorts for the keys before remembering, duh, I gave them to Christine.
So I knock on the door.
“Danny?”
Christine’s voice would probably be muffled more if my front door weren’t the cheapest kind they sell at Home Depot.
“Yeah.”
“Just a second.”
I hear a chain slide. Knobs turn.
She’s using locks I forgot I even had.
“Hey!” she says when the door swings open.
Her curly hair is damp. Her face is scrubbed clean. She’s dressed in a cute, chocolate colored blouse and is working one of my threadbare towels into her left ear. I hope the towel was actually clean and didn’t just pass my early morning sniff test.
“Come on in,” Christine says, her voice cheery and a little nervous. Yes, this is weird. We haven’t even been on a date but it’s like we’re doing the whole “Honey, I’m home” bit from some ancient sitcom.
“I just need to grab a few things,” I say.
“Sure. Make yourself at home.”