Free Rolling Thunder by Chris Grabenstein Page B

suspect Skippy might.
    The Ceepaks and I postpone our golf date.
    They need to go buy a litter box. And cat chow. And fur mice. Maybe a little catnip, too.
    In the parking lot, I ask Ceepak what he thinks Skippy meant by that crack about his dad breaking his mother’s heart.
    â€œNot knowing, can’t say,” says Ceepak.
    â€œIt could be anything,” says Rita, who never studied psychology but did work as a waitress for a dozen years, which makes her a pretty good judge of human nature. “He might have been mean to her about the cat. He may have helped estrange their sons. He may not have given her the time and attention she thought she deserved as his life partner.”
    Ceepak and I are both nodding. Like I said, Rita’s good.
    â€œAnd,” she says with a heavy sigh, “he may have been cheating on her with another, most likely younger, woman.”
    Yeah. That’d break your heart after you had five kids together.
    Ceepak sneezes again.
    Rita is letting him hold the cat. She’ll drive. I’m thinking they better stop off at the drug store and pick up a couple cartons of Claritin.
    â€œSee you tomorrow, partner,” Ceepak says in between a set of double nose blows.
    I’m definitely bringing a box of Kleenex to work tomorrow and doing all the driving.
    Ceepak closes his eyes when he sneezes.
    The week rolls on.
    Ceepak and I both work Memorial Day Monday. Big crowds on the boardwalk. The ocean’s too cold to go swimming, except for a few assorted Polar Bears, who always seem to be burly guys with forests of curly black hair on their backs. Sea Haven is running its annual Kite Festival on Oak Beach. Ken Erb is there in all his glory, showing off his new hand-painted silk Indonesian bird kite. It’s twelve feet tall and sort of reminds me of one of the scary winged creatures from Harry Potter.
    Tuesday, we write a couple speeding tickets. Help a kid with a flat tire on his bike.
    Wednesday, Ceepak and I are off the duty roster, so Sam takes a day off from studying. We do the beach. I skimboard on the slick sand, she reads Silent Counsel , a legal thriller. Later, we head to the Sand Bar and scarf down clams on the half shell, clams casino, some shrimp jammers (shrimp stuffed with cheddar and deep fried), mozzarella sticks, and a bucket of beers. Then we go to my place and, well, do nothing because we’re both too stuffed.

    Thursday, Ceepak and I work the night shift.
    We’re cruising Shore Drive near Spruce Street. We’re almost to the end of tree-named streets, about to enter the stretch of the island where the Sea Haven Street Naming Commission basically gave up and started using numbers instead of fish (further north) or picking up with second-tier trees, maybe Althorn, Bladdernut, and Chinaberry, for starters.
    Ceepak and I are discussing the relative merits of the Philadelphia Phillies and the New York Mets and their chances of breaking our hearts again this summer, when, all of a sudden, this hot little sports car comes zipping around the corner of Tangerine Street and, tires squealing, roars down Shore Drive at fifty miles per hour.
    The speed limit is fifteen.
    â€œLights and siren,” I say, since I’m behind the wheel.
    â€œRoger that,” says Ceepak in the passenger seat. He flips the switches.
    I stomp on the gas, take the shuddering Crown Vic straight up to eighty to close the gap between us and the little speed demon.
    The sports car doesn’t give us much of a run for our money. It pulls over to the curb. Our high-speed chase lasted two blocks, sucked down a quarter tank of SHPD gas.
    Ceepak and I both get out of the cruiser.
    The sports car window powers down.
    â€œHey, Danny.”
    It’s Gail Baker. The hot waitress from The Rusty Scupper.
    â€œGail,” I say, “I need you to step out of the vehicle.”
    â€œSure.” The door opens. She climbs out in her skinny jeans and snug Sugar Babies tee.