Free Fall (5 page)

Ceepak looks like he wants to go over to Hank and say, “
What are your intentions, young man?
” but he doesn't get the chance.

There's a scream. Maybe fifty feet up the pier. A young dude in an Abercrombie & Fitch top, baggy shorts, and high-top sneakers comes tearing up the boards, a jungle print purse flapping by his side.

“He stole my bag! Stop him! Help!”

The kid, who looks vaguely familiar, has his arms pumping and keeps chugging straight at us.

“Halt!” Ceepak shouts, raising his hand like a traffic cop.

When he was an MP over in Iraq, Ceepak used to stop entire tank convoys in downtown Baghdad with his booming voice and a single flick of the wrist.

Too bad the purse-snatcher isn't a tank.

He keeps coming.

“Police!” I holler.

Now the kid stops. Looks left, right, over his shoulder.

“Where, man?” he shouts like I'm on his side.

Ceepak sweeps open his sport coat, plucks that gold shield off his belt, and holds it out at arms length so the sun can flare off its bright and shiny face.

“Stay where you are, young man.”

“You heard him,” shouts Ceepak's mom. “Stay put.”

The kid squints when the badge's reflection pings him in the eye.

He looks around again.

And makes an extremely dumb move.

He dashes toward the back end of the Ye Olde Mill ride. I see him grab hold of the picket fence bordering the unloading dock and hop over it. Two seconds after he disappears, we hear a series of thrashing splashes.

Yes, he is running up the lazy river into The Tunnel of Love.

“I'll follow after him,” says Ceepak, because he goes running six days a week, even when he doesn't have to. “Lock down the ride, Danny. Go in the front. Block his means of egress.”

“On it.”

Ceepak takes off.

“Go, Johnny, go!” This from Mrs. Ceepak. “That's my son.”

“He's a good runner,” says Hank.

Adele gives that a flick of her wrist. “Aw, he's not even trying.”

9

I
LOOP BACK TO THE FRONT OF THE RIDE
.

I flash my badge necklace to the kid sitting up in the operator platform near the bright yellow water wheel. It's churning up frothy waves the color of the cheap blue aftershave they sell at Drinnen's Drug Store.

“Shut down the water wheel,” I shout. “Don't send in any boats.”

“Dude,” he says, sounding like I just woke him up. “There's already a boat in the tunnel …”

I think fast.

“Then keep the wheel churning.”

Maybe the current will slow the thief down. Maybe the love boat will bumper-car him down the line to Ceepak.

Or maybe our bad guy has a gun.

“No,” I say to the operator. “Shut it off.”

“Dude?” says the kid, holding up both hands. “On or off?”

“Off!”

The kid shakes his head.

I think he's disappointed in my rapid-fire decision-making abilities.

“Whatever,” he mumbles as he bops the red button that freezes the water wheel.

I jump off the loading dock into the shin-deep riverbed.

“Yo, dude!” The kid shouts. “You gotta be in a boat. Insurance rules. No walking in the river. Yo? Dude?”

I slosh forward and duck my head under the arched opening cut into the plywood scene of Bavaria or wherever.

The tunnel is pitch-dark. Nice if you're on a romantic ride with your girlfriend. Not so much when you're on foot.

If I were Ceepak, I'd whip out my pocket flashlight.

But I'm not.

So I use my iPhone. Flick on the flashlight app that uses the tiny camera light to approximate a ten-watt bulb. It's better than nothing.

I pass a scene of cutout elves in pointy caps painting toadstools. Girls probably think it's cute. Guys don't care. At this point, early in the ride, they're just nervous, wondering when they should make their first move.

Up ahead is another dark stretch.

And a gently rocking boat.

I slog up the shallow trough, glad I wore cargo shorts to work today. Until the water splashing up my legs soaks through the thigh pockets and turns them into drooping water balloons.

With the current switched off, I'm moving faster than the boat in front of me. As I get closer, I hear smooching. And moans. And a playful “Slow down, Kevin,” giggled by a girl.

Whose voice I recognize. Heidi Noroozy. We dated. Once.

“Excuse me, guys,” I say, when I reach the stern.

The startled lovers spring apart. Nearly capsize their boat.

“Danny?”

“Hey, Heidi.”

“Uh, hi.” She starts buttoning stuff.

“Hey, Kevin.” I recognize her new man. Kevin Tipple. He works at Boardwalk Books. Guess he's on his morning break.

I find that, if I squeeze along the starboard side of the little red dinghy, I can actually creep my way downstream. When I reach the boat's bow, I turn around. “Stay here, you two. There could be trouble up ahead.”

“Is this a new part of the ride?” asks Kevin. “Like when the robbers stop the train in Wild West World?”

I think Kevin spends a little too much time in the fiction section of his store.

“Just stay here.”

Kevin and Heidi nod. Their eyes go so wide they could both play Bambi in one of the ride's cheesy scenes.

“Halt!” I hear Ceepak's voice ringing off the walls in the tunnel up ahead of me.

“Forget it, po-po,” shouts the purse-snatcher, who sounds like he could definitely use an attitude adjustment.

I hurry down the river. Make my way up to the next painted display. Geese. Talking to Little Red Riding Hood, a wart-nosed witch, and Pepe Lepew. What the diorama's story is supposed to be, I haven't a clue. I guess the plywood jigsaw cutouts were on sale, maybe in one of those yards where they sell bent-over-gardeners-flashing-their-bloomers as lawn decorations.

I round a bend.

And here comes the kid in the A&F jersey, a lady's purse slung over his shoulder. The bag does not match his shiny basketball shorts.

“Stop,” I say, flashing my iPhone light in his face. “We've got you surrounded.”

(Ever since I became a cop, I've always wanted to say that.)

“Hands over your head,” adds Ceepak, splashing up behind the kid with a Maglite locked in one fist, his other hand clasping his wrist to steady the light.

The kid squints. Stares at me hard.

He swings around to check out Ceepak then turns back to me.

“Wassup, braw?”

Of course he looked familiar. It's Ben Sinclair. Our honorable mayor's dishonorable son. We've dealt with him before. Several times, actually.

“Why you two always be harassing me?” he whines. “I didn't do nothing wrong, dawg.”

Ben Sinclair is not a gangsta rapper. He's a rich white kid who once tried to strap a big subwoofer to the back of his scooter so he could cruise around Sea Haven pretending to be ghetto.

“You were resisting arrest,” says Ceepak.

“Cuffs?” I ask.

“That'll work,” says Ceepak, sliding the purse off Ben's shoulder while I work the kid's hands behind his back.

“Yo! That be police brutality, po-po.”

“No, Benjamin,” says Ceepak. “Those be handcuffs.”

I can't help but crack up. Ceepak made a funny.

The three of us wade down Ye Olde Mill stream.

Ceepak even starts whistling.

It's a Springsteen tune, of course. “Tunnel Of Love.”

10

M
RS
. C
EEPAK IS WAITING WITH THE LADY WHOSE PURSE
B
EN
snatched when we come out of Ye Olde Mill.

“See, dear?” she says. “I told you my son and his friend would get you your bag back. I'm so proud of you, Johnny. You, too, Daniel.”

“Thanks,” we both say. For an instant, I feel like Ceepak and I are two years old and we both just made a good boom-boom on our potty training seats.

The Murray brothers, Dylan and Jeremy, swing by the boardwalk in their patrol car to process Ben Sinclair.

“He'll be out in under an hour,” mutters Jeremy.

“Forty-five minutes,” seconds his brother.

“We appreciate you guys handling this,” says Ceepak.

Dylan Murray smirks at my soaked shorts and Ceepak's soggy pants.

“So what's with you two? Your adult diapers leaking again?”

“Something like that,” says Ceepak with a grin.

“We took a turn in the dunk booth,” I say. “Over on Pier Two.”

“Wish I had known,” says Dylan. “Would've bought a dozen balls.”

“Yeah, it would've taken you a dozen to finally hit the target.”

Yes, this is what we do. We bust each other's chops. It makes knowing that the mayor's bratty kid is going to skate free, no matter what he did, a little easier to stomach.

Ceepak and I follow the Murrays back to the house in my Jeep and hit the locker room where, fortunately, we each have a dry pair of pants. And socks. When I take my wet ones off, my toes look like yogurt-covered raisins. They're curdled worse than cottage cheese.

We grab a quick bite at the Yellow Submarine, this sandwich shop on Ocean Avenue (where you can get Mean Mister Mustard and Glass Onions on anything), then head back to the boardwalk and Pier Two.

On the drive over, Ceepak fills me in on the Free Fall ride's criminal background.

“The Sea Haven operators are calling their ride ‘The StratosFEAR.' In Michigan, it was known as ‘Terminal Velocity,' a name that, unfortunately, it soon lived up to. A fourteen-year-old girl was killed after falling one hundred and forty feet from her seat as it plummeted down the drop tower at a rate of descent approaching fifty miles per hour.”

“What happened?”

“According to witnesses, the girl pitched forward while the ride was in free fall. She landed face-down on the pavement at the base of the tower; died on the way to the hospital.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“Quite an extensive one. Officials at the amusement park stated that the victim's seat should not have been occupied because it did not have a functioning restraint system.”

“What? The seat belt was broken?”

“Actually, it was the shoulder restraint. She was sitting in an open-air car. The only thing holding her in was the padded chest harness over her head and shoulders. The victim's restraint did not lock properly. The force of the drop caused it to flip up. The final report faulted maintenance workers for failing to designate that particular seat as being ‘out of service' on the day of the accident.”

“That's it? Some guy forgot to tape a sign on the girl's seat?”

“Management at the Michigan amusement park also conceded that all the restraints on the ride should have been checked manually by ride operators before the cars were hoisted skyward.”

Well, duh
, I think.

In Sea Haven, high school and college kids get summer jobs on the boardwalk running the rides. There are always a few whose only job is to walk around and jiggle everybody's safety bars before they signal the operator to hit the GO button. Well, that's the way it's supposed to work, if the ride is owned and operated by people who care about safety and doing the right thing.

The “brand new” StratosFEAR Free Fall?

Not so much.

The owner is Sinclair Enterprises.

As in Mayor Hugh Sinclair.

And as we approach the recycled ride, I see that the mayor's son, Ben, is the guy sitting in the control booth, his hand poised over the big green GO button.

Apparently, his dad's lawyers were working extra-hard today. They got him sprung in record time.

11

L
UCKILY
,
THERE IS A BRIGHT YELLOW CHAIN BLOCKING ACCESS
to the StratosFEAR, so Ben can't really take anybody for a ride.

A sign reading “Opening Soon!” dangles off the barrier.

“We'll see about that,” mumbles Ceepak as he unclasps the chain.

We enter the switchbacks where customers will patiently wait to have the crap scared out of them.

The base of the StratosFEAR is painted with white, wispy clouds filling a blue sky. A squared-off white tower, with crisscrossing diagonal support struts and trusses, rises 140 feet to a blinking lightning-bolt pole topper.

A fresh-faced guy, maybe thirty, wearing a bright blue polo shirt and khaki pants, an accordion file tucked under his arm, comes ambling around the base. He sees us. Gives us a friendly finger wave. Then turns to the mayor's son in his controller seat.

“Blast her off, Ben.”

“Whatever.”

Ben, who's also dressed in a bright blue polo shirt with a “StratosFEAR” logo embroidered where the polo pony usually gallops, slaps his chunky green button.

Twelve empty chairs—three on each side of a boxy blue car—slowly elevate up the tower. The shoulder restraints are in the down and locked position.

Ceepak and I crane our necks to watch the ride in action.

Not that there's much action to watch. Just that clump of chairs slowly climbing the tower.

“When the car finally reaches the top,” says Professor Ceepak, “it will pause momentarily. And remember, Danny, a body at rest tends to stay at rest.”

True. When I'm on the couch, I tend to stay on the couch.

“The cable holds the chairs, the chairs hold the riders. So when the mechanism suspending the car lets go, the chairs will fall but there will be a slight delay before your body feels it is also falling.”

“So you think you're falling all on your own. That you're not even sitting in your seat.”

Ceepak nods.

“What fun.”

“Only if you enjoy experiencing vertical acceleration upwards of three G's.”

The empty ride reaches the blinking lightning bolt. It pauses and just hangs up there for a second.