Soft Case: (Book 1 in the John Keegan Mystery Series)

by John Misak

“Calhill,” he said, “Okay, you’ve got it? Got an address? Great. Thanks.”

  Rick turned to me and gestured toward the door. We walked over, and he whispered, “He called his mother. Talked for about a minute and a half. Long enough for her to know something, if anything.”

  He looked excited again. I looked at my watch. “It’s almost eleven. Where does she live?” I asked.

  “Long Island. Just past the Queens border. We could get there in about half an hour, tops, if we get moving.”

  “Don’t you think maybe she’s here or on her way?” I asked.

  Rick shook his head. “All attempts at getting her have been met with nothing but an answer machine.”

  “Then she’s not home.”

  “Or maybe she went out, and is on her way home. We might be able to catch her,” Rick said. I knew he stretched because he wanted this so bad.

  “Did you ever think that maybe Mullins got the machine too?”

  “I’m almost hoping for it. And, if that’s the case, I want to hear what’s on the tape.”

  “Could be nothing more than an audio suicide note,” I said.

  “Which would rule out the possibility of this being a random car accident, and put the case under Homicide. We can investigate from there.”

  “I know the procedure; I just don’t want you getting all disappointed when you find out that your ‘big’ case is nothing more than a run of the mill suicide.”

  “I doubt that, John. Really doubt it.”

  I sighed. This was going to be a pain in the ass, dealing with Rick on this case. On top of that, I’d have the entire police department, the mayor, hell, possibly even the President, watching how we handled the case. Mullins had been a popular and well- liked guy. I’d seen him do an interview for one of those biography shows a few years back, and he’d seemed like a down to earth man, the kind I could respect. He wasn’t full of himself, like most corporate guys who made a windfall. But now, he was dead, and it quickly became apparent that his death would make my life more difficult. I didn’t care for that one bit, and I really didn’t care for working with a butt sniffer like Rick Calhill, but these were the cards fate dealt me that evening, and I’d have to play them out to the end. Looked like I’d have to bluff my way with a busted straight.

  “Let’s go,” I said, “No sense in keeping a soon-to-be mourning mother up any later than she has to be.”

  “Yeah, let’s go,” Rick said.

  We said our goodbyes to Siebling and the socially challenged Allison, who barely nodded when we did so. I tried to think that maybe there was a real woman trapped underneath that white coat somewhere, but I came up empty. That’s the way such things go, I suspect.

  The drive to Valley Stream, where Mrs. Mullins lived, took 35 minutes. Rick actually leaned on his new car a bit, doing about 65 the whole way there, which was a lot for him. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the white lines go by, and thought about the fact that I hadn’t had a cigarette in over an hour. Whether Mrs. Mullins liked it or not, I was smoking in her house. Belligerent smokers, yeah I know.

  Valley Stream was a pretty big town, for Long Island. I couldn’t stand the island, or most of the people who lived there. The place was too quiet, and the people talked too much, probably to compensate. I grew up in Queens, which geographically wasn’t much different, but we city people feel real strong about the subtle differences between suburbanites and us. Don’t even try to make a logical argument about how similar we were. Or the fact that Queens was on Long Island, technically.

  Mrs. Mullins’ house was just off Merrick Road, pretty much the main drag through the town. Her house was a big colonial, painted a baby blue, with a screened-in porch and a huge front yard. Rick stopped the car in front of the house, and we sat there for a moment.

  “No lights on,” he said.

  “She’s probably not home.”

  “We’ll see.”

  We walked up to the porch, took our badges out, and I was about to ring the bell, when someone called to us. It was the neighbor to the left. Well, the left if you were facing the house. He was taking out his garbage.

  “You the police?” he asked.

  “Yup,” I replied, flashing him the badge, though from where he was, he might have not been able to see it.

  “She’s not home. Doing a dig in the Andes, if I remember correctly. You’re here about her son, right? Shame.”

  “We just need to speak with her,” Rick said.

  “Real shame. Car accident, huh? Young man.” He shook his head. “You guys doing the investigation?”

  “She leave any way to get into contact with her?” I asked.

  “In the Andes? Not that I know of. You might want to ask her housekeeper. She comes here every morning around eleven. Keeps track of the place.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Roseanna, I think. Nice looking woman too. Like I said, she usually gets here around eleven,” the man said.

  “You see her son around here recently?”

  “Ron? No, he didn’t come around much. What, with his mother always running off to all parts of the world. She’s an archaeologist, you know. Jackie Minkoff. Ever hear of her?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “She’s real famous. Always on A&E,” the man said.

  “What about her husband?”

  “Died over ten years ago.” The neighbor started moving toward his house. “You sure you guys are cops?” Not sure what spooked him, but we cops have that effect on people.

  “As sure as we can be,” I said. I reached into my pocket and grabbed a cigarette.

  The man moved further back when I did this. “Oh, I just thought you would have known about that,” the man said, his voice pitching with suspicion.

  “We don’t know much, yet.”

  Rick whispered in my ear, “You want to officially question him?”

  “For what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then there’s no reason to. We have more important things to do.” I looked back at the neighbor. “Thank you, sir.” We walked back toward the car.

  “Well, it looks like we’ll have to get a warrant for the house, get a hold of that tape. This way, we can get all the information we need tomorrow when we speak to the housekeeper,” Rick said. That mind of his was always working.

  “Right. So you can take me home and we’ll get started on this first thing in the morning.”

  “Don’t you want to go see Coltrain?”

  “Not especially. Anything he gets isn’t going to change by the morning. I’m a lot easier to deal with when I get a good night’s sleep.”

  “If that’s possible.”

  I went to open the passenger door to the car, and Rick gave me a look. “You’re gonna finish that before you get in, right?” he asked, referring to the smoldering Marlboro dangling from my mouth.

  “For you, anything.” I flicked the cigarette into the street and got into the car. The ride back to the city was quiet, which I enjoyed. I got the feeling that quiet was a luxury I wouldn’t be able to enjoy for a while.

  Three

  Sleep didn’t come too easily that night. The bed felt warm, and a slick layer of sweat formed on my body. The temperature in the room wasn’t too bad, but my mind raced, taking my heart along for the ride. I wanted to get to sleep so I could leap forward to the morning. By then, the media would be all over the situation, most likely camped out in front of the precinct. I didn’t like that, but it excited me. I was about to be thrust into a huge media blitz, make television appearances, and possibly even get a spot on Letterman. Well, at least something like that.

  When I got up, which was about 7AM, my head felt like one huge cloud. I hadn’t rested. The sleep I’d gotten had done more damage than good. I went through the morning procedure of showering, shaving, and getting into the last clean suit I had. It was a brown one, from Macy’s, made of a fairly expensive wool. The shirt I had didn’t go with the suit. It was a white oxford from
The Gap, and the tie, a floral pattern my mother gave me years before, only worsened the situation. Still, I looked better than most of the bozos at the station, which didn’t say much, but comforted me nonetheless.

  Rick called after I got dressed, and waited downstairs in a Mercury unmarked car at the corner. He was nice enough to have a black coffee and buttered roll waiting for me when I got into the car. He seemed chipper, a common state for him, only more so that morning, like he’d slept like a baby the night before.

  I hated him for that.

  “Ready to roll?” he asked.

  “As ready as I’m going to be.”

  “Nice suit.”

  “Wiseass.”

  “No, I mean it,” Rick said.

  “Just shut up and drive.”

  We drove toward the station, through the morning traffic and drizzle. It wasn’t cold, maybe around fifty degree, but the air had a dampness to it that ran right through you. I’m not a weather person, meaning that whether it is raining, sunny, or snowing, I am unaffected by what Mother Nature is doing. That day, however, the dreary weather got to me. Probably because I was tired and cranky, and I had Mr. Sunshine sitting next to me. Fun.

  “I spoke to Coltrain late last night,” he said to me.

  “Yeah,” I said. I hate talking in the morning.

  “No sign of a heart attack. No present illnesses. The man was of sound health.”

  “Not surprising. It could still have been an accident of some sort,” I said. I just wanted Rick to shut up.

  “I don’t think you believe that,” Rick said.

  “I don’t believe anything right now.” I didn’t. I only wanted to go back to sleep and pretend I dreamt all of this.

  “I also spoke with Geiger. He’ll be speaking to the judge first thing, to get that search warrant.”

  “That would help.”

  “You cranky today?” Rick asked.

  “Not especially.”

  Rick rolled his eyes. “This should be fun.”

  “Have you heard anything about the wife, kids?”

  “They were in the Bahamas. I believe they’re flying back today. Early flight, into JFK.”

  “We might want to have a chat with Mrs. Mullins.”

  “I figured that.”

  We got to the station, and my premonition about a media frenzy was dead on. Rick averted them, pulled into the lot, and we entered through the back entrance, where said reporters didn’t think to park themselves. Before we got halfway down the hall, Geiger intercepted us.

  “You two are in for a hell of a day. I’ve already heard from the mayor and several of Mullins’ people, wanting to make sure the case is handled by able men. Oh, and a few Senators called, to express their interest.”

  “How nice of them. Doubt it was anyone I voted for,” I said. “I thought you didn’t vote,” Rick said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I’m working on that warrant, and I want you guys reporting to me every hour on the hour. I want to be able to keep people abreast of what’s going on. Damn shame,” Geiger said.

  “Yeah, really,” I replied.

  We just stood there, almost as if we offered a moment of silence for the deceased. That seemed appropriate. Mullins was a good man. But the silence got to me, as much as I like it when Rick clams up. It was uncomfortable. I fumbled with the change in my pocket.

  “Well, I guess we should get to work, eh?” I said.

  “Probably a good idea.” Geiger glared at me, as if to say my attitude better stay in check on this one. I never really had any problems with him, but he didn’t always appreciate my laconic wit. I caught that word off someone a few years back and kept using it. But people rarely get my humor. I never can find the right audience.

  Rick and I made our way to our desks, and I checked my phone for messages. I had none. Rick did the same. He made a call. By the manner in which he spoke, I could tell it was his wife. She had him by the balls. He kept nodding and saying “okay” a lot. I wondered if she let him take his genitals out of the box she had them stored in when he had to go to work. I could hear it. “Please honey, all the other guys at work get to take theirs. I’ll look like an idiot not having mine.”

  “You know how you get when you wear your balls, dear."

  “I’ll be good, I swear. Please?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  I couldn’t imagine an existence like that. Yeah, Rick certainly had sissy tendencies, but he was a decent looking guy who had a lot going for him. A little annoying, I suppose, but still an okay guy. Instead of finding someone to mutually get along with, he got stuck with a woman who controlled his life from top to bottom. His fault, I know. And maybe he made the situation worse. I know men can be as bad as women, but I don’t date them, so I can’t comment in detail. Still, I almost felt bad for Rick.

  Rick hung up the phone, and caught me watching him. I could see the embarrassment on his face. Defeated. By a woman. He must have known my opinion on that. He fumbled with some papers, took a swig from a bottle of water he always kept at his desk, and then got up to come over to me.

  “Okay,” he said, dropping a file on my desk, “That’s Coltrain’s report.” He seemed proud of himself. Couldn’t figure why.

  “You told me what was in it. I don’t need to read it.”

  “I thought you might want to take a look at it.”

  “To check your ability to read?”

  Rick just looked at me for a second. “Okay.” He took the file back. “You want to go speak to him?”

  “So he can tell me what it says in the report?”

  Rick shrugged, and I wondered exactly how he got the gold badge in the first place. After thinking about it, I attributed his temporary stupidity to his enthusiasm. He wanted to get rolling, and I couldn’t blame him. He was just a little too much for me. I think he was a little too much for anyone. Especially his wife.

  “Any word on the wife?” I asked.

  “9:15 flight out of the Bahamas. Commercial.”

  “No corporate jet?”

  “The partner has it, in Amsterdam.”

  “Anyone contact him?” One would think the second in command, at least on the corporate side of Mullins’ life, would have been notified of his death. Then again, you never know with people. They can be shockingly inept.

  “Yes. He’s at a convention. Will be back Friday.” If you can’t already tell, Rick’s short answers indicated his excitement. He didn’t mean to be rude, but his ball sack, devoid of testicles, rose higher and higher in his crotch as he thought about this case. Nice visual, I know.

  “We should talk to him as well. If anyone will know something about Mullins’ state of mind, it’ll most likely be him.” Rick jotted something down.

  “What time is Mrs. Mullins getting in?”

  “Flight touches down about 12:45,” Rick said.

  “Someone greeting her there?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Maybe we should,” I said.

  “At the airport?” Rick asked.

  “Why not? This way she doesn’t get a chance to formulate any kind of story. I don’t want her concocting something. She’s already had some time on the plane to think of a plan. You never know.”

  Rick’s face took on a strange look. “We’re not considering her a suspect, are we?”

  I took a breath. Mrs. Mullins was a suspect. Though in the Bahamas as far as I knew, with a rock solid alibi, we had to look at her. I learned a long time before that nothing should be taken for granted. If you wait, you get burned. I wanted to talk to Mrs. Mullins as soon as possible. If I waited, lawyers might get involved. That sucked. They only complicated things. Even more so, the media. I need to get to her ASAP.

  “I’m not ruling out anyone. Maybe we should have a couple of uniforms go pick her up, and bring her down here. Tell her she has to see the body, then we question her.”

  “Maybe we should give her time to grieve. Get herself together.” Rick had learne
d to temper that excitement of his, I noticed. Strange for him.

  “Not too much time, trust me on that,” I said.

  “Okay. We’ll try and get to her sometime today or tomorrow.”

  I fumbled with a few things on my desk, a sign for Rick to go back to his cave. He didn’t get the hint. He stood over my desk, like a teacher in class, looking at a kid’s work. I looked up at him, and glared at him, sort of, but he still didn’t get the message.

  “Why don’t you go see when Geiger will have the warrant?” I asked. Translation, shoo.

  He looked around the station. “Okay.”

  After he walked away, I leaned back in my seat. Our area of the station looked old, with dark paneling on the walls and a white tile floor so worn, the seams didn’t show anymore. I never really looked around the place much. Not much to look at. The detectives had six small desks gathered in the right comer of the room. I had the one on the far left. Rick had the one on the far right. By the entrance sat four offices—well, more like cubicles. Geiger occupied one of them, the smallest, actually. He picked it because it sat in the center of the room. He had four windows that almost reached the ceiling. From there, he could keep an eye on all of us. He did that a lot. He wasn’t a ball buster or anything. You could describe him as meticulous. I liked that in a superior. I did my job, submitted my paperwork on time, and didn’t spend idle hours on the department computer chatting with women on the Internet. I’m not pointing any fingers, saying that any of my co-workers did such a thing. Of course, they did, and I never saw the use. You can’t talk to someone you can’t see, or hear. These guys tried to meet women this way, whether they wanted to admit that or not. Desperate, I say. There was no way to be sure that the people they were talking to were females in the first place. Other guys played a golf game, pretending that they were doing work. They turned the sound down, which basically took the fun out of the game. Guys actually gambled on the game. Sergeant Peters lost two hundred bucks last week. Two hundred bucks on a video game.

  No one did much at almost eight in the morning. Peters sat in his office, probably staring at the computer across the room, thinking about his stupidity. He had a lot to think about. Peters was in his forties, had been on the force for about twenty years, and was damn close to burnout. From what I knew of him, which wasn’t a hell of a lot, he was a gambler, both with money and with his work. Geiger was always on his case, mainly because Peters always tried to find his way around the hard stuff, and never got his paperwork done on time. I worked two cases with him. One of them, a murder of a convenience store clerk, went so bad I feared a demotion. He was rough with interrogation, pressing witnesses that were supposed to be on our side, and he never went by the book. I didn’t mind that so much, mainly because I rarely followed ‘the book.’ Actually, I doubted the existence of such a manual. Everyone did things their own way. Peters just had a more creative way about doing it. A dangerously creative way. I always wondered how he’d made Sergeant. Rumor said it was because of his father, who was a Sergeant himself, and had died on the job back in the seventies. I didn’t put much value on that rumor, but, after getting to know a little about Peters, it made more and more sense.