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

by John Misak

“That’s what I heard.” Jacob said, nodding. “Not perfectly clear, but it came across that way to me.”

  “That happens right before the call gets cut off?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was it cut off at his end, you think?” I asked. The answer would make a big difference in the interpretation of the tape for the case.

  “Don’t know. Could be. Tough to tell. Sorry,” Jacob said. He sounded sincere about that. Jacob’s a sincere sort of guy. Few people in the world like him, that I can tell you.

  “Well, they found the cell phone on,” I said. “Doesn’t seem like that means he ended the call.”

  “Probably right. I think Mrs. Minkoff’s answer machine cut it off. Those things usually have a short time limit. It’s an old machine, I presume.”

  “Very. Wish it could have given us another ten seconds or so.”

  “That might have told you everything you need to know. Either way, he sounds surprised about something,” Jacob said.

  “Absolutely. But what?”

  “Maybe the guys checking out the car will know. Might be some evidence there.”

  “Hope so,” I said. “Not much else to go on right now.”

  “As soon as you find out, call me. I’m curious.”

  “No problem.”

  So, I had another piece of evidence, however insignificant, pointing to the fact that Mullins didn’t commit suicide. Did he have a problem with his car? That was my first thought, and I decided to get Rick, so he could hear the tape.

  Rick sat at his desk, staring up at the ceiling. I’d never seen him to that too often. Something was on his mind. God knows what. Maybe he worried about how that hamburger he ate the day before ravaged his perfect colon. Poor thing.

  I told Rick about the tape, and he went into Jacob’s office to listen to it. When he was finished, he came back to my desk. “That’s it. That’s all we need,” he said.

  “For what?”

  “To keep the investigation going. Agnelli can’t deny that it points to something other than suicide,” Rick insisted.

  “I’d like to think so, but it could have just been a last minute reaction to what he did. Besides, Jacob thinks the machine cut his message off. That blows your theory about him not timing his final call correctly right out of the water. We need something concrete to bring to Agnelli.”

  Rick frowned. He was in a sour mood. Maybe I rubbed off on him a little. “I don’t understand why these things have to be so hard. We are only trying to do our job.”

  “It’s the implications. That’s all Agnelli cares about. That and his future. See what happens when all you think about is your next promotion? You lose sight of your present duties.”

  That was a stab at Rick himself, but he didn’t catch it. “Ridiculous. Agnelli’s a smart man. He’ll see what we are doing. He has to.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “I hate this.”

  “Me too.” I picked up a piece of paper. “Chapman’s holding his press conference at the W Hotel. We go there, speak to him, and see if we can get something to chew on. That’s all we can do.”

  “I think we should speak to Mrs. Mullins again, play the tape for her and see what she thinks.”

  “Not a good idea. I don’t want her knowing about that tape yet, and I don’t think Geiger does either.”

  “It might lead to something.”

  “And it might get us into deeper shit. We don’t need that.”

  “Alright.”

  Because we had some time before Chapman’s press conference, I sat at my desk, typing up my version of the previous day’s report. I hated paperwork. Every cop did. Detective work was even more difficult. I had to type a report for Geiger, a report for the precinct, and a report for the NYP Homicide Division Headquarters. They all read the same report, but I needed to make separate copies. Pain in the ass.

  Halfway through the report, my phone rang.

  “Keegan, Homicide,” I answered.

  “Is this Detective Keegan?” The man’s voice sounded shaky, uncertain. This struck me immediately.

  “That’s what I said. Who is calling?”

  “You the one working on the Mullins investigation?” the man asked.

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I work for Techdata, and I think I have some information for you.”

  “Let me have it.”

  “Not over the phone. I think I found something that pertains to your investigation.” I want to say I thought the guy sounded like he had a gun to his head, but that’s just my current knowledge affecting my memory. He was probably just a little nervous.

  “Okay.” This guy sounded, well, phony, if I was to take a guess. I couldn’t count how many times I got calls about information on a case that just turned out to be nut jobs who watched the news.

  “Can we meet today?”

  “If you want to.”

  “Okay. Meet me at the Grand Deli. Know where it is?”

  “Yes.” It was near Little Italy.

  “Nine?” the man asked.

  “Fine.”

  “And whatever you do, don’t trust Harold Chapman. At all.” The line went dead.

  This was getting weird.

  Eight

  The W Hotel was downtown, past the diamond district and Grand Central. I had been in the bar in the hotel, a posh place where everyone thought they were a model. The women who worked behind the bar were hot, but the drinks cost nineteen bucks. Typical city rip-off. We made our way into the conference room, which held about one hundred people and looked filled. We had to stand by the back door, which was nice, because Chapman would see us from where he stood, and would know who we were right away.

  The place was filled with press people. That made me feel uncomfortable. The last thing I needed was to be trapped by a bunch of hungry reporters looking for a story. Didn’t need that.

  I had told Rick about the call, and he really wanted to go with me to the Grand Deli. I told him it wasn’t a good idea. The guy wanted to meet with me, and an extra cop might make him nervous. Rick didn’t like it, but he agreed.

  Chapman walked out onto the stage and stood behind the podium. He had four guys with him, bodyguards perhaps. Corporate execs with bodyguards. What had the world come to?

  “Good morning,” Chapman said, in a deep, vibrating voice. He was a stout man, German-looking, with a long pointy nose and thick brown hair piled high on his head. He was dressed in a three- piece suit. I didn’t think anyone wore those anymore. “As you all know, Techdata lost its CEO and son of its founder, Ron Mullins, late Tuesday. We were all shocked at the news of his death. Ron has always been important to the company, and has been pivotal in our success. Though we will mourn his passing with great sympathy for both our company and his family, the business of Techdata will continue to move forward, in the direction that he and I charted. Over the past two years, Ron had been slowly removing himself from the company, getting set to enter the political arena, as you all well know, and we have been preparing for his departure.

  “Though his presence was still felt within the company, he had been placing the responsibility of running the day to day operations of Techdata to both with myself, and his eventual successor, Victor Coleman. Victor has worked directly with me for the past six months, familiarizing himself with all the resources he would need to take Ron’s position.”

  Way to cover your ass, I thought.

  “Despite Ron’s sudden death, I want to assure our stockholders, and our business partners, that the business of Techdata will continue to move forward uninterrupted. Our well- publicized talks with Onyx Corporation are near completion, and the impact of this merger will succeed in being as large as we had planned. Ron left behind detailed blueprints of several new technologies that will propel Techdata through the next decade, and beyond. We will miss Ron greatly, as will anyone who knew him.”

  The man was a smooth ta
lker. He looked into the eyes of the reporters in the audience confidently. In a way, he almost reminded me of the clips I had seen of Mullins talking. He was good. When he finished, he glanced in our direction, and I could have sworn I saw him smirk. I couldn’t wait to get a hold of him.

  “Now, if you have any questions, please ask them, though I must let you know I will have to limit this to five minutes.”

  A slew of reporters raised their hands. I wanted to, too.

  He motioned to a man in front.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Mr. Chapman, Chris Taylor, from Fox News. You say that Ron Mullins prepared to leave Techdata. Any reason why?”

  “He had other interests.”

  “Other than the company that made him who he is?”

  “That was his choice. Ron was a brilliant man, who constantly needed a challenge. I assume Techdata didn’t offer that to him anymore.”

  Chapman motioned to another man, to his left, a few rows back.

  “Tom Jenkins, Daily News. We have all heard the rumors about Mr. Mullins entering the New York Senatorial race. How did Techdata feel about that?”

  Chapman paused for a moment. “We were behind him, and we were certain he would be successful in any venture he got involved with.” He motioned to another reporter, a woman.

  “Louise Belanger, Eyewitness News. I just wanted to know if Mr. Mullins’ political ambitions had anything to do with the bill slated to go to congress regarding New York’s Silicon Alley.”

  Chapman smiled. “What bill is that?”

  “The one which would enforce restrictions on such companies operating in New York.”

  “Of course not. We never had any such concerns. Besides, from what I understand, that is a local legislature issue.”

  “With chances that it will go to the US Senate.”

  “Ron Mullins planned on entering politics way before that bill was even conceived. Next, and last, question.”

  Interesting. That would be an angle we would have to investigate.

  “Richard Gonzalez, Channel Four. Would you comment on the rumors that Ron Mullins was against the merger with Onyx?”

  “I know of no such rumor, and, so you know, the Onyx merger was Ron Mullins’ idea from the outset. If anything, I was against it at first. Good day.”

  With that, Chapman left the stage and headed toward the back exit. We made our way through the stream of reporters who were getting up from their seats or taking quick notes. I shielded my face so that no one would recognize me, and made it to the door Chapman exited from.

  We caught him entering a Lincoln Town Car. He spotted us, and stopped. He didn’t appear bothered, but I took that as his controlling himself.

  “Hello, Detectives,” he said.

  “Mr. Chapman, we would like a few words with you.”

  “Of course. But I am on my way to an important meeting right now. Why don’t you stop by my office around four? Is that okay?”

  I looked at Rick, who seemed like he wanted to pounce on Chapman and squeeze every bit of information he could out of him.

  “Four o’clock. We’ll be there,” I said.

  “Excellent. See my secretary directly. She’ll be expecting you.”

  Chapman got into the back seat of his car and his driver pulled away quickly, leaving us standing there, holding our Johnsons.

  “I don’t like that guy one bit,” Rick said.

  “You’re just letting that phone call I got bother you.”

  “He’s a snake in the grass.”

  “Most guys like him are. Only way they can get ahead of everyone else,” I said.

  “You can think what you want. That guy’s dirt.”

  As much as I wanted to argue with him, I knew Rick was right.

  We got back to the station, and I tried to put things together. Chapman seemed seedy to me, at best. The kind of guy who did underhanded things, paid for expensive call girls, and basically did what he wanted. Okay, I envied him. I wasn’t sure if I could accept the fact that something was amiss, to use a fancy word, but I felt unsettled.

  Geiger came over to my desk.

  “Want to tell me about the phone call you got earlier today?” he said. I wondered who could have told him. It wasn’t hard to figure out. Rick, the bastard.

  “Some guy called saying he worked for Techdata. That he had information for me. Could be a whacko.”

  “He say anything else?”

  “Yeah. He said not to trust Chapman.”

  “Interesting.” He looked around my desk, cluttered with papers, including the printout from the Techdata website. I was tired, running on no sleep. I rubbed my eyes. I grabbed a can of soda on my desk and took a swig. When I did, a I felt a sharp pain when the cold soda touched one of my bottom teeth. It hurt like hell.

  “You okay? You look like shit.”

  “I didn’t sleep last night, and now I have a toothache.”

  “Take some aspirin, and have some coffee. This interview with Chapman is important. And I am not so sure I want you going to see this other person alone,” Geiger said. He spread his hands on his desk, running his fingers across the smooth surface.

  “That’s how he wanted it.”

  “I want Rick down the block,” Geiger insisted. I didn’t like it one bit.

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “If this guy smells another cop in the area, he might bolt.”

  “I doubt it. I want this on tape. You’ll wear a wire. Agnelli’s orders,” Geiger said.

  This surprised me. Geiger rarely went running to Agnelli. “You told him about it?”

  “I had to. It gives us more time with the investigation.”

  “Jesus. I’m not crazy about that.”

  “Just do it. And get back here right away,” Geiger said. I could tell he wasn’t happy about it either, but we didn’t have a choice. Geiger looked nervous, blinking more than usual. I’d never seen him like that before.

  “Yes, sir. Just put us in separate cars. The guy sees me walk in instead of pull up in an unmarked, he might get suspicious.”

  “Okay. And John?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t fuck around.”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  After Geiger left, my tooth really started aching. Like it was on fire. The worst part about tooth pain is that you can’t rub it, can’t make it feel better. I thought nothing of it at first, that it would go away, but it kept getting worse. A lot worse. Lord knows what I did to it. But I had help. Dear old Dad was a dentist, located in Queens. I checked my watch. It was 12:15. Plenty of time to get there and back to Chapman’s.

  I got on the phone, and dialed my father’s office.

  “Dr. Keegan’s office,” Nancy, his assistant said.

  “Hello Nancy, it’s John.”

  “Hello Johnny.” She’d known me since I was five and she was the only non-family member I allowed to call me Johnny. Anyone else who tried to call me that would need an appointment with my father as well.

  “Let me speak to Dad, please,” I said politely. She struck fear in me, that woman. Maybe it was because she was the gatekeeper to pain.

  “Yes, of course. How are you?” she asked. Always polite on the phone. If I didn’t love my dad and respect Nancy, I’d call her the perfect receptionist for Satan.

  “Not bad. In pain.”

  “Well, you haven’t been here in a while.”

  “I know. Been busy.” I said, defensively.

  “I’ll get him for you.” Nancy said. I heard a click and then the same horrible on hold music my dad had used for decades. Bad taste lives forever.

  After a few seconds, my father’s cheery voice came on. Well, I am exaggerating. Actually, after meeting my father, most people thought I was cheery.

  “The wayward son,” he said.

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Saw you on the news yesterday. Handling a big case. That Mullins guy. I own Techd
ata stock.” Thanks for the added pressure, Pops.

  “Well, according to what the company says, you’re fine.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know. Took a drink of soda and my bottom third molar, on the left side, erupted.”

  “Root canal. I told you to let me take care of that tooth the last time you were in.” Dad said. He didn’t always sound like dentist, but he sure could get into character easy.

  “I know. I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to call your mother, I know.”

  I didn’t want to go through this. I was a good son. Better than my sister in some respects. Perhaps not in others. Damn, there I was, in my thirties, going along with sibling rivalry.

  “Can you squeeze me in? I have an important meeting at four.”

  He sighed, the way he always did when he spoke to me. Like I was the bane of his existence. We had gotten along pretty well when I was a kid, and I thought did fine in my adulthood. He was proud of my being a cop, or at least he said he was, despite his dreams of me taking over his practice. I could never look at people’s teeth for a living. Dead people’s teeth maybe.

  “I’ve got an opening for 2:00. Come on in.”

  “Thanks Dad. See you then.”

  “Yeah.” He hung up. The side of my mouth began to swell.

  No more than ten seconds after I hung up the phone, it rang. “Keegan, Homicide.”

  “Detective Keegan?” It was a woman, with a familiar voice.

  “That’s me.”

  “It’s Sondra Mullins.” Ah, Sondra. The possible, future love of my life. Or at least someone to fantasize about in that role.

  “Yes, Mrs. Mullins?”

  “I need to speak to you. Can you come by?” she asked.

  “What’s happened?”

  “A lot. I keep getting strange phone calls, and a lot of hang-ups. One man said he had information about my husband’s death. He wanted to meet me. I’m scared.”

  “I’ll be there in a half an hour.”

  “Come by yourself. I didn’t like your partner.”

  “Okay.”

  I hung up. Was this a cheap excuse for a sexual invitation? Secretly, I hoped so, but I also knew I was hoping against hope itself. She was out of my league.

  Geiger wasn’t happy with my going by myself, but he realized it was the only way. He assigned me an unmarked car, and I headed out to Massapequa, the needle pinned near eighty the whole time. Because, you know, my dedication to work knew no speed limits.