Mr. Softee

by Faricy, Mike

  “I’ll get back to you on that one. Bye.”

  I phoned Jill next.

  “Hi, Dev. What’s up?”

  “Did you ever get a report from your arson-investigator pals?”

  “Yeah, almost immediately, as a matter of fact. I sent it off to the insurance company. I’ve got a copy here in my office.”

  “Your office? I thought everything was destroyed.”

  “It was, it’s my dining room table. I could let you see it if you think it would help, but I don’t want it going too far out of my hands. It’s about all we’ve got right now.”

  “Could I swing by later today?”

  “Anytime, not like I’m busy or anything. I gotta run some errands in a bit. Look, could you make it for dinner?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t want to impose,” sounding disingenuous.

  “I’ll see you at seven, bring a bottle of wine, white. You’re having chicken tonight.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I thought about my conversation with Aaron. I had the feeling there was more to Bernie Sneen’s death than some drunk staggering along the railroad tracks. The little bit of information from Jennifer McCauley was nagging in the back of my mind. Eventually I placed a call to Detective Manning and left a message.

  Manning returned my call maybe forty-five minutes later. I was asleep on the couch when the phone rang.

  “Detective Manning, returning your call.”

  “Thanks for calling back, Detective,” I said trying to wake up and sound helpful at the same time.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I wonder if we could meet, maybe away from your office. I have some questions.”

  “You have questions? Interesting. I’m awfully busy, I really don’t have that kind of time, but I’m down here in my office the rest of the afternoon if you wanted to add anything to your statement.”

  “You ever grab coffee in the morning?”

  “Possibly.”

  “I’ll be at Nina’s, Selby and Western, tomorrow morning.”

  “How early?” he asked.

  “You name it,” I said.

  “Seven.”

  He was yanking my chain, seven in the damn morning was a lot earlier than I had planned.

  “I’ll be there,” I said, hiding my disgust at the early hour.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Trying to think positive on a hot evening, I showed up at Jill’s with two bottles of chilled wine. She hadn’t been kidding on her location. She was directly across the alley from the now boarded-up Giant Scoop building.

  Her home was a neatly kept, Cape Cod-style house with a redbrick front, two dormers on the second floor, dark green siding with gold trim. I guessed it had been built about 1948.

  “There you are,” she said at the front door. She was barefoot, wearing white shorts and a pink T-Shirt with the Giant Scoop logo across the front. She gave me a peck on the cheek then relieved me of both bottles of wine.

  “God, who have you been talking to?” she laughed.

  “What?”

  “Lucky guess,” she said, but didn’t comment further.

  I followed her into the kitchen. The cabinets were probably original to the house, birch, with a recent high gloss finish. White Formica countertops against soft yellow kitchen walls, a cozy but efficient room. She picked up a platter with chicken breasts marinating in something dark.

  “Wine glasses are in that cupboard,” she nodded. “Open one of those and pour me a glass, please. Then, if you could put the wine in the fridge. Oh, help yourself to beer if you’d prefer.”

  I poured her a glass of wine, took a bottle of Summit beer out of the fridge for me. I wandered out the back door onto a very nice deck. The backyard sloping gradually down toward the alley was contained within a white picket fence. Well-tended flower gardens ran along three sides of the yard. A rear gate with an arbor way opened to the alley. Some sort of vine thing with pink flowers wound around the arbor. I knew it wasn’t a rose, but didn’t know much more than that. I handed her the wine glass, condensation was already dripping down the sides.

  “Oh, god I need this, what a day,” she said after a healthy swallow.

  “I’ll bet. It looks like you’re never very far from work.” I nodded toward the Giant Scoop. Other than the plywood over the windows and rear door there was no real outward sign of damage in the back.

  “Yeah well, I was raised in this house, that place was always there. I think I started working at about age five.”

  “Five,” I chuckled.

  “Really. I would go over there and help my grandpa count stock, arrange the boxes. I was a good little worker.”

  “I bet you were. And you just stayed with it?”

  “Yeah, more or less. You know, went away to college, the U, accounting if you’re wondering. A marriage that failed after a few years and here I am with a boarded-up building over there that represents thirty plus years of my life. Thank god this place is paid for,” she said looking around the yard, then washed her statement down with some more wine.

  “Yeah. Hey, I talked with that Jennifer, the waitress.”

  “What’d you think?”

  “About her? I think she’s like a lot of kids, seems nice enough. Works just enough to pay the rent, parties, tans, and right now doesn’t have to take life too seriously. She’s cute and has a lot of guys more than happy to buy her drinks.”

  She took another sip, then said,

  “I meant, what did you think about what she saw?”

  “Oh that. Well, it could just be two guys going home and they glanced up and then watched the show. Apparently she was getting ready for bed and hadn’t drawn the shade. So that’s possible. There are a couple of things kind of odd, though. Their vehicle was pulled in front of one of the garage doors, and they were out of the vehicle. I don’t know, they could have been checking their tires. They could have been trying to get a better view of Jennifer. Or, they could have been setting a fire. It’s one of the reasons I wanted to read your copy of the arson report. They’ll have some more details. Not the least of which is where the blaze started.”

  “Just inside the west door, I already read the report. Think it means something?”

  “How the fire started?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It definitely means something. I just don’t know what, exactly, yet. It’s sounding pretty slim, two guys just happen to be there innocently, at four in the morning, then sometime later someone else wanders by and sets the fire. I doubt it.”

  We had a pleasant dinner on her deck after which I helped carry the dishes back into the kitchen.

  “Thanks, anything left in that bottle of wine?” she looked hopeful.

  “It’s empty, but there’s a second one,” I smiled, attempting to sound harmless.

  She studied me for just a moment.

  “I shouldn’t,” she said and held out her glass.

  “You’re right, you shouldn’t, but you might as well because I’m going to sit down and read that arson report and you’ll be bored.”

  “You talked me into it.”

  As reports go it was clinical. Which was fine with me. I read through it, then reread the pertinent sections twice more. Cut down to the basic facts the fire had been set using a small butane tank and a little timing device held in place with duct tape. Remnants of a tank consistent with the type used in a small camping stove had been recovered on site. The device had been placed in close proximity to flammable substances that served as additional accelerant, blah, blah, blah.

  In other words, someone crammed this thing next to gas and turpentine cans stored close to the door, set it to go off, and ran.

  Jill sat in her living room, just on the other side of a large archway, watching back to back episodes of Sex in the City and drinking wine. She’d gotten up twice to refill her glass, carrying the bottle back in with her the last time. She was curled up in the corner of the couch, looking very lovely, and at the tail
end of close to two bottles of wine.

  “What are you watching?” I asked as I got up from her dining-room table.

  “Sex in the City. I love it.”

  “Is this the one where Charlotte pisses off Miranda, Miranda gets kind of bitchy, Samantha has weird sex with a young guy, and Carrie screws up her date with Mister Big?”

  “You’ve already seen it?” she asked, surprised.

  “No, just a wild guess.”

  “Come here and watch it with me,” she said patting the cushion next to her, then taking a sip of wine.

  The offer was very tempting.

  “Thanks, but I better not, I’ve got an early morning meeting.”

  “Really? Afraid to mix business with pleasure? Or are you just playing hard to get?” she asked, then sipped some more, staring at me over the rim of her glass.

  The bottle on the coffee table was empty. Being a guy, I made a mental note after calculating her drinks consumed to frisky ratio.

  “No, really, I do have a meeting. As a matter of fact, I’m talking with a detective on some aspects of the fire and I wanna be sharp. So, if I could take a rain check?”

  “Okay, your loss.”

  “I don’t doubt it, but I better not. Thanks for dinner, I really enjoyed it. I’ll keep you posted.”

  She set her glass down on the coffee table, maybe just a little too heavily, then got up and walked toward the front door.

  “Okay, you’ll call me tomorrow? After your meeting?”

  “I’ll call you.”

  She stepped up, gave me a long kiss, then followed me aggressively with her tongue for a half moment as I attempted to pull away.

  “Thanks,” she grinned, then opened the door, and stood partially blocking the way so I had to brush past her.

  “Enjoy the rest of the night,” she laughed as I walked toward my car.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Nina’s Coffee Shop, at the corner of Selby and Western, sits in the shadow of the Cathedral and almost within sight of my front door. It’s the only beverage establishment I frequent that does not dispense alcohol. At seven in the morning a constant stream of customers came in the front door and lined up to place orders. Upwards of thirty people were seated around the place conversing and tapping keys on laptops. Everyone seemed just a little too perky and positive for my early morning taste.

  Twenty minutes later, Detective Norris Manning walked in, nodded, and then took his place in line. He ordered a large latte, two large caramel-slathered pastries, and pointed at me when it came time to pay.

  I nodded at June, the owner, who just rolled her eyes.

  “Thanks,” Manning slurped his latte as he sat down across from me.

  “My pleasure,” I lied.

  He wore a dark suit, and as he sat down I caught the briefest glimpse of a black leather shoulder holster. A waft of aftershave drifted in with him. The top of his bald head was a decided pink from a recent shower. His tie was loosened, and the top button of his white shirt was undone.

  “Face seems to have healed up,” he said looking at me.

  “Thank you, I wasn’t aware you cared so much.”

  “So, what have you got for me?” he asked, then crammed more than half a pastry into his mouth. He proceeded to noisily and purposefully lick caramel from the tips of his fingers.

  “Good?” I asked as he sucked his little finger just a moment longer.

  “The best,” he smiled.

  “I had a question on the Willard B. Sneen case.”

  “You mean Bernie?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Bernie. Do you guys have any theories? I mean are you thinking suicide, a drunken accident, or murder?”

  “Actually, it’s still an ongoing investigation. Why do you ask?” he said, then stuffed the remainder of his first pastry into his mouth. He smiled at me like a kid on Halloween night.

  “Hey look, Manning, I know you spoke with Aaron LaZelle. You know we’re friends, he and I. I may have come across something that would help. I don’t know. I do know this, it’s early in the morning for me and I don’t need to play games. I do know that when I last saw Bernie he was not stable. He was intoxicated, may have been on drugs as well, and seemed at best to be agitated. Not a good mix. I also know, or at least think, that he would not take his own life.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Nothing specific, just a general sense. Was the guy nutty? Absolutely. A drunk? Yeah. Drugs? Most likely. Did he seem to be harboring some sort of darkness that might get the better of him? I don’t think so. From what I hear he’d been a mess most of his life, never really done anything other than screw up. I’m just not sure there would be anything that could have set him off, pushed him over the edge and into the deep end.”

  Manning nodded, seemed to think about that as he tore off a relative dainty third of the remaining pastry and tossed it into his mouth.

  “He was pretty bombed when they led him out,” I continued. “The nearest train tracks are about a mile from The Spot. I’m not sure he could have made it that night, at least not on his own, for starters. Can you guys check and see what the train schedule is, maybe that would…”

  “Nice thinking, master sleuth. You know, occasionally we do check on things like that. He was hit at approximately eleven fifty-seven. By the way, I’m guessing you think this was probably over at about Sheppard Road and Randolph, right?”

  “That’s the most likely train crossing. It’s in the general direction of the rooming house where he lived. ‘Course there’s another one over…”

  “Actually, he was found in the switching yard, just east of downtown.”

  “The switching yard? What is that five miles? And he’s on foot? I know he couldn’t have made that, even if he was sober he wouldn’t have been able to get that far’ especially in just under an hour. The guy couldn’t run a block, let alone five miles.”

  “Especially barefoot and all wrapped up in duct tape the way he was.”

  “Duct tape?”

  “Yeah, over his mouth, around his legs, his wrists. Someone wrapped him up like a rug then laid him across the tracks. He’d been punched a couple of times, pretty hard. Had a real nasty dog bite on his ass. That’s why I was interested in that bruise you were sporting when you came in for your interview. But, there are a number of barflies attesting to the fact you were in The Spot until they threw you out sometime after two. A couple of hours after your pal Bernie caught it.”

  “Jesus.”

  “No, Jesus must have been busy.” Manning smiled at his joke. “Based on what was left of him, we’re guessing he had some idea of what was going on. The theory is he tried to roll into the center of the tracks, hoped the freight would just pass over him. That plan didn’t work too well.”

  “Suspects?”

  “Besides you? The usual. It wouldn’t be uncommon to have a murder like this over a fifteen-dollar debt or a half pint. There’s always that certain element, the puddle of slime that oozes around the ladder of society. It’s been almost a week now, with no real leads. This could well be a cold case in pretty short order. Not that I won’t keep working the damn thing.”

  “What about Sofmann?” I asked.

  “Mister Softee? That fuck? He’s slippery, but I don’t figure him for this. He may have a finger in a lot of things, but killing some lowlife like your pal, Bernie? I don’t think so.”

  “He used to work for Softee.”

  “Yeah, we checked into that, it was a couple years back. They fired his ass for stealing. I think he was one of four guys let go that season. We checked their records, seems to come with the territory. Usually hire college kids, but come mid-August they’re all heading back to school. So, they hire folks who shouldn’t be anywhere near kids, Sneen being one of them.” He licked more caramel off his fingers.

  “Besides, Softee was confined to bed, broke his leg in some sort of fall before this deal went down.”

  “Did you check that out?”

&n
bsp; “Who are you, internal affairs? Yeah, as a matter of fact, we did check it out. He was hospitalized. The nurses remembered him because he was such a pain in the ass.” He slurped more latte, glared at me over his cup.

  “I don’t know,” I said absently.

  “That’s probably the one correct thing you’ve said. What, you think you got something to add that might help?” he asked.

  “Nothing you don’t already know. I was trying to put together the distance to the train tracks and how screwed up Bernie was at the time. But, I guess I was way off base to begin with. I didn’t know about the duct tape and him being hit way over in the switching yard.”

  “Yeah, we’re keeping that quiet,” he said, then crammed the remainder of the sticky pastry into his mouth, slurped the last of his latte.

  “Detective, thanks for setting me straight.”

  “Always a pleasure, Haskell. Call me if you’d ever like me to do it again. Don’t forget to settle up before you leave,” he said pushing his chair in, giving me a little wink before going out the door.

  I sat thinking of the shoe Softee’s dog was chewing a few days back. Poor Bernie barefoot, bitten and wrapped in duct tape with a freight train barreling down on him. No one deserved that. Not a very happy thought.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  It was a little past noon. Another cloudless, scorching sky. The day was hot, muggy, and held the promise of getting much worse. I decided to pay a courtesy call on my former client.

  As usual I cooled my heels while the phone at the front gate rang and rang. Eventually Lola picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Hi, Lola, Dev Haskell. Sorry to drop by unannounced, but I was wondering if I might steal a minute or two of your time.” I really wasn’t sorry.

  “I’d love it,” she said, and the gate lock snapped open almost immediately.

  “Any worry about the dogs?” I asked peeking around the yard expecting the things to lunge out at any moment. Amazingly she was still on the line.

  “No, they’re out getting a bath and their nails done. They’ll be gone for hours, come on in,” she said, and snapped the lock again.