Carolyn Arnold - McKinley 01 - The Day Job is Murder

by Carolyn Arnold

  “No you won’t.” Their eyes connected. Time seemed to halt.

  Sean opened the door farther, keeping his eyes on the perp. “Put your gun down.”

  The gunman ran past, knocking Sean into the hard bin of a chocolate bar display. Cursing under his breath, Sean straightened out and spun around. He had to let the rest of them know not to take harsh action.

  “Don’t shoot him,” he called out.

  The suspect lost his footing on the slushy pavement and came crashing to his knees.

  The five officers circled him as he held the gun over his head.

  Officer Voigt ripped the weapon from the man’s hands and then looked up at Sean and shook his head, smiling. “It’s just a water gun, folks.”

  Another officer cuffed the suspect, pulled him to his feet, and led him to a squad car.

  Smith was pale and appeared clammy.

  “Are you okay?” Sean asked.

  He nodded, pointing a finger to an older gentleman sitting on the floor. “But he’s not.”

  Quinn.

  The man was bleeding. His nose appeared broken, his eyes glazed over in shock.

  “The guy hit him,” Smith stated the obvious.

  Sean hurried to Quinn’s side, dropping to his knees as he called over the radio for an ambulance. “Officer McKinley, send a bus. Man injured.” He addressed Quinn. “Sir, are you all right?”

  The old man’s blue eyes were full of tears and there was vulnerability in them, but Sean sensed Quinn wasn’t used to feeling that way. He took in the overcoat he wore and the suit pants, but what stood out the most was a familiarity that pulled Sean to him.

  “Name’s Mr. Douglas Quinn. I just wanted a chocolate bar and needed milk.” His dark eyebrows pressed downward as he spoke, standing in stark contrast to his silver hair.

  Hearing the man talk, Sean understood why he felt that bond. Quinn reminded him of his father, and the similarities were so strong, he could have been his brother.

  “Mr. Quinn, we have to stop the bleeding.”

  “Yes.”

  He went to put a hand into his jacket pocket, but Sean stopped him and pulled out a handkerchief, extending it to him. “Here, this is clean, don’t worry. You’re going to be okay.”

  Quinn’s eyes never left Sean’s, but it wasn’t odd. Even though they had never encountered one another before today, Sean knew he’d be seeing more of him. He made him feel in touch with his dead father. And how Sean missed the man.

  The Funeral

  QUINN’S MEMORIAL SERVICE TOOK PLACE in a small funeral home. There would be no grandiose ceremony or hundreds in attendance to remember him. A tragedy considering he was the most selfless person Sean had ever met, next to his dad.

  Dad always came first. He never had a chance to truly know his mother as she died when he was nine. Although his Dad did his best to keep her memory alive, Sean grieved the fact he couldn’t remember her. Somehow over the years he had learned to handle the feelings, but as a kid it wasn’t easy when other mothers were around and his wasn’t anymore.

  Sean gave himself a quick look-over in the rearview mirror and straightened a few stray hairs around his ears. He got out, pulled down on his jacket and ran his hands down his pant legs to straighten the winkles from the car ride over.

  Stepping inside, a part of him felt as though he wasn’t worthy of being there, but there’s no other place he would be this afternoon. The aroma of floral arrangements hit his nose, stained with its negative association—death. Flowers saw us into the world, and they saw us out.

  An exceptionally tall man greeted him. He was dressed in a black, pin-striped suit, which, to the eye, only stretched his height farther.

  “Which family are you here for today?” the man asked.

  “Quinn.” Sean’s voice seemed to pierce the sanctity somehow, and, saying the name aloud, drove home the feeling he shouldn’t be there. Maybe it wasn’t too late to leave.

  “Here you go.” He extended a memorial card and smiled politely, knowingly, as if he sensed Sean’s level of grief. He gestured to the room on the left.

  Sean stood there for a few seconds.

  The enormity of emotions inherent with death lapped over him, encasing him in a womb of self-propriety and self-assessment. Sad energy flowed through the building, bringing finality, showcasing the transitory journey of life—the embodiment of hopelessness.

  Maybe he shouldn’t be as affected, seeing as his day job was murder, but it was humanly impossible not to be impacted by the end result everyone has to face, as if we were meant for so much more than this life. Maybe that was why some believed in their loved ones living on. Sean supposed, in a sense, they did. They continued to exist within those they left behind, leaving the people whose lives they’d touched a little better off for having known them.

  Sara must have adopted the same mentality. When he’d asked why she read the obits, she said that when a person passes on, the world changes forever. She saw everyone as adding something to society at birth, and she experienced the loss when someone died. She was more in-tune when it came to the world around her than he could claim, but the longer he lived, the more his perspective fused with hers.

  The room was a tapestry of unfamiliar faces. He regretted declining Sara’s offer to come along. If she had, at least he would have recognized one among the crowd.

  He spotted a few available seats and made his way to one. A few gathered in clusters at the back of the room. Some dabbed tissues to their eyes, but their tears transformed to laughter as their spirits must have been lifted with the telling of a comical memory.

  The human race had a tendency to come together when faced with a crisis. It had him wondering what the world would be like if people were always like that. He wasn’t typically so sentimental, but based on the situation he gave himself a pass.

  Still, guilt weighed heavily with the fact that Sean had let the visits wane, even though, in the months following the robbery, he had seen Quinn on several occasions.

  Quinn was old-school, with the inherent manners and charm of sophistication. It might have seemed odd to the world around them—a twenty-two-year-old hanging out with a man in his seventies—but it felt perfectly right. Quinn had a lot to teach the world and had shared many life lessons with Sean during the numerous afternoons they spent talking about women, family, and business.

  On one visit, Quinn told him the only reason he tolerated the company of such a young man was because Sean was a gentleman. Initially, he wasn’t certain why Quinn had made that assessment. Quinn then pulled out a rectangular box. Inside were five embroidered handkerchiefs with the initials S.M. in blue thread. As Sean had pinched the fabric, it took all his willpower not to cry.

  “You used yours for me,” Quinn had said with a smile.

  What he never confessed to Quinn was that his father always had them, and somehow by carrying one, it brought his memory closer. Now they would serve to connect him to two men who had irrevocably touched his life.

  Sean had told her he was all right going to the service alone, but Sara felt as though she should have gone with him anyway. Since when do men admit to having emotional needs, and that especially applied to Sean. His focus was keen, his determination unwavering, and his pride more than healthy. He would hate to show vulnerability, but she sensed it coming off him. This death touched close to his heart. He had regrets.

  She tried to keep her mind on the case, but Burton had been questioned and cut loose. A few pointed questions were all it took to make it apparent he wasn’t their killer. It was time to approach this case from another angle, but from what direction?

  She refreshed her coffee, hoping it would realign her focus. It didn’t.

  Her mind kept slipping to Sean and she found herself staring at the screen. She was over-analyzing things. Sean needed her today and she was his partner and friend. It was her responsibility to be there for him.

  She shot up, taking her jacket off the back of the chair, but the sl
eeve knocked over the mug, spilling coffee everywhere.

  It was a sign from the Universe to stay put, or at least that’s how she was going to take it.

  The service started and Sean’s thoughts traced from the present to the past, his focus scattered, drawn away to a woman in the row across from him. She kept passing glances in his direction. She was mid-thirties with long blond hair swept back into a bun, and a round, pleasant face.

  Did she think she recognized him?

  At first, her attention had him turning to the right to see if she was actually looking at someone else. When he turned back, she was facing the podium again.

  Was she one of Quinn’s relatives? He made a mental note to seek them out afterward to offer his condolences. Hopefully, he would be able to pull out a story that would make someone smile. He couldn’t imagine Quinn wanting those he left behind to be wallowing in grief. A man such as Quinn would prefer his funeral to be a celebration of his life.

  As the eulogy continued, the woman’s attention was getting annoying.

  He raised his brows, trying to elicit a response from her—anything to indicate what she wanted. The hint of a smile brushed her lips, but then she looked away again.

  Was she trying to pick him up at a funeral?

  With the thought, his main excuse for not seeing Quinn more often became clear—life, and the distraction of women. Not that he’d had many affairs, but Sean never had problems attracting them.

  One issue he had with most women he dated was their need for constant attention. He found them to be clingy with a suffocating need to discuss their feelings and hear sentimental promises. The entire grooming required of such a relationship left him feeling exhausted, before he pursued them. He had no patience threshold when it came to dramatics and tears. On the flipside of the emotionally unstable were the ones who embraced their liberal advancements and viewed hot pursuit as a successful ploy to rope a man. No thank you.

  Maybe that’s why this woman’s ogling heated his insides—and not in a good way. This was not the appropriate time or place.

  The service ended and he had to decide whether to flee or carry through on his self-promise to reach out to Quinn’s family. So, as everyone got up from their seats, Sean touched the shoulder of the man in front of him.

  “Excuse me. Would you happen to know who here are Mr. Quinn’s next of kin?” The words from the job slipped out. He corrected it. “His family?”

  The man shook his head. “Mr. Quinn didn’t have any family left alive, son.”

  Sean’s heart sped up. Did he know the man he spent hours with, at all?

  Thinking back now, Quinn never talked about himself. They’d spent hours together, yet their conversations had always focused around what was going on Sean’s life.

  “All right. Thank you.”

  The man pressed his lips, but never smiled. He wrapped his arm around a woman beside him and they slid out of their aisle.

  Scanning the room, Sean caught the blonde staring again.

  She pulled her jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it over the white blouse she had paired with a black pencil skirt. She came forward with an extended hand. “I’m Daphne Graham.”

  “Have we met before?”

  She laughed, an unexpected deep, throaty sound that likely worked on most men, just not this one.

  When he didn’t ‘bite’, her expression straightened and her aura reverted to a professional tone.

  “Are you Sean McKinley?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know who you are.”

  “I’m Mr. Quinn’s estate attorney and executor of his Will.”

  “Still doesn’t explain how you know who I am.”

  “You look like a cop, Sean.”

  “Mr. McKinley will work just fine.”

  “Very well, Mr. McKinley. Very proper, but I like it.” She adjusted a leather attaché under her arm. “My father was a cop. I have a brother who is a cop. All of you have a certain air about you.” Her words came to a standstill as their eyes locked. “You’re probably in a hurry. That’s another thing with cops. You always have something to do.”

  “That would be correct. If you would excuse me.” He took one step.

  “Please. There is something I need to discuss with you.”

  “With me?”

  She held out a business card, pressed between her index and middle finger. “That’s my card. If you can, I’d like to schedule you for tomorrow afternoon. Would one thirty work for you?”

  Had Quinn left him something? Did he correctly understand her interest in him?

  He smiled at her. “Did he leave me a collection of handkerchiefs?”

  Daphne returned the smile, this time it seemed sincere, without a hidden agenda. “He did like them.”

  “You knew him well?”

  She nodded, but she was able to withhold any clear evidence of grief. There were no tears in her eyes, no downward tug on her lips, no quiver contorting her chin.

  “I worked with him for years. He told me about you.”

  “About me?”

  “Yes, of course. He said that he never understood why a young man would want to spend time—”

  “With an old coot like him.”

  “That’s right.”

  Neither said anything for a few seconds, both summoned to the past carried on melancholy wings.

  Sean broke the silence. “Well.”

  “Well, Mr. McKinley, I’ll see you at one thirty tomorrow, then? The address on the card.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “All right, then.” She excused herself with a slight dip of her head.

  What she left in her wake was a mixture of excitement and despondency. It didn’t matter what he got from Quinn, just the fact that he’d cared enough—that Sean had made a difference in someone else’s life—that was all that mattered.

  Reality

  SARA CONSIDERED CALLING SEAN TO see how he had made out. It was more than a passing thought actually—it was a repeating chorus, ringing in her head. She had shot the notion down several times. She didn’t need her expression of concern taken another way, and it would be hard not to disclose her true feelings.

  She thought about covering the intention of the call, diverting it to a case update, but gave herself a firm no. She’d seen it before, friends turn into lovers, turn into enemies. She didn’t want that happening to them. At least this way, he was a part of her daily life. She’d learned to swallow back the emotions that regularly surfaced. The way he smiled at her, the way he insisted on holding doors open for her, how up until just recently, he’d get the car door for her. It broke her heart to tell him to stop that. She was worried about rumors spreading around the department. Cops made excellent gossipers.

  She tucked her legs up under her and settled on the sofa, notebook ready, and a pen poised over the page. There was only a paragraph written and not many full sheets came before it, maybe fifty. She took in her small hands, noticing how truly delicate they appeared. She envisioned a wedding band on her ring finger.

  The daydreaming set in and she visualized herself with Sean, imagining that things were different and they were free to be together without risk to both a broken heart and a messed-up career. What if they were two regular people who, met in a park, fell in love and got married?

  No. She had to stop her thoughts from traveling down that well-worn path. It was paved with tears and regrets, of a sort, but if they ever broke up, it had the potential of tilting the world upside down. She had to disregard the urging inside her that insisted a successful romantic relationship with him would do the same.

  But she’d seen the way he left other women. He cut things off quick and clean. Look at poor Nancy. All she did was have an attachment to her cat. Even though Sara didn’t think he’d do that to her, how could she risk everything?

  Her hand brushed the phone as she lifted the wine glass she had placed on the table beside her. She shook her head, washing the thought down with a mouthf
ul of wine. Then she got to work and poured her heart into her story. Words quickly covered the page.

  Sean had left the funeral with every intention of going home to change and then back out to see Sara. At the very least, he wanted to know how she’d made out with Burton and whether or not he was their guy. But then his empty house sucked him in and he’d never felt so alone.

  He had slipped into an old pair of ratty jogging pants and a brand-name sweater, one that had cost too much money at the time, but proved the adage you get what you pay for. For a sixty-five-dollar investment, it had given him ten-plus years of warm evenings.

  He settled onto the couch, another purchase from many years ago. Its cushions were tattered and worn, but there were better ways to spend money. The large screen television across from him was a splurge buy, a stab at retail therapy, but it hadn’t worked. He had charged it the day Sara told him their relationship wouldn’t be progressing to the next level. While the purchase didn’t mend his heart, it did provide a clear picture—of sports and movies—and when paired with the surround system bought that day as well, it made for a great media area.

  It was after eight, and he considered calling Sara, but the funeral service had left him emotionally drained, and if that wasn’t enough, the mystery of what Quinn had left him in his Will played on him.

  Maybe he was getting a collection of handkerchiefs. Quinn didn’t have money. His clothes looked older than the dated car he drove. He laughed and then swigged back a mouthful of light beer. As if. It really didn’t matter what he was left, but what it equated to—he had touched Quinn’s life. He should have made time for him.

  He pulled out the memorial card and read it through. When he was finished, he glanced over at the phone, his thoughts on Sara. He should call.

  Seconds later, he was listening to her line ring. On the third, she answered.

  “Hey, Sara.”

  “Sean? Are you okay?”

  “Yes, of course.”