Keegan 00 Soft Case

by John Misak

  So, I had hit a soft spot. I liked that.

  “It’s all about money.”

  “What do you want, Detective Keegan? You want to consider me a suspect in this?” Chapman asked. It didn’t seem to shake him. The question came more as for information than concern.

  “I consider everyone a suspect. I would think you would understand that.” I watched Chapman’s face. The expression did not change one bit.

  “I know you have an investigation to carry out, and I also know that you have absolutely no leads, other than the fact that Ron apparently killed himself.”

  “Which you seem to think impossible.”

  He exhaled. “Not impossible. I’m no psychologist. It just doesn’t seem likely.” He paused. “Listen, I know you have a job to do, and I would like to do anything I can to help you. I mean, if there was any sort of foul play involved in Ron’s death, then that is an atrocity, and I would like to see you bring the people responsible to justice. I just don’t see how knowing about my company will help you.”

  Of course he knew. I wished I had the answer machine tape with me, so I could play it for him and see his reaction. That comment about fixing what Mullins’ father started stuck in the back of my mind. Mullins’ father had started Techdata, and Harold Chapman was in charge of that. It made sense.

  “Well, Mr. Chapman, I am not here to inconvenience, or anger you. Everything regarding this case is of concern to my department and me. So, if you wouldn’t mind answering just a few more questions, I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

  Chapman opened up a desk drawer and pulled out a cigar. He flicked a switch, which turned on a ceiling fan overhead.

  “Do you smoke?” he asked, reaching in the drawer for another cigar.

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my pack of cigarettes, which I had purchased at a convenience store next to Dad’s office. My moth was still numb, so holding a cigarette in my lips took concentration.

  “Only the sort that kill you,” I said.

  “Feel free,” he said, lighting his cigar. Smoke filled the room for a second, then it rose up into the exhaust fan directly above him. He took a few long drags, savored the cigar, which smelled like shit to me, and placed in the ashtray he placed halfway between us. From what I could tell, he was inhaling it. Disgusting. I lit my cigarette, threw the match in the ashtray, and looked at him. “Go ahead, ask your questions.”

  How nice of him.

  “Is it true that Mr. Mullins orchestrated the Onyx deal?” I asked.

  “Well, he originally was against the deal. It was my idea at first, but he was pivotal in making it happen.” Chapman spoke clearly and confidently. I sensed nothing off about his speech, anything that would give away his lying.

  “Will it definitely happen?”

  “Looks that way. I hope so. Thinking about investing?” Chapman quipped, trying to lighten the mood. I couldn’t blame him. Few people liked talking to the cops.

  “Not on my salary,” I said.

  “Everyone has to start somewhere.”

  I decided to get the conversation back on track. “Can Mrs. Mullins, under the current circumstances, block that merger? Does she have the power to do so?”

  He thought about that for a second. “On paper, I guess she could. But she really doesn’t know much about the operations of the company, so I doubt she would even consider doing such a thing. It would be a fool’s errand.”

  “Do you think she will proceed with the buyout?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why not. She doesn’t like the software business. She has no interest in it. She likes money, Detective Keegan, if you want me to be honest, she stands to make a hefty sum by proceeding with the buyout.” Again, Chapman spoke clearly. He meant what he said, for sure.

  I decided to shift gears. “What would you say if I told you that I have a witness who says he knows something about Mr. Mullins’ death? Someone who works for you.”

  “Do you?” Chapman asked, looking at me directly without a flinch.

  “I’m speaking hypothetically.”

  “Hypothetically, huh? I’m not much into hypotheticals. To entertain your question, however, I would be interested in finding out what this person knows. Also, how they came to know it. People can say whatever they want, make up stories, or they can think they know something they really don’t.”

  “Agreed. Still, people also can see and hear things and know them as well. It’s hard to tell if someone really is telling the truth,” I said.

  “Don’t I know that,” Chapman said, pulling at his cigar. He considered it for a moment, watching the smoke rise around it. “Have you ever been fooled, betrayed?”

  “Of course.”

  “It usually blindsides you,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  “Do you know of anyone who would want to do Mr. Mullins any harm?” I asked, seeing an opportunity.

  “Obviously, if I knew of such a person, I would have brought it to Ron’s attention, and I would have told you about it immediately.”

  “So, no one you were aware of would want him dead?”

  “No one I knew of. I mean, you’re talking about a highly competitive industry here. A lot of things we do, especially when we do them well, can squash an entire company. Of course there has to be someone that wasn’t happy with him, or our company.”

  “Anyone in particular come to mind?”

  Chapman took another hit off his cigar. “This is the software industry, Detective Keegan, not the mafia. You don’t see computer geeks going around knocking off their competition.”

  It was time to get to the meat of this interview. Geiger wanted me to bring him back something, and though Chapman did offer me some information, I had nothing that helped the investigation.

  “What if I told you that you were a suspect? That I thought you might have offed your partner because he was against your merger with Onyx, and he had changed his mind about the buyout.”

  Chapman laughed heartily. It appeared quite genuine. “Detective Keegan, please. I am a businessman. I was a partner and friend of Ronald Mullins for almost 20 years. He made this company what it is, I won’t deny that. Without him, I would be well off, no doubt, but I wouldn’t have one-tenth the amount of money I have now. Even the notion that I would want him dead is preposterous, at best. Please keep your questions within the limits of sanity.”

  Good answer, Harold. “Most murder investigations do not revolve around sanity, Mr. Chapman. I need to explore every lead, every opportunity, even the ones that seem ridiculous. They all seem ridiculous until seen in the right light, the right motive.”

  “There are no facts, only interpretations,” Chapman said.

  “Very true. One of your own sayings?” I asked.

  Chapman shook his head. “Nietzche.”

  “Gesundheit.”

  Chapman smiled at my bad joke.“He was a famous writer and philosopher. Guy like you would probably like him. Give you some more perspectives to look at your cases with.”

  I finished my cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray. I wouldn’t get anything from Chapman. Agnelli would close the case, and he might have been right to do that. I couldn’t prove murder here. Everything pointed to the fact that Mullins killed himself. But, I had no other case to work on, and this was the most interesting one I had been given in a long time. I didn’t want it taken away from me.

  I searched my mind for something I could go on. I remembered the business card, and scanned Chapman’s desk for his. It was sitting in a silver holder, to the left of me. I looked at it. It looked nothing like Mullins’.

  “Do all of you have the same business card?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Your business cards. Are all of them the same?”

  Chapman reached over and took one of his cards out of the holder. He handed it to me.

  “We have a format that we all follow, if that’s what you are asking,” he said, somewhat taken aback by the question.
r />   I looked at the card. Chapman’s had printing like most cards, horizontally across the width of the card. The card we found in the Nissan looked nothing like it…

  “Mullins’ card was the same as yours?”

  “Well, his was a different color, but it was basically the same.” That got me wondering. Why would someone plant a phony card in that car? Maybe it was someone just looking to drive us nuts, or throw us off. I decided to shift topics again, mainly because this was going nowhere.

  “Do you know where Mr. Mullins was headed the day he died?”

  “No. I was in Amsterdam.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to him?” I asked.

  “Early Tuesday.”

  “How did he sound?”

  “Fine, from what I could tell.” Chapman coughed into his hand. Gross, I thought. People did this all the time and then shook hands later. I tried to remind myself not to accept that hand, or go to the bathroom right afterward to wash mine. Didn’t need Chapman’s throat snot on my hand, thanks.

  “Can you give me an idea of what time it was?”

  “About nine in the morning, New York time.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I was meeting with someone from Onyx. They were at the convention. He was a little concerned about the fact that they would see me there and not him as well.” Chapman rattled this information off like fact.

  “What did he want you to say to them?”

  “He didn’t specify. He just wanted to go over a few things.”

  “And he didn’t say where he was going later in the day?” I kept pressing. Liars get details wrong the more you ask for.

  “No, he didn’t. I think he had a meeting with someone from his campaign. He was planning on announcing his candidacy in a few weeks, so I assume that was where he was going. Other than that, I have no idea. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you have a name of someone in his campaign? Someone he might have been going to see?”

  He started typing on his keyboard.

  “William, William Rogers. They had been meeting a lot. I assume, that if he was going to meet someone about his candidacy, Rogers would be the man he would see. You want his number?”

  “Yes, thanks.”

  He gave it to me. I didn’t bother writing it down, because I had it on tape. Chapman’s phone rang. He pressed a button, to turn on his speakerphone.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Mr. Chapman, there is someone here to see you,” the secretary said.

  He picked up his phone.

  “Who is it? Okay. I am still with Detective Keegan. Tell him I will be a minute.” He hung up the phone.

  “Am I holding you up?” I asked.

  “Not really.” He took another drag from his cigar. “Was there anything else?”

  There wasn’t. “That’s it, unless there is something you feel I need to know.”

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  I got up. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Chapman, and I look forward to your future cooperation.”

  “Of course.”

  We shook hands, and I walked out of his office, depressed. My mouth was tingling, the effects of the Novocain were wearing off. I had nothing, nothing that would keep Agnelli from shutting me down. Everything was turning to shit. Geiger was going to be upset that I didn’t come up with anything. He was counting on me, I knew that. He liked to have little wars with Agnelli, and he hated losing. I wasn’t looking forward to letting him know I had let him down. On top of that, Rick was pretty much out of commission. I didn’t mind working alone, but I would have appreciated someone with me when I spoke to Chapman. Maybe there was something I missed.

  The secretary in the lobby saw me come from Chapman’s office, and punched a few keys on her keyboard. The middle elevator opened again. I got in, without saying a word to the secretary, and descended to the first floor.

  I was pissed. There was no other way to put it. I saw the case starting to fall apart before me. I didn’t ask for this case, Rick did, and I was left with one of the biggest interviews for the case. Like I said, I liked being left alone, but something made me feel exposed. I had no idea how right I was.

  Twelve

  I had to meet this informant at the Grand Deli by seven. The Grand Deli was a pretty famous place, located on Suffolk Street, right in the middle of Little Italy and Chinatown. Not the best neighborhood, with some rather seedy people running around, but tolerable. I’d been to the deli a few times when I lived closer to the area, and I have to say that I never understood its popularity. They cut the meat too thick, served it on hard, crusty bread, and the service was nothing to speak of. So, basically, it had all necessary ingredients for success.

  It was 6:45 when I parked the car a few stores away. I couldn’t believe I found a spot. I took a walk toward Chinatown to kill some time. It was quiet, and no one was eating at the outside tables that seemed to be everywhere in that area. I hate to have people watching me eat, and sitting at those tables made me feel like I was in Macy’s window.

  There were a few people inside the restaurants, eating that Asian shit that they thought was good for them. That’s all you have to do to make a pile of money; get people to think that what you are selling them is good for them. You see, people by nature treat their bodies like trashcans. No one wants to admit that, but it’s the truth. The Rick Calhills of the world are in the minority. So, you tell the majority that you are making something that is good for them, and they will eat it by the pound. Then, to show off to their friends how smart they are, they tell everyone they know that they are eating this new health food. That’s it. Just open up a place like, “John’s Tofu and Other Crap That Tastes Like Shit,” put a blurb on the menu that says how nutritional your food is, and you’re done. The idiots will come and beat down your door.

  The weather was nice that night, hovering around 55, I would say, and I enjoyed taking in the air. Of course, filtered through a cigarette. It was perfect smoking weather. I hadn’t yet found bad smoking weather.

  I walked back toward the Grand Deli, and walked inside. It was pretty busy, with people standing in line waiting for their dinner. The deli still operated the way old delis did, with meat hanging from the ceiling, and four men behind the counter taking orders. The showcases were packed with salads, desserts, and hot dinners, ranging from chicken cutlets up to baked ziti. I scanned the place, but didn’t see anyone standing out as my informant.

  I took a table by the window, surprised that one was open, and waited. Behind me were the soda cases. A Mountain Dew sounded nice. I got up, grabbed a 16oz bottle and opened it. One of the guys on the counter called out to me.

  “Hey, you gonna pay for that?” Friendly guy. See what I meant about the service?

  I flashed my badge, and said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He nodded. Like a 30-year-old man in a suit is going to steal a 75-cent bottle of soda. I couldn’t believe I even had to flash the badge.

  This scene caught the attention of a man sitting alone at a table three away from mine. He looked at me, got up, and started to walk over. He was about 28 I would say, with very short brown hair, combed forward in the style that everyone seemed to wear. He had glasses, and looked sort of nerdy, in that computer-geek fashion.

  “Detective Keegan?” he asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “I’m the one who called.”

  “You the one that spoke to Sondra too?”

  “Yes. I understand you two have spoken about this.”

  “What?” I asked. How did he know?

  “I know she told you, went over everything with you.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. This guy was spooking me out a bit. Something sure didn’t seem right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “I’m the one that spoke to you on the phone.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “I can’t tell you that,” the guy said. Something wasn’t right about him, but most guys wh
o did this sort of thing had some screws loose. Actually, all of their screws needed tightening.

  “What do you want?”

  “I came here to give you what we spoke about,” the guy said quickly, like he wanted it over and done with.

  “Sit down,” I said. “Relax. Take a minute.”

  “I can’t. I gotta get going.”

  “Well, then, tell me what you know.”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a white, legal sized envelope. “Everything we spoke about is in here,” he said, throwing the envelope in the table.

  “Everything?” I said. We didn’t even talk about something specific, so I had no idea what he was talking about. He seemed overly nervous.

  “Yes, everything.”

  “Are you going to leave Mrs. Mullins alone now? You’ve shaken her up pretty bad.”

  “This completes my involvement in all of this.”

  “Okay.” I picked up the envelope, which felt pretty thick, and went to open it.

  “Wait until I leave. I’m sure you’ll be happy with what I have given you.” The guy smirked when he said that.

  I hoped I would. If it was, I would be able to get Agnelli off my back, and continue the investigation. Amazing that I had to force my boss to let me do my job. That should have told me something about the case.

  “I better be.”

  “Take care, Detective Keegan,” the man said.

  “You never told me your name,” I said.

  “All the information you need is in the envelope, trust me,” he said, and walked out the front door. I sat there for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. This guy wanted to meet me. Why didn’t he just drop off the envelope, or mail it.

  I was about to find out why.

  I walked up to the counter, placed a dollar bill in front of the clerk who had seen me, and walked out. I tucked the envelope in my jacket, deciding to read it when I got home. I didn’t want to read it in the deli, and I didn’t like to read in the car. I figured I would go home, grab some dinner, read what was in the envelope, and get some much-needed sleep.

  I never got the chance.

  It took about ten seconds after I got into my car to happen. I started the engine, took the envelope out of my jacket and placed it on the passenger seat. Just before I put the car in drive, I heard a police siren. I looked in my rear view mirror, and saw two squad cars, and about three unmarked cars. All of their lights were flashing. At first, I thought someone was hit by a car, or something like that. Then, I found out otherwise.