Soft Case (Book 1 of the John Keegan Mystery Series), Page 3

down an octave as he talked. He got excited easily, but he really got going on this one. I must say, it got me a little interested to.

  “Who is it?” I asked.

  “You know Ron Mullins?”

  I recognized the name, and raised my eyebrows. Everyone in the city knew him. Millionaire, philanthropist, general ‘gut living the dream’ and making us suffer the nightmare in comparison. “The software guy?”

  Rick nodded. “That one.”

  “What about him?” He started to speak, but I interrupted. “What is it other than the fact he’s dead?” Gotta keep Rick on topic.

  “Committed suicide.”

  “Well, that makes for a big case. All we need to do is find the note. I can see where this will make your career,” I said.

  “I don’t think it was a suicide.”

  Good point. The man was worth millions, and rumors floated around that he would enter the New York Senatorial race the next year. He had a gorgeous wife, two kids, a private jet, and just about everything else that goes along with being one of the luckiest bastards in the world. Suicide didn’t fit.

  “Well, that makes sense. Unless he killed himself because he felt guilty making everyone else’s life look like shit.” I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my cigarettes. When I did, I realized there was only one left. I put it on my mouth, crushed the pack, and placed it on the table. I lit the cigarette, but before I could even inform Rick that he was buying me another pack, he clumsily reached into his jacket and pulled out a fresh pack. Helluva guy, I gotta tell you. “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem. I knew you’d ask for them. Fifteen bucks, too.”

  “Price you gotta pay.”

  “Yeah, anyway, I agree. The guy had no reason to kill himself. At least, no obvious reason. I already got on the horn with Geiger. He’s gonna let us handle this one,” Rick said. Geiger ran Homicide and, though a decent boss, he didn’t exactly fit the description of a nice guy when it came to work. I only wondered what Rick had told him to get a suicide case with such a high profile. I didn’t want to know, because I was involved.

  “What makes you think I am interested?” I asked.

  “Well, the rest of the list consists of a dead homeless guy, a 95-year-old man they found rotting in his apartment, and an apparent gang shooting. I figured I was doing you a favor.”

  He did. He also put me at risk. This case could have some serious ramifications, but I realized then that I needed just that; something with excitement.

  “Okay. What have we got so far?”

  “Well, it seems Mr. Mullins ran his $150,000 Mercedes into a wall off FDR Drive three hours ago,” Rick said. That brought a powerful image to my mind. What a way to go.

  “I didn’t hear about it on the radio,” I said.

  “A couple of uniforms were right around the comer, the street was near dead, and they were able to keep it away from the press so far. I’d say the networks will get wind of it within the hour.”

  “So, he drives into a building, and dies. Maybe it was a suicide. Maybe just a car accident.” When dealing with the rich and famous, we followed up a bit more on things, I hate to say. Rick considered Mullins’ death a homicide because he was rich and famous. Those people get better treatment. If you crash your car into a wall, we cops basically just have you scraped off and move on.

  “Maybe. But it is certainly worth delving into a bit, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps. They find a note or anything?” I asked.

  “Nothing that I know of. His cell phone, which somehow survived the crash intact, was on,” Rick said. “Phone call right before impact, if the math is right.”

  “Could have been thrown on by the impact,” I said. “Like a cement-wall-dial.”

  Rick gave me a sideways look and shrugged. “Possible, but we’re already checking out who he called last.”

  I took another swallow of the drink, emptying it. Without hesitation, John made eye contact with me and nodded again, moving toward the bottle of Dewars. What a guy. I looked around the bar. The guys in the suits were still there, and Rod Stewart, of all people, played on the jukebox.

  “Okay, so we get the phone records and see who he called. Probably won’t lead anywhere.”

  “If it doesn’t, then we certainly don’t have a suicide. Obviously, if he talked on the phone at the time before he killed himself, that call would be important, and the person on the other end will have some information for us,” Rick said, ever-hopeful.

  I lit another cigarette. This case was going to be complicated. Maybe a dead homeless guy case would serve me better. But something nagged at the back of my mind, something about wanting to be stimulated. Not that kind of stimulated.

  “How long before we have anything?” I asked.

  “Guy down at the station said to call him a little after ten. I say we pay a little visit to whoever Mullins called tonight, see what they talked about.” Rick beamed now, like a little kid who gets to drive the car on his Daddy’s lap. Actually, he bubbled so much with excitement that I felt my own stomach tense a little. That reminded me that my stomach was empty.

  “Okay, I think that’s a good idea. We’ve got about an hour, so why don’t we grab a bite here while we wait.”

  “It’s after nine. I never eat after nine. Anything you eat late ends up on your gut.” That’s three reasons I thought about strangling Rick almost every day. Rick obsessed about health, and staying in shape. I didn’t. He was a year younger than me, but built a lot better. He always drank protein shakes, ate health bars, and took vitamins. He was a good specimen, and certainly didn’t fit the donut-eating cop stereotype. He looked like a Hollywood actor. Okay, maybe a soap opera guy. Unfortunately, if you are interested, he is married, with two kids. You could send him flowers, though. He’d probably like them.

  “Well, I’m starving, and I do eat when I am hungry. I don’t care what time it is,” I said.

  Rick sighed. “Okay, get what you want.”

  Chicken fingers and a burger sounded pretty good to me. I gestured to John, who sent the waitress over, a twenty-something blonde who looked way too good to waitress at Kasey’s. Okay, maybe I was horny. Hadn’t been laid in over a month. But, I had good old Rick there, and he’d probably say that having sex after nine was no good for your heart or something like that. I ordered the fingers and the burger, and Rick entered us into idle chat for a while. Nothing interesting, trust me.

  Two

  The free dinner satisfied me nicely. Nothing like a free meal to fill your belly. Rick wasn’t exactly happy about paying the bill. He made a face as he did so, but he came through regardless. I’m not really a mooch, but if I had to tolerate his company, I needed to get paid for it. By the looks of things, a long ride lay ahead of us, and his wallet was going to get thinner from it. If he wanted my help to make it to the top, he had to take care of me.

  “Let’s get a look at the body,” I said. I lit a cigarette, which drew a frown from Rick, and enjoyed the after dinner smoke—one of the best.

  “Not a bad idea, though it ain’t gonna be pretty.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

  “I don’t know,” Rick said.

  “I have. Trust me.”

  We got into Rick’s car, a brand new Acura CL coupe. A chick’s car, by my standards, but Rick was proud of it. I went to light up another cigarette, but he stopped me cold.

  “Not in here,” he said.

  “Is it leased?”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on, who cares?” I asked. What a bitch.

  “I don’t want the car to smell of it,” Rick said. A valid complaint, but that didn’t control my urges.

  “Give me a break.”

  “No, give me a break. I bought you dinner. Paid for the cigarette you want to smoke. The least you could do is not smoke it in my new car.”

  He had a point.

  “Whatever,” I said, holding up my hands.

&
nbsp; We drove through midtown, to the morgue. Morgues aren’t as bad as most people think. They don’t stink, surprisingly, and, by the time the bodies got there, they were cleaned up, and looked like mannequins. We pulled up, Rick looked for the perfect spot for about three minutes, and we walked in.

  Alfred, the man at the desk who looked dead himself, smiled at us. I knew it wasn’t genuine. “Here for Mullins, I suppose,” he said, in his whiny, annoying voice. It had a slight wheeze to it. I saw—or heard—my vocal future if I kept smoking. No, it didn’t make me want to quit. It made me want another cigarette. Morbid.

  “Yup,” I said. I wanted out of there. Hated the place. Despite my previous comments, the place spooked the shit out of me. Something about a building full of dead people can do that.

  “Not here,” Alfred said.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Still at the hospital. Downstairs. Doctor’s giving him a good once-over.”

  “Strange,” Rick replied. “You think they’d be done by now.”

  “The way things go when you’re dealing with someone as important as him,” Alfred said. He emphasized ‘important’ as if to add sarcasm.

  “He is dead, right?” I asked.

  “Far as I know.” Alfred fumbled with some papers. He was done with us. Like he had any interest in the first place.

  “Time to hit the hospital.” Rick looked at Alfred. “St. Mark’s, right?”

  “That’s the place,” Alfred said, not taking his eyes off his paperwork.

  We hit no traffic going to St. Marks, but that didn’t stop Rick from driving like he was in bumper to bumper. I checked the