Keegan 00 Soft Case (2 page)

I finished gawking at the ravages of time on my face and got my gun, a chrome Smith and Wesson 380, and put it into my shoulder holster, under my jacket. I grabbed the pack of Marlboros on the TV, and shook the pack. About three left, so good old Rick would have to front the six bucks Kasey’s stole from you for a pack of cigarettes as well. Price you gotta pay.

When I made it to Kasey’s, which was about four blocks east of me on Fourth, the place was fairly packed. Four guys in suits sat at the end of the bar by the door, watching the Ranger game. Kasey’s was pretty much a cop joint, though I don’t really know how a place becomes something like that. It’s not near any precinct, and though it is a down to earth place, there’s really nothing there that stands out which would make it suitable for blue shirts. Those guys at the end were welcome to come in, but they didn’t fit, and it was obvious. They were the only ones talking over a whisper.

John, the bartender, nodded when I walked in. I’d known him for about three years, when he started there, and I think we had about two conversations that lasted more than a minute. Still, we had an understanding. He poured the drinks, I drank them and, if there was something interesting to talk about, we did. A Billy Joel song played quietly on the jukebox, “The Entertainer,” I think. I never liked the man, or his music. That stuff was for Long Island kids who thought they were being bad by listening to a man sing about blowjobs or doing pot. What I did notice about Joel was that his fans were dedicated. You heard one of his songs on the jukebox, like “The Entertainer,” you knew for damn sure that “Scenes From an Italian Restaurant,” “Piano Man,” and “Goodnight Saigon,” weren’t far behind. Yeah, this guy could sing about being in Vietnam, the same way I could sing about wearing a dress. But Christ, don’t go telling a Billy Joel fan that.

John gestured toward a booth in the corner, and I saw the back of Rick’s blonde head sticking out. I walked over to the booth, and was greeted by Rick’s wide smile, the one he always wore when he smelled a good case. His sense of smell wasn’t particularly good and, at that moment, when I really thought about it, I realized how morbid he was being excited because someone had died. But we all got excited when someone died, especially someone of some importance. Sick, I know. Very sick.

“Jackass,” he said. I always used that word, and Rick abused it. Reason number three for why I generally couldn’t stand him.

“Coming from the Chief,” I replied, and sat down to a Dewars and coke before me. The ice hadn’t even started to melt. As a matter of fact, it was still crackling. I liked that. It showed that Rick cared enough to wait for the right time to order the drink. Either that, or John knew better. It didn’t make a difference. I was still happy.

I took a long sip, let the booze slide down my throat and warm me, then looked at Rick. “What’ve you got?”

“Oh boy.” He was still smiling.

“Uh-huh.” Another sip.

“I’m telling you John, this is it. I just have a feeling. This is the one that’s gonna put me over the top.”

“Like the pet store owner two months ago. That one was real huge.”

“No, this is different.” It must have been, because his voice was going up and down an octave as he talked. He was an excitable sort of guy, but he was really going on this one.

“Who is it?”

“You know Ron Mullins?”

“The software guy?”

“That one.”

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

“Committed suicide.”

“Well, that makes for a big case. Especially if he left a note.”

“I don’t think it was a suicide.”

Good point. The man was worth a few billion dollars, and there were rumors floating around that he was about to 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. Six fucking 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.” Geiger was the man in charge of Homicide and, though he was 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 was. He also was putting me at risk. This case could have some serious ramifications, but I realized then that it was just what I needed.

“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.”

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

“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 it was someone famous, we followed up a bit more on things, I hate to say. Rick considered Mullins’ death a suicide or homicide because he was rich and famous. If you crash your call 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?”

“Nothing that I know of. His cell phone, which somehow survived the crash intact, was on.”

“Could have been thrown on by the impact,” I asked.

“Possible, but we’re already checking out who he called last.”

I took another swallow of the drink, which was now empty. 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, was playing 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 was talking on the phone at the time he was about to kill himself, that call would be important, and the person on the other end will have some information for us.”

I lit another cigarette. This one was going to be complicated. Maybe a dead homeless guy would be a better case. But something nagged at the back of my mind, something about wanting to be stimulated.

“How long before we have anything?”

“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 was beaming now, like a little kid who gets to drive the car on his Daddy’s lap. Actually, he was bubbling 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.”

I haven’t mentioned that another thing I couldn’t stand about Rick was his fanaticism about health, and staying in shape. He was a year younger than me, but he was built a lot better. He was always drinking protein shakes, eating health bars, and taking 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.”

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-year old blonde with nice tits and the kind of tight ass that twenty-year-old girls all seem to have these days. Okay, 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 was good, satisfying. 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 was going to tolerate his company, I was going to get paid for it. By the looks of things, we were in for a long ride, and his wallet was going to get thinner from it. If I was going to help him make it to the top, he was going 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.”

“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 don’t want the car to smell of it.”

“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.”

We drove through midtown, to the morgue. Morgues aren’t as bad as most people think they are. 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.

“Yep,” I said. I wanted in and out of there. Hated the place. Despite my previous comments, the place spooked the shit out of me.

“Not here.”

“Where is he?”

“Still at the hospital. Downstairs. Doctor’s giving him a real 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 is dead, right?” I asked.

“Far as I know.” Alfred fumbled with some papers. He was done with us.

“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.

Traffic was light going to St. Marks, but that didn’t stop Rick from driving like he was in bumper to bumper. I checked the speedometer, and saw the needle pinned cleanly on 30. Retard. Some people are beyond help, and Rick was a charter member of that group. Actually, as I thought about it, most people I knew were.

It was nearly 10:30 when we made it to the hospital. We entered the emergency room, a brightly lit room with white walls and a white tile floor. If you were tired, and needed a jolt, the emergency room was the place to go. Maybe that was their first technique in reviving the dead, hitting them with enough fluorescent light to illuminate your average ballpark. My eyes shot wide open from the light and, through the glare, I noticed your usual emergency room occupants. There was a teenage kid holding what looked like a cut thumb, a woman crying, probably waiting for news on her husband, and about four people who looked to be in various states of pain. All in all, it was a pretty quiet night for St. Mark’s ER.

We went through the doorway to the main hospital, flashed our badges to the security guard, and made our way to Mullin’s temporary resting place. We passed through two sets of double doors, and found the room with four metal tables, only one occupied by a body. Now, if you read the way I do, I strongly suggest you put down that bean burrito, have a glass of water to wash whatever you ate down, and try to relax. This isn’t going to be pretty.

The room, unlike the morgue, smelled of death. Between the chemicals and the rotting bodies, the smell is most reminiscent of when I leave Chinese food in the refrigerator for too long. Oh, and throw in a little spoiled milk. Not sour milk, but the kind that comes out in chunks in your morning coffee. That’s pretty much the smell of the place. Real pleasant.

The smell was only the beginning. Mullins’ body rested on the metal table, in clear view. Hovering over the body of the former Mr. Mullins was Dr. Seibling, a squat man with very little black hair and thick glasses. I’d met him a few times before, and thought he was a pretty decent guy. He had brains, that’s for sure, and I came to value his opinions in his area of expertise. That didn’t happen with me too often, as you can probably tell. I got the feeling, however, that he didn’t like cops coming to his workplace, so I always kept the questions to a minimum.

“New York’s Finest coming down to take a look at our esteemed Mr. Mullins,” he said in his low voice. I always had to strain to hear him. “I don’t think there’s much I can tell you, other than the fact that he’s dead.”

“I figured that much,” I said, moving around the table to get a look at the body. Mullins’ face was almost completely smashed in from the impact. The skull had fractures at the forehead and left temple. I knew this because along with the deep red blood coming from those spots, I saw little chunks of grey. Yup, brains. His car, though expensive, was old, and didn’t have air bags. Poor guy. He had incisions on his neck, and part of his esophagus was visible, probably from glass, I assumed. His hair was caked with blood. I thought right there that this was no way to commit suicide. He might have died instantly. That I would have to find out. But it must have been painful, regardless. I was looking at a man who had life by the balls. He had everything. Why would he want to kill himself? Did he have some sort of closet problem, like child molestation? I’d seen some pretty powerful guys off themselves for such things, but from what I knew about Mullins, he didn’t fit the profile. It may just have been an accident, but something at the scene had caused the uniforms to say otherwise.