Keegan 00 Soft Case (7 page)

Sondra and the late Ron Mullins called Massapequa home. They had lived there when Ron was making a puny amount of money and was going to school for computer programming, or at least that’s what Jacob told me, just before we left. Because they had made their home there, and also because they didn’t want to make it look like the money changed them, they stayed when he hit it big. Jacob confirmed my suspicions that Ron was an unassuming man. He also told me that the wife had changed, and wanted to move. According to rumor mills, they were near divorce three years before, but they had successfully smoothed things out. I didn’t know where Jacob got this information from, and wasn’t sure how true it was, but it sounded good, and I was surprised to hear Jacob talk that long. He usually never said more than a sentence or two. Part of the reason why I liked him.

“You know where you are going?” Rick asked.

“The Mullins’ live right near Joey Buttafuoco’s old house.” “You know where he lived?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“Long story.”

“We have time.”

We did. “I dated a girl whose father was buddy-buddy with him.”

“And you met him?”

“Yeah.”

“During the whole thing?” Rick really seemed interested in all this. Could he have been stars truck about a man who overstayed his 15 minutes of fame by two years?

“Yes, it was about four months after the shooting. I went over his house for a barbecue. Nice guy, and he cooks a mean steak.” “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“Wow.”

I began to pity Rick’s wife. The man was strange, no question. Sure, she had power over him, which is sort of satisfying, I guess. But he certainly wasn’t a conversationalist, and he could be nicely described as a simpleton. Not the sort of character that sets women into a sexual frenzy. She probably married him for his looks and wasn’t surprised that there wasn’t much else there to put in the win column. Actually, that sounded a lot like my dating profile. Scary. “So, you remember where Buttafuoco lived?”

“Have I asked you to look at the map yet?”

“Okay.”

We drove a few more minutes, but I sensed that it wasn’t going to be quiet. Rick was in a chatty mood.

“Let me ask you a question,” he said, uttering the six words I hate most.

“I’ll let you.”

“You’ve been on the force what, ten years?”

“Nine.”

“And, did you ever have a serious relationship while on the job?”

“That’s another question, you didn’t ask permission for it.”

“Just answer,” Rick said, sighing.

“Yes, two.”

“How did they handle the hours?” He asked. I knew where this was headed. People tend to look at others’ lives too much, try to generalize and make it fit in their world.

“They handled it fine.”

“How did you manage to find women like that? All the guys I know on the force have the same problem I do with their women, they can’t stand the time away. They always think we are up to no good.”

“I didn’t find women like that, I made them.”

“Huh?”

I really had to think about going into this. It’s tough when you are trying to educate people unable to be educated. The “whipped” factor, in my opinion, is genetically encoded. There is little that can be done to counteract it. Still, though he was annoying as hell, I felt bad for Rick, and decided to bestow my knowledge upon him. Even if it wouldn’t do any good, as I suspected.

“You have to train a woman to get accustomed to your lifestyle. And you have to do it early. Real early. Like a week or two into the relationship. You have to let the woman know what can be changed, what can’t, and what is absolutely not open for discussion.” I exaggerated, of course. Women aren’t dogs. Only fools believe everything they read.

“You can’t do that. Women want to know everything, and they want to change you so you fit their perfect mold.”

“Not true. You see, if a woman detects she has a man who is sure of himself, one who will not take any crap from anyone, they instantly respect him, and go into “follow”4 mode, where they take the man’s lead. If they sense weakness, they go into what I call “manage” mode, where they will try to create the perfect man for themselves, because they can’t find someone who satisfies them. It’s like working at a job that you don’t like. You really want to find one you like, but if your boss pays you more money, or offers you control, you will take it. That’s what women do. Not all of them, of course, but the good lot of them. Trust me on that.”

Rick sat there, bewildered. I wondered if maybe I armed the wrong man with the wrong weapon. I didn’t suspect his wife was at the point where she would take any crap from him.

“That sounds like it makes sense, but I don’t know how I would apply that to my marriage,” he said, finally, not looking at me but out the window.

“Is your wife in ‘manage’ mode?”

He hesitated. Still looking out the window, he nodded.

“How long you been married?”

“Eight years.”

“Might be too late.” It certainly was, I figured.

“Don’t say that.”

“It might be,” I said. I did enjoy messing with him.

“I don’t want to think that,” Rick said.

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth?”

“Yeah, the truth. So don’t feel bad. That’s the way it goes sometimes.”

“Easy for you to say,” Rick said, anger in his voice. He did get mad at me sometimes, but it was a rare occurrence. He didn’t do mad well. Like this time, it came off overdone. Fabricated. So much of our lives does.

“What?”

“You have it too good. You go out when you want, you sleep as late as you want on your day off, you don’t have to pay anyone else’s bills but your own, and you don’t have someone telling you what to do, and how to do it.”

I’d never seen this side of Rick. He always seemed to be in control of everything. I secretly envied him sometimes, because he had it all, the wife, the kids, the fast-rising career. Nothing is ever as it seems. I learned that a long time ago, but I had to constantly remind myself of it.

“Single life only seems appealing because you can’t live that life. Everything looks better from the other side.”

“I could.”

“You have kids.”

“They don’t appreciate me. She’s got them brainwashed too.” “You shouldn’t think like that.”

“I can’t help it. And I can’t take it anymore.” Man, he sounded depressed. I didn’t know what to say. The only depressed person I knew was myself, and all the talking to myself didn’t help me, let alone someone else.

“You’ve got to try and relax.”

“I’ve tried that. I’ve tried everything. I have to get out; it’s the only way. She won’t let me breathe.”

“It may just seem that way.” Boy, was I stretching.

“It is that way. Trust me. It’s hell. She doesn’t let me do anything by myself.”

I had a thought. It was dangerous, but I had to try it. “Okay, let’s say you leave her, start over again.”

“Yeah.”

“What makes you think that you wouldn’t make the same mistake again? What makes you think that you won’t let the next woman walk over you the way your wife does?”

Rick thought about that. “I don’t know. I am aware of it now though. If I go in knowing that, I’ll start off better than I did with my wife.”

“But you don’t seem sure of that.”

“How can I be?”

“Then maybe you should stick it out. Kids without a father living in the house are starting off with one strike against them. It might not hurt them, but it certainly isn’t helping them. You have to at least take that into consideration.”

Rick really looked defeated. It was hard to see that. Then again, he was the one who started on the topic. How the hell did I know he was suffering?

“I know,” he said. “It’s just so difficult. I don’t feel like a man, I feel like a kid. A damn, foolish kid, who needs his mother to tell him how to do everything. If it wasn’t for the job, I’d feel completely hopeless. Completely.”

I knew that feeling all too well. “I hear you.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence, thank God. It took almost an hour to get to Massapequa, which is about a third of the way to the end of the island. For people somewhat familiar with the island, Massapequa was on the south shore, with a lot of bay front property, and was right near the Nassau/Suffolk border.

There were several parts to the town, ranging from wealthy areas to downright decrepit ones. Massapequa was like a slice of Long Island, with all facets proportionately represented. I had gone there a few times when I was a teenager, mainly because of a burger place called All American Burger. It looked a lot like the sort of place you see in 50’s movies, without the drive-in service. I never asked if they had girls serving you on roller skates wearing short shorts. They certainly didn’t have them when I went there. If they had, I would have moved to Massapequa a long time ago.

The Mullins house was at the end of a dead end street, on the South Bay. Big iron gates prevented unwanted visitors from entering the property, which was, by Long Island standards, huge. There was a circular driveway which led to the house, a large, almost Victorian building, with round columns in front. The Mullins family had a large pool that could be seen from the front, and a tennis court. From where we pulled up, we could see two cars in the driveway, a Mercedes 500SL coupe, and a Lincoln Navigator, one of those huge SUVs that everyone important seemed to drive. The gates were closed, and there was a call box right next to them. We pulled up to it.

“Be careful,” Rick said, “We scare her and we don’t get to talk to her.”

“Only thing gonna scare her is your femininity.”

“At least I don’t look like a mess all the time,” Rick said, obviously proud of how he carried himself.

I rolled my eyes, opened my window, and hit the call button.

“Mullins residence,” a man with a thick voice said.

“New York Police Department calling, we would like to speak to Mrs. Mullins on official business.”

There was a pause, a long one.

“Please shoe me your badge, the camera is right above you.”

I looked and noticed a black camera halfway up the post. I took my badge out, and held it as close to the camera as I could reach.

The gates opened, and we drove up to the house.

The driveway was made of white gravel, and it crunched underneath the tires of the heavy Mercury. I pulled up next to the Navigator, a green one, and we got out. The weather had finally improved, and I could hear birds chirping in the large oak tree above us. How quaint.

“I can’t believe we got in,” Rick said.

“We haven’t passed the final test yet,” I said.

“True.”

Before we got to the door, a large wood one with an ornate brass knocker, it opened, and a man dressed in a tan pair of slacks and white polo shirt stood there, eyeing us. Security, no doubt. I scanned him quickly, to see if he was carrying a gun. None that I noticed.

“Detective Keegan,” the man said. Some camera that guy had. He was fairly tall, say about 6”2”, and was built similarly to Rick. He had short light brown hair. He looked like an ex-military type. They never lose that look.

“Yes, and this is Detective Calhill, my partner.”

“I was said to expect you.” By whom, I wondered.

“Is Mrs. Mullins here?” I asked, knowing full well she was. “Yes. But she is busy contacting relatives at the moment. As I am sure you know, this is a difficult time for her.”

“I do. When need to speak to her for only a few moments. We just need some information.”

“What sort of information?”

“About her husband.” I walked closer to him. “Listen, I understand you are trying to protect your employer. We don’t wish to cause her any more grief, but in order to find out exactly what happened to her husband, we need to speak to her. We know she was in the Bahamas, and we are not considering her a suspect.” “You guys consider everyone a suspect.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Just let us do our jobs, and we will be on our way.”

He thought about that for a moment. “Come in,” he said, “but I can’t promise that she will talk to you.”

I wanted to tell him that, by law, she didn’t have much choice. I figured he knew that, and so did she.

We walked in to the house, the foyer, actually, which had shiny ceramic tiles and a Persian rug, along with a small chandelier. Nice place. A brass-trimmed mirror was on the left wall, and a fancy painting, one of a garden, was on the other. He led us into the room to the left, which I would say was the sitting room, with large bookcases, all half full, and a couch and two chairs. This room was painted an off-white, and had a painting of

Mr. And Mrs. Mullins on the far wall. Unless the artist decided to be creative, she was some looker. Made Roseanna look like a run of the mill girl.

“Have a seat, and I will tell Mrs. Mullins that you wish to speak to her.”

“Please.”

The guy gave me a look, then left the room.

“Nice painting,” Rick said. “You gonna ogle this one the way you did the housekeeper?”

“Only if that picture is a correct representation.”

“This is a serious investigation.”

“And I am a serious investigator. What my eyes do serves a purpose. Don’t worry.”

“Whatever.”

We waited for about ten minutes, and then Mr. Security Guard came back in the room. He looked bothered, defeated.

“She’ll see you. Give her a minute or so.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I said.

“Yeah,” he replied, then walked out of the room, to return to his ever-so-important duties. Not more than thirty seconds after he left, Sondra Mullins walked into the room. She was the sort of woman who took control of whatever room she entered. She had blonde hair that came down to her shoulders, with a sort of curl at the end, and a body to die for. I figured her to be about 5”5”, and she certainly had her breasts, um, augmented I think is the right word. What made her so attractive was her face. It was near perfect. Her eyes were big and blue, her small nose was appropriate, and she had nice, pouty lips. Someone up above surely wanted me to concentrate on other things besides this case. Looking at her, I really doubted that Mullins committed suicide. Not with a wife like that.