by John Misak
redder. How nice. “I can’t talk about it now. I can’t predict when I’m going to get an important case. I just have to take what I am assigned.” Or what you go after, I thought. “I’ll talk to you later.” He hung up the phone. For a moment, the way he was so quick with her, he almost seemed like a man. Almost.
“Women,” he said, “they’ll drive you nuts.” Common statement from a whipped man. They can’t mouth off to their wives, so they mouth off about them when they are not around. I figured I’d stoke his fire a little. Why not?
“They only drive you as crazy as you let them.”
He looked at me, quizzically. “What do you mean by that?”
“Hey,” I said, raising my hands a bit. “I don’t know about your situation. I was just making a statement in general. Women will tighten the leash as much as you let them. Hand them a foot, they take it, and then expect more.”
Again the look. “I’m not getting upset,” he said, turning to look out the window. “I just wanted to know what you meant. She drives me nuts.”
“I bet.”
“I never get a break.”
“Not many of us do.”
Rick didn’t look happy—unusual for him.
I decided to change the topic. I pointed toward the house. “What do you think we’ll find on that tape?”
“Who knows? Something big. That’s what I’m hoping for. But then again, maybe nothing.”
“That would be a waste of time.”
“I don’t think that’s what we’ll find. His voice will be on that tape. Who knows what he said, but he’ll have said something.”
“Let’s hope so.”
After about fifteen minutes, a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee pulled into the driveway. A short woman, with long black hair, dressed in a pair of sweat pants and a leather jacket got out. I couldn’t see the face, but I saw the ass. Nice. It looked firm, and giggled nicely in the sweats. I liked that.
“There’s our housekeeper,” Rick said, “Let’s go.”
“Yup.”
We got out of the car, and met the lady just before the porch. Rick pulled out his badge and the warrant. I didn’t bother producing anything. I looked at the woman. She had soft skin, and sparkling blue eyes. A real looker. She had those perky lips and a certain sense that she knew people liked to look at her. She was hot. A worker, I could tell.
“Ma’am,” Rick said, “I’m Detective Calhill from the New York Police Department, and this is Detective Keegan. We have a warrant to get the tape in Mrs. Minkoff’s answer machine.”
The woman looked puzzled.
“I’m sorry?” she said.
“I’m sure you heard about Mrs. Minkoff’s son, Ron Mullins. He died last night.”
“Yes, I heard about it on the radio this morning. Shocking.” Though the woman was taken aback by our presence, she held her composure like a Hollywood actress. I wanted to boink her, right there. Drop the sweats and go to town. Probably wouldn’t help the investigation much. But she was returning my stare with a penetrating look.
She fumbled with her keys, and then looked closer at the warrant. “Okay. I suppose you know Mrs. Minkoff is not home.”
“She’s in the Andes,” I said. “We heard. Any way of contacting her?”
“There’s a number where I can leave a message, but it usually takes a day or two for her to get it.”
“We’ll need that,” Rick said.
“It’s written down inside.” She opened the door, held it open for us, and led us into the living room. The place looked like a museum, with various artifacts and books on bookcases all about the room. The place smelled of pine. Not pine cleaner, but actual pine. Fresh.
Roseanna took her jacket off, hung it in a closet in the next room, and came back to us.
“Your full name, ma’am?” Rick asked. He pulled out the leather notepad he always carried.
“Roseanna Jenkins.”
“Address?”
She looked at him without saying anything.
“Formality. That’s all.”
“1451 Skywood Drive, Levittown, New York.”
“How long have you worked for Mrs. Minkoff?”
“Six years.”
“When did she leave?” Rick asked.
She thought about that for a moment. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was wearing only a white t-shirt, and it displayed her ample bosom nicely.
I needed to get laid, soon.
“Two weeks ago, Saturday.”
“And when is she expected back?” Rick asked. He sounded like such a jerk to me at that moment. Maybe I felt protective of my new sweetheart.
“Is this an official questioning? Should I call my lawyer?” Housekeepers with lawyers, how interesting.
“Not at all,” Rick assured her. “I just need some background information. We are really only here for the tape.”
Roseanna, the sweet goddess, nodded. “Okay,” she said. “She’s due back soon. Three or four days, depending on how the dig finishes up.”
“When was the last time you saw Ron Mullins?”
She looked up at the ceiling to think. I did too, and noticed the most peculiar light fixture I’ve ever seen. It had an orange glass ball, with golden trim around it. It wasn’t on, and I tried to picture what the room would look like with it on. Actually, I tried to picture a bed in the middle of the room, with Roseanna in a nightgown, beckoning me. What a vision, and I didn’t have a hard time creating it.
“I think it was about six months ago,” Roseanna said.
“How would you describe the relationship between Mrs. Minkoff and her son?” Rick asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. From my experience, they didn’t see too much of each other. They’re both busy people. But I’d say they had a close mother-son relationship.” People feel, when questioned by detectives, that they must pass some test. I’ve never felt that way so it’s absurd to me, but I guess I understand where it comes from. We can intimidate people. And yes, we like it. A lot.
“Okay.” Rick jotted a few things down. Roseanna looked at me, as if wondering why I didn’t ask any questions. The only things I had to ask didn’t pertain to the investigation. Like, “Are you single?” or “What color underwear are you wearing?” Maybe a little creepy, I know. Just being honest. She smiled at me, and for a moment. I thought she knew what ran through my mind. I looked at her hands. No ring. Beautiful.
“Where’s the answering machine?” Rick asked. I knew Rick didn’t even consider the woman sexually, though I wondered how that was possible. She reeked of sex. He only saw her as an information source for his case. Nothing else. Plus, he had the wife to worry about. And for some strange reason, he preferred to flirt in online chat rooms. Weird.
“In the kitchen.” Rick took a plastic evidence bag out of his jacket pocket and got up. I did too, though I wanted to stay and stare at Roseanna longer. Creepy again.
We made our way to the kitchen, a modern job. In the center stood a stainless steel refrigerator, a huge one, steel stove, steel dishwasher. The refrigerator struck me as odd, considering the lady, as far as we knew, lived alone, and wasn’t home often. The stove was in the middle of the room, with an exhaust hood over it. The walls were paneled dark, and there wasn’t much light in the room. A glance at the ceiling produced a normal fixture in this room. The kitchen was a sharp contrast to the living room. I guess Mrs. Minkoff kept the strange items in one room. Smart.
Roseanna turned on the light, and pointed to a counter on the left side of the room. The answering machine was an old one, thankfully, which meant it used a tape instead of digital recording. That wouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was easier to take a tape instead of the entire machine. Mrs. Minkoff probably wouldn’t be happy with the fact that she wouldn’t be receiving any messages for a while. Too bad.
Rick went over to the machine, hovering over it like a kid over a big wrapped box at Christmas. He almost looked cute. He opened the machine, took the tape, and placed it in th
e plastic bag. He took it all so seriously. I kept my gaze on Roseanna’s nice behind. She stood next to Rick, watching what he did closely. Every few seconds, she curtly glanced over at me, and I smiled at her in my most sinister way.
“Okay, we have the tape,” Rick said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a business card. “If you hear from Mrs. Minkoff, please contact me.” I wanted to let Rick know that we needed the number to contact Minkoff, but Roseanna was one step ahead of me.
“Do you want that phone number?” she asked.
“That would be nice,” I said, smiling again. I’m a bastard, I know. But I was born that way. Not my fault.
“It’s over here.” Roseanna glided over to the kitchen cabinet, opened it, and read the number off a piece of paper taped inside it. Rick jotted it down in the notepad.
“Is she expected to contact you soon?” I asked.
“She sometimes calls on Thursday. Her schedule changes, so it’s tough to predict.” Roseanna looked directly at me when she spoke. I felt like she saw right through me. I liked it.
“So, you might hear from her tomorrow,” Rick expertly deduced.
“Yes,” Roseanna said, not taking her eyes off me.
“Please let us know if she does,” Rick said.
The voices came across as mere echoes in the unspoken dialog Roseanna had going on, at least in my head.
“She’s going to be devastated,” she said.
“Who?” I asked, getting lost in myself.
“Mrs. Minkoff,” Roseanna said.
“Oh, right.”
Rick got us back on track, unfortunately. “Were you planning on contacting her about her son today?” he asked, shooting me a look of