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

by John Misak

that, something usually does.”

  “Not now.”

  Geiger hesitated for a moment, like he wanted to say something to me. It seemed like he knew something I didn’t, but I couldn’t figure out what that was. I decided not to ask about it. I had gotten enough bad news for the day.

  I went to go upstairs. He stopped me.

  “Don’t go to the department. Agnelli’s been around, looking for you. He wants to take you off the case right now. I stopped him, but if he sees you, and tells you that, there’s nothing I can do. I don’t know if he’s still here, but there’s no use taking the chance.”

  What an idiot, Agnelli. I really wanted to know what sort of bug Agnelli had up his ass about the case. It was really starting to piss me off.

  “Alright. I gotta get going anyway.”

  “Get something for me. Anything. A lot more is riding on this case than you could possibly imagine.”

  I could. And I didn’t like it. “I will.”

  Eleven

  Techdata’s building was near the old World Trade Center. I never went down that way too much, mainly because there was no reason for me to be there. Perhaps I avoided it, for obvious reasons. It took me forever to find a spot, so I played ‘Create-a-Spot’, a game I used to play a lot when I first starting driving, and played almost every day ever since I became a cop. You park your car in a spot that wasn’t supposed to be a parking spot. Of course, as a civilian, you would get a ticket. Sometimes, it was wonderful being a cop.

  When I got out of the car, I saw a beige Lexus turn the corner. I wasn’t certain, but that car looked a lot like Agnelli’s. What the Hell would he be doing at Techdata? I shrugged it off as coincidence. After all, there were hundreds of Lexus cars in New York. My mind played tricks on me. I needed to get some sleep.

  The building was old, and didn’t look like much from the outside. It looked like shit, to be honest. It was made of gray concrete that was in dire need of a cleaning, and the windows looked dirty, from the street at least. I walked through the revolving door, and was taken to a totally different place. The black ceramic tiles on the floor gleamed like a still lake. Everything inside looked brand new, from the fancy, hi-tech looking elevators, to the security station, which was in the center of the lobby. Two men, dressed in blue and black security uniforms, were sitting there, looking down on a bank of monitors.

  “Detective Keegan,” one of them said. Did everyone know my name? He was a middle-aged black man, and he looked like Ken Norton, a little bit. I thought about letting him know that I kicked his ass earlier in the night. He didn’t seem like the sort of guy who would appreciate that.

  “Yes.”

  “Mr. Chapman is expecting you.” He pressed a few buttons, and the middle elevator door opened. “Take that elevator, it’ll go straight to his floor.”

  Technology. Amazing.

  “Thank you.”

  I got into the elevator, which was carpeted and had brass trim on the floor, and noticeably, no buttons. Everything was controlled by that security counter. Judging by how often my computer crashed, I could only imagine the problems they had at that place. But then again, these guys were dealing with cutting edge technology, and I used ancient stuff. Still, I cringed at the thought of having to trust a computer-operated elevator every day.

  Going up to Chapman’s office, on the 35th floor, I started to get tired. The lack of sleep hit me, and I started yawning, those full-body yawns that make you quiver. I needed sleep, or at least, I needed to get my fourth wind. The second and third were already spent.

  The elevator stopped, and the doors opened, giving me a view of Chapman’s floor. It was plushy carpeted, a wine color carpet similar to the one in the elevator, with granite walls and a large secretary desk. The woman seated at the desk was typing at her keyboard. A thick pane of glass was behind her, with ‘Techdata’ etched in it. The floor was quiet, and I didn’t see anyone around, except for the secretary. She looked up at me.

  “Mr. Chapman is waiting for you, Detective Keegan,” she said, with a hint of a British accent. I loved British accents. “He’s in the second office on the right.” She pointed to the hallway to her left.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  I walked down the hallway, feeling like I was walking on a mattress, the carpet was so thick. It looked brand new, like not many people walked on it. As I walked toward Chapman’s office, I passed Mullins’. It had his name in bold black letters printed on the door. The door was closed. Out of curiosity, I checked it out. It was locked. I laughed to myself. What the hell did I think I was going to do in there? They probably had cleaned the office out, anyway. At least they hadn’t scraped his name off yet.

  Chapman’s door was open, and I could hear him talking on the phone. I walked in, to find him sitting at a black desk, amidst computer and television screens behind him. He was tapping away at a keyboard, looking at one of those flat-screen monitors that everyone who was chic had at the time. This one was huge; I’d say about 20 inches. He looked up at me, nodded, and motioned for me to sit in the stylish black leather chair to his right. I did, and sank into it a bit. I could have fallen asleep right there.

  Chapman spoke quietly on the phone for about another minute or so, then hung up the phone. Without saying anything, he kept typing for a few more seconds, then looked up at me.

  “Good afternoon, Detective Keegan,” he said, smiling. My initial impression of him, that he was a snake in the grass, still seemed correct. He didn’t strike me as the sort of guy who got things the old fashioned way, unless underhanded deals were your idea of old fashioned. He didn’t seem dangerous, just seedy, the sort of person I couldn’t stand.

  “Hello Mr. Chapman,” I said. I pulled out a small tape recorder that I had taken from my apartment, and placed it on the edge of his desk.

  Chapman smiled again, then touched a button on a panel next to his desk. Behind him, a compartment opened, revealing a small audio system.

  “We could use my system, if you like. My microphones will record better than what you have there.”

  “No thanks,” I said, “this works just fine. Nice setup you have, though.”

  “Modem technology,” he said, “I love it. I’m telling you that if I gave you an hour, you probably wouldn’t be able to find the three microphones that are hidden in this room.”

  “Worried about someone stealing Techdata secrets?”

  He chuckled. It was an annoying, almost sinister chuckle. “No, I am just an electronics buff. Not to mention, I’ve gotten a lot of entertainment from some of the things I have caught on tape here.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “So, what is it you want to talk about?”

  “Ron Mullins,” I said flatly.

  “Obviously. It’s a real loss, not having him around.”

  “He was planning on leaving anyway.”

  “Yes, I am sure you know all about that.”

  “I do.”

  “Ron was a very creative man. He needed something to occupy his mind. He was a genius.”

  “How did you feel about his leaving?”

  “I was against it. He was Techdata. Without him, the company almost seems incomplete.”

  “When did he first mention to you that he wanted to leave?”

  “Well, he had dropped subtle hints over the last two years, but I think the first time he actually came out and said it was at a convention in California. Even though I had my ideas about what he was going to do, it came as a big surprise.”

  “Why didn’t he go to the convention with you in Amsterdam?”

  “He had other business to take care of.”

  “What sort of business?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I would assume it had to do with his running for Senate. He had been meeting with a lot of people about that recently.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “About his meeting with people?” Chapman asked.

  I didn’t like the way Chapman l
ooked at me. He analyzed me, as if to see I posed a threat to him. He kept fiddling with a pen on his desk too. He didn’t appear comfortable, though his voice didn’t sound broken at all.

  “About his running for Senate.”

  “I wasn’t sure it was right for him. He felt strongly about it though, and considering the fact that he was my friend as well as my partner, I supported him.”

  I remembered the question that the last reporter asked him, about legislation. “One reporter asked you about legislation regarding Silicon Alley, what do you know about that?”

  Chapman leaned back in his chair, and unbuttoned his jacket. “Just that it is something they have been talking about for years. You see, when companies started making it big in California, and other companies were leaving New York for Seattle or New Jersey, New York wanted to lure some back. They gave out huge tax breaks, something New York never had to do, and they were willing to look the other way on a lot of things. The amount of empty office space in New York steadily climbed, and they needed to do something.

  Then, about five years ago, the new legislature in New York decided that, once they already had us firmly planted here, that they could pass legislation that would cancel out the benefits companies like ours received to come here in the first place. The bill has been sitting around up in Albany for about four years now, and the issue has the government split nearly in half.”

  “Corporate politics, huh?” I said.

  “You could say that.”

  “What about that bill going to Washington?”

  “It’s not