by John Misak
Dad started with a large drill bit, grinding the tooth down. Smoke and mist came shooting out of my mouth. The smell was horrible, but I couldn’t detect it too much with the mask on. And it didn’t make a difference in the world.
I felt myself floating. My hands felt like they were lifting by themselves. I was pretty sure I had my hand on my own leg, but it could have been on Jane’s. She didn’t seem to mind. Actually, she kept smiling at me. Maybe Dad had said something to her about me. He always did that. He was constantly trying to hook me up with one of his assistants. I never dated any of them, mainly because I didn’t want my romantic affairs being discussed in his office. Not cool.
Dad stopped drilling. I kept drifting. I was investigating the case in my own little world. I saw Ron Mullins’ body, all battered, lying in the morgue. I saw Harold Chapman, ducking and weaving my questions, like a boxer. And I saw Sondra, Roseanna, and Jane, all wearing teddies, beckoning my as they lie on my bed. Nitrous is such a beautiful thing.
After what seemed like five minutes, or a day, I opened my eyes. Dad was by the counter, writing something down in my file. My mouth was still numb, and the Nitrous mask was still on my face, but nothing was coming out.
“How’d it go?” I asked, again spitting all over myself.
“I was able to save it. I didn’t crown it or anything yet. Just a temporary filling, so don’t go and wait another two years to get this finished.”
“Okay.”
“You won’t feel any more pain, that’s for sure.”
“I won’t even be sore afterward?”
“Shouldn’t. You might feel a little pressure. If you do, let me know, I’ll do something with the filling.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost three.”
“Shit. I gotta get out of here.”
“Maybe you should wait a few minutes. I only turned off the gas about ten minutes ago.”
I took the apron off, removed Mr. Slurpee from my mouth, and went to get up, carefully. My body didn’t respond as quickly as I wanted it to, something I never got used to. I can’t lie; I liked being high on gas.
“How do you feel?”
My head spun slightly, but other than that, I was okay. “Fine.” I felt like I was a teenager trying to convince my dad I wasn’t drunk.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” A smile came to my lips that I could not prevent. I must have looked the fool. Dad certainly had seen that before.
He didn’t say anything for a second. Instead, putting his hand on my shoulder, perhaps to steady me. He looked at me for a moment. “Be careful with this case,” he said, “Okay?”
“Yeah Dad, I got this.”
“That’s what I am worried about. Keep your head, okay. And watch out for the people around you. Not everyone can be trusted.”
I was the cop. I knew that. Still, I respected his advice. “I will, Dad. I promise.”
I hugged him goodbye, and walked out the room. Being around my father calmed me most times, reminding me of the security of childhood. We lose that too fast, I think, and spend most of our lives hunting for it. Most men won’t admit how scared they really are day to day.
Before I made it out the door, Dad called to me.
“And stop smoking so much, John. If you’re teeth get any more yellow, they’ll be brown. I won’t even comment on what your lungs must look like.”
“Thanks.” So much for security. And my teeth were not that bad. Most people commented on how white they were for a smoker. Talk about sideways compliments.
I said goodbye to Nancy, couldn’t find Jane, so I left. The side of my mouth still felt twice as big as it actually was, and when I ran my tongue over the tooth, I felt that it was shaved down to almost half its size. It felt weird, and sharp.
I got into my car, and raced toward the city.
It took me twenty-five minutes to get back to the station, which wasn’t so bad. It helps when you are in a cop car doing 90 on the parkway. I wove in and out of cars, threw the lights on a few times for emphasis, and made good time. Luckily, there were no reporters at the station, and I made it inside unmolested.
Geiger waited for me downstairs.
“Cutting it close,” he said, looking at his watch.
“Sorry. It had to be done,” I said, careful to pronounce every word correctly.
“You gonna be able to interview Chapman like that?”
I nodded.
“You sure? I don’t want you fucking this up.”
“Don’t worry. Besides, it’s not like you can have Calhill do it,” I said, slowly. It was going to be tough. I don’t know why I didn’t think of such ramifications.
“Alright. What did you get from Mrs. Mullins?”
“She has been getting phone calls similar to the one I got today. She was upset, and I think she just needed to tell someone.” “I don’t like this. I wanted Calhill with you. Now that’s not possible, and I can’t pull anyone else off another case to go with you. Maybe I should send a couple of uniforms with you.”
“Not a good idea.”
He agreed, reluctantly.
“Still want me to wear a wire?”
He thought about that for a moment. “I guess it doesn’t make sense if you don’t have someone listening in.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“When you say 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 World Trade Center. I never went down that way too much, mainly because there was no reason for me to be there. 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 comer. 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’ in New York. My mind was playing 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 was using ancient stuff. Still, I cringed at the thought of having to trust a computer-operated elevator every day.
Going up to Chapman’s office, which was 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.”
“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’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?”
I didn’t like the way Chapman was looking at me. He seemed to be analyzing me, s 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 was steadily climbing, 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 plausible. It’s a state issue. I don’t see it ever going to Washington, unless the federal government wants to rethink how it does business across the country.”
“Did you and Ron ever discuss it?”
“Of course. We were concerned about it. After all, if we lose the tax breaks we have received, it would seriously affect our bottom line.”
“What do you think of politics?”
“Don’t like them. Never did. All they do is get in the way.”
I couldn’t argue that.
“What was Mr. Mullins’ state of mind like recently?”
“He didn’t seem to be himself.”
“Suicidal?” That was a tough word to say with a numb mouth. I hoped that Chapman didn’t think I was some sort of idiot. From what I could tell, I was hiding my handicap pretty well.
“I don’t know if I would say that. Like I said, Ron was a genius. Geniuses tend to go through bouts of depression more often, I think. Especially when they think that their talent is going to waste.”
“So, you don’t think Mullins committed suicide?
”
He looked at me over his glasses.
“I’ve known Ron for a long time. I’ve seen him go through a lot, with his wife, his father, and with several issues here at Techdata. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but we communicated well, and I think I knew him inside and out. Yes, he’d been much different lately, but I attributed that to the changes he was considering in his life.”
“Like getting a divorce?” I interrupted.
“Where did you hear that, in the tabloids?”
I didn’t think it would be a good idea to tell Chapman about what Sondra told me. I didn’t feel as though I could trust this guy. He really didn’t give me reason not to trust him, but he also didn’t give me a reason to trust him either. I didn’t consider him a suspect.
“It’s been thrown around a few places.”
“It’s nonsense. Mullins loved his wife.”
“What do you think of her?”
“Sondra? The woman is quite a package. Very tough to please, but a loving wife regardless. I always thought she was too much for Ron to handle. He loved her dearly, and even thought they had their problems from time to time, they worked them out.”
“So they never considered divorce.”
“I’m sure they did, but so do just about every other married couple in the world. It’s a fact of life, these days. But I’m telling you, Ron would never have allowed it. He wouldn’t have done that to his kids, not would he have jeopardized his future political career by doing something like that.”
“What do you know about Mullins will?”
Chapman smiled again.
“I know what you are trying to do.”
He did? I didn’t even know what I was trying to do. I was just throwing shit against the wall to see what stuck. Not much did, but that was nothing unusual.
“You do?”
“You’re talking about the situation going on with the company. I’m fully aware of the fact that Sondra can cancel the buyout. Yes, there’s a lot of money involved, but we are dealing with the loss of a great businessman, husband, and father. Money isn’t everything.”