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

By John Misak

Read the book that launched the John Keegan Mystery Series!
When New York City's most famous man dies suspiciously, Homicide Detective John Keegan must follow a trail of corruption that may just lead to the top of city government...and the end of his career.

Ronald Mullins had it all... money, power, and a happy family. Suicide seemed an unlikely end for him.

Partnered with Rick Calhill, a rising star in the NYPD, Keegan hesitates to investigate, knowing the case would attract more attention than he needed. Calhill would bask in the spotlight.

Then they discover Mullins prepared a Senate run. The happy family myth later crumbles. Relations between Mullins and his business partner appear frayed. Calhill dives in while Keegan stays on the sidelines, wary of the political implications of the case. His instincts prove correct as he ends up in handcuffs, accused of taking a bribe he never received. The whole department turns on him. Calhill conveniently distances himself from the case.

Suspended, threatened, and betrayed, Keegan must solve the case to save his career, with only a handful of people he has no choice but to trust. He learns hard truths about the people he respected most. In the end, he risks his job, and his life to solve the biggest case the city has seen in decades.

DIve into the John Keegan Mystery series with this first chapter that will keep you at the edge of your seat until the very end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Misak
• Release date: Jan 30, 2014
• ISBN: 9780974992648

Book preview

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

John Keegan Mystery Series

Book 1: Soft Case

Book 2: All in a Row

Book 3: Death Knell

Book 4: The Down Side

Book 5: The Fallen

Book 6: Never Look Back

Book 7: The Lies That Bind Us

Book 8: Ghosts of Days Gone By (January 2025)

Book 9: The Takedown (July 2025)

Keegan Retro Series

The First Cut (May 2024)

Second Time Around (July 2024)

Third and Long (November 2024)

Fourth Gear (September 2025)

Pauline McCrory-Keegan Series

Book 1: To The Bone (March 2025)

This novel, my first, is dedicated to Carolyn and John Misak. Thanks Mom and Dad for offering your support in all my endeavors, for understanding me even when I didn’t understand myself, and for giving me a solid upbringing that I have carried throughout my life.

One

I think the night I considered starting a heroin habit things started to change. It wasn’t out of depression or over a lost love. It was boredom. Boredom from the monotony of my life. I wanted something new, something that could transport me to a more exciting life. I knew it was foolish. But the excitement of thinking about it stimulated my creativity again, breathing life into my dead mind. I needed that, more than ever I suppose.

It was a Tuesday, my day off, a day I should do my chores, pay my bills, go to the store, and stock my ever-bare cabinets. I hated Tuesdays. I preferred to work, have something occupy my mind. Then, thoughts of doing drugs wouldn’t pester me. I had a good job. At least, I thought I did. I was a cop, a detective.

Yes, I know, cops shouldn’t do drugs.

A case saved me, one that would change the face of law enforcement itself. I didn’t know it right then, but I sensed it. I am getting ahead of myself. I need to cover some background first. I’m not one to expound on details, mainly because I think chatty people are annoying at best. So, forgive me if I take on this quality for a little while.

I’m sure civilians know little of the real NYPD. Some TV shows try to portray it. They suck. I’m not being critical, it’s just impossible to convey real-life police work on a television screen. Actors living in Hollywood can’t understand, and the writers don’t know either, unless they are real police officers. Even then, it doesn’t always come out right. For instance, COPS comes close, but the real cops become the actors, and in front of the camera they stop being cops, and truth fades. There really isn’t much drama or theatrics on my job. Most of my caseload includes junkies killed by other junkies. Many times we don’t bother prosecuting because sadly, it just isn’t worth the trouble. All the talk about cleaning up the streets of New York is just that— talk. They’ve just moved the filth underneath the carpet.

I am more of a sanitational investigator. I collect the dead garbage so the live stuff has more room. Occasionally, we get a ripe case, something like a hooker killed by a big shot corporate exec, but these cases usually end in countless appeals and legal tangles. Often, it’s our ‘shoddy investigative work’ that creates the mess, according to the lawyers. It’s gotten to the point where most of the department doesn’t even want a case. Any one of them could lead to a demotion, or, more likely, a lawsuit.

Since I started on the job nine years ago, I’ve had twenty-seven convictions, two hung juries, and about fifty dead-end cases. I’ve also seen three cops in my precinct get indicted on false charges. They were just scapegoats, victims of the criminal justice system on the verge of collapse. I stayed lucky, avoiding such attention. Luck can only run for so long.

Like I said, it was a Tuesday, and I really wanted to break the boredom. Why heroin? Well, a friend of mine, a guy I’ll call Jack, planted the seed in my mind almost fifteen years before. I was a snot-nosed teenager, whining about boredom and how much I wanted to do something cool. (Notice how little I changed?) Like I knew what cool was. I just wanted to stand out. Jack, ever the helpful guy, told me about heroin.

It’s better than sex man, he said in that slow, almost drooling drawl that addicts take on. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before.

Considering I hadn’t truly experienced sex, jumping ahead to something even better right out of the chute compelled me. I hadn’t ever experimented with drugs, so they held a certain allure—a dark aura. Kids are attracted to dark auras. What didn’t seem compelling was my father’s reaction if he ever found out. Not compelling at all.

What? Come on, I said. Sex is supposed to be the best thing ever. How can that stuff be better?

It just is, Jack said. He had a grin a mile wide. Everyone who has done it says the same thing.

Images of drug dens came to mind, men and women with no teeth lying on dirty couches. A mouse crawls across the floor and no one moves. The effect of heroin had to be amazing to tolerate that.

How? I asked.

Only way to know is to try it. He produced a small wax-paper bag with brown powder. Skip gym, and we’ll do this behind Shop-Rite.

I looked at the bag for a moment, considering its power. It would take me to another dimension, and I tingled at the thought. Luckily, that’s all I did. My mother, much to my misfortune, was friendly with the attendance lady, and she always made sure to contact good old Mom whenever I didn’t show up. Bitch.

But she saved me from heroin that day.

Nah, man, not today. Maybe some other time.

Jack held the bag up and shook it.

Better than sex, man, he said as he walked away toward the supermarket. He faded off and I never saw him after high school. Victim of too much ‘improved sex’ I presume.

But the image of him holding that bag and saying, Better than sex, man stayed with me, clear as day. I never really wanted to try it. I knew what it did to people. I had enough problems. But I got bored. I’d had plenty of sex in my life, some of it pretty good. The thought of doing something better that didn’t come with someone who you had to talk to, buy dinner, and keep happy seemed perfect. Well, almost.

A phone call saved me from the brown demon. I sat in my living room, listening to some talk radio show where the host ranted about the problems of the world. It wasn’t that I cared what he had to say, he was a jackass, but I had nothing else better to do.  I didn’t feel like listening to music or watching the train wreck known as prime-time TV.

The phone rang, and I looked at it, one of those Cobra cordless jobs without an antenna, which I bought because it looked so cool on Seinfeld. You either follow me on this, or I just lost you. Stick with me. I promise to keep dated references to a minimum. Keep in mind I will deliver this (cough) great story in broken sentences. I write like I talk. Not much I can do about that. I’d fire my editor, but as fate would so devilishly have it, I don’t have one.

I debated about letting the answering machine get it and, in retrospect, I should have done that. Life turns on such small decisions.

Yeah, I said. I didn’t bother to try to sound enthusiastic.

You moron, said Rick ‘I’ll Be Your Boss Someday’ Calhill. We worked on a few cases and he often called me whenever he needed advice. I liked him as a person. His obsession with moving upward strained the relationship. I would never make it past Sergeant. if I even got that far. I had the coveted gold badge, and I got it earlier than most. I was happy with that. Rick, not so much.

I’m thinking of a pot and kettle, I said.

He ignored this.

What the hell are you doing? Rick asked.

Sitting in my apartment, looking down on the street, waiting for the next stiff. Thinking about starting a heroin habit.

Interesting. I could tell he really didn’t hear what I said. This happened often. Our talks felt like the late stages of a doomed relationship.

I answered him with silence.

Anyway, come meet me at Kasey’s. He liked to persist in the face of indifference. Fairly noble quality. I didn’t want to move.

What for?

Something big. Real big. Major, Rick said. He sounded excited as usual. Like every twist and turn of life got him riled up. This added to why I didn’t like him.

I’m in my boxers, and my only clean clothes are for tomorrow. I said. This wasn’t a lie, sadly.

So, put on something less than clean, Rick said. I’m sure it won’t be the first time. Trust me, you’ll want to hear this. It’s huge, and I want you in on it.

I looked around the apartment, my tired eyes falling upon the empty pizza box from the day before, some chip bags, and empty soda cans. You know, the usual bachelor pad stuff. I could go meet Rick, or I could straighten up the place a bit.

Give me twenty minutes, I said.

I’ll have a drink ready for you.

Now you’re talking.

I hung up and put on the clothes I threw on the bed. My foray into the world of drugs would wait another day. I didn’t want to admit it, but I appreciated Rick calling. Whatever he had would occupy my mind for a little while, and I could milk him for a couple of drinks. If what he had for me even closely matched his excitement level, a free dinner loomed on the horizon.

My grandfather’s watch told me it was just before nine. Fourth Avenue, right outside my window, slowed down. No more honking taxis and stressed-out commuters, thank God. After being on the force for awhile, I realized how good I had it. The people rushing below my window probably didn’t get it. They didn’t spend their lives looking at the wasted part of society, the broken lives and shattered bodies that occupy the underbelly of the city. I knew I judged them, and harshly. Many times, I accused ‘regular’ people of working for the paycheck, unless they taught, were a priest, or served me drinks. Once I saw life through a cop’s eyes, I had a hard time going back. Maybe people’s money made me jealous. Or my job had more purpose. Cut me some slack. I had just come within two bad decisions of starting a heroin habit.

So, I got into my cheap outfit, strapped on my holster, and put on the beaten brown leather jacket I’d had since I’d started on the job. It didn’t have someone’s name on the inside label, but it was all mine. I walked into the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. When I looked in the mirror, a tired man looked back at me. It was just what I’d expected to see, but it was still enough to give me a jolt. I had just turned thirty-two. I wasn’t old. But I looked older to myself.

Most people, when they read a story, want to know what the narrator looks like, so I’ll indulge. I stand at about six feet, weigh just shy of the magic two hundred pound mark, and have dark brown hair. As I looked in the mirror, I noticed a war in the hair. The gray uniforms attacked the browns. The browns stood their ground but the grays had momentum. I actually looked forward to going completely gray. That way, I wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. I read somewhere that 83% of women find men with gray hair sexy. I figured I’d go with that statistic.

As far as what I look like, I have brown eyes, my features comparable to Martin Sheen before age kicked his ass, and I think I’ve got it together well enough. Some women find me attractive but that wears off quickly when I open my mouth. Oh, and I am single. If you’re interested and are a good-looking female who can tolerate a pain in the ass, you can look me up through the New York Police Department. Detective John Keegan. Don’t send flowers. I don’t like them.

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. Yes, I planned to take a gun to a bar. It was a security thing. I grabbed the pack of Marlboros on the TV and shook it. About three left, so good old Rick would have to front the fifteen bucks Kasey’s stole from you for a pack. Price you gotta pay.

Kasey’s, which sat four blocks east of me on Fourth, had a good crowd. A group of guys in suits sat at the end of the bar by the door, watching the Ranger game. Kasey’s was a cop joint, though I don’t really know how that happens. It’s not near any precinct and nothing in the place announces it’s for blue shirts. Those guys at the end were welcome, but they didn’t fit, and it showed. They were the only ones speaking louder than 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 a handful of conversations longer than a minute. Still, we had an understanding. He poured the drinks, I drank them. and if we had something interesting to talk about, we did.

A Billy Joel song played quietly on the jukebox, The Entertainer. I didn’t care for Joel. His songs spoke to Long Island kids trying to rebel against their difficult suburban lives. Joel fans are dedicated, though. You hear one of his songs on the jukebox, you knew for damn sure Scenes from an Italian Restaurant, Piano Man, and Goodnight Saigon, weren’t far behind. Billy Joel knew as much about Vietnam as I did about dinner party etiquette. 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. I walked over to the booth, and he greeted me with a wide smile. He beamed over the case of a dead person. I realized the morbidity in this. But we detectives all got excited when someone died, especially someone of some importance.

Jackass, he said. I always used that word, and Rick used it as an attempt to develop our troubled relationship. Count that as reason number three for why I generally couldn’t stand him.

Coming from the chief, I replied, and sat down to a Dewar’s and soda before me. The ice hadn’t even started to melt. In fact, it still crackled. 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. It still made me happy.

I took a long sip, let the booze slide down my throat and warm it, then looked at Rick.

What’ve you got? I asked, trying to sound interested.

A doozy, Rick said. He still smiled. I resisted the urge to smack him. I should have a trophy case for the awards I deserve for restraint with him.

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. See? Rick’s all about Rick.

Like the pet store owner two months ago, I said, flatly. I did like to rub it in sometimes. Real huge.

No, this is different. His voice went up and down an octave as he talked. He got excited easily, but he seemed extra enthused. I must say, it got me a little interested too.

Who is it? I asked.

You know Ron Mullins? Rick asked.

I raised my eyebrows. Everyone in the city knew him. Millionaire, philanthropist, general guy living the dream making us suffer the nightmare in comparison.

The software guy? I asked.

Rick nodded. That one.

What about him? I asked. Rick started to speak, but I interrupted. What other than he’s dead? Gotta keep Rick on topic.

He died in a car crash. But I think they made it look like a suicide, Rick said.

That’s your big case? I asked.

Yeah, I really don’t think he committed suicide, Rick said. He sounded as convincing as it reads.

Why? I asked.

Some details that don’t make sense. For instance, it doesn’t look like he even tried to stop.

That’s it? Come on. You’re reaching because you want a high-profile case.

A little. But there isn’t much else. Plus, I smell a murder here, Rick said, with a little pleading in his voice.

That was a stretch but not a big one. Mullins had millions and rumors floated he considered a New York Senatorial run. He had a gorgeous wife, two kids, a private jet, and about everything else one of the luckiest bastards had. Suicide didn’t fit. A car accident could, but it didn’t hurt to look into it.

I reached into my breast pocket and pulled out my cigarettes, taking the last one out. I put it in my mouth, crushed the pack, and placed it on the table. I lit the cigarette. Before I informed Rick he was buying me another pack, he clumsily reached into his jacket and pulled out one. Helluva guy, I gotta tell you.

Thanks, I said.

No problem. I knew you’d ask for them. Ten bucks, too, he said.

Price you gotta pay, I said.

Yeah, anyway. The guy had no reason to kill himself. At least, no obvious reason. I already got on the horn with Geiger. He’ll let us handle it, Rick said. Geiger ran Homicide and, though a decent boss, he wasn’t usually that easy. I only wondered what Rick told him to get us the Mullins case. I realized I didn’t want to know.

What makes you think I am interested? I asked.

Like I said, there’s nothing else. Just a dead homeless guy, a 95-year-old man found rotting in his apartment, and an apparent gang shooting. I did you a favor, Rick said.

He did. He also put me at risk. The case would draw a lot of attention. Heat would come from above, probably as high as the mayor, governor even. That meant a lot of bullshit. But I realized right then maybe risky was what I needed.

Okay. What have we got so far? I asked.

Well, it seems Mr. Mullins ran his $150,000 Mercedes into a wall off FDR Drive three hours ago, Rick said. That brought a powerful image to my mind. What a painful way to go.

I didn’t hear about it on the radio, I said.

A couple of uniforms were right around the corner, no one on the street, and they kept it away from the press so far. I’d say the networks will get wind of it soon.

So, he drives into a building and dies. Maybe it was just a car accident, I said.

When dealing with the rich and famous, we followed up a bit more on things, I hate to say. Rick considered Mullins’ death a homicide because of his status. Those people get better treatment. If you crash your car into a wall, we cops will have you scraped off and move on. Maybe we send your remains to your family in a shoebox.

Maybe. But it is certainly worth delving into a bit, don’t you think? Rick asked, hoping I’d match his enthusiasm. He was tiring.

Perhaps. They find a note or anything? I asked. Something to go on?

Not yet. His cell phone, which somehow survived the crash intact, was on, Rick said. Phone call right before impact, if the math is right.

Could have been thrown on by the impact, I said. Like a cement-wall-dial. Happens all the time.

Rick gave me a sideways look and shrugged.

Possible. We’re checking out who he called last. Should have that info soon, he said.

I took another swallow of the drink, emptying it. Without hesitation, John made eye contact with me and nodded again, moving toward the bottle of Dewar’s. I looked around the bar. The guys in the suits were still there, and Rod Stewart played on the jukebox. Time for me to steal my Daddy’s cue and make a living out of playing pool.

Okay, so we get the phone records and see who he called. Probably won’t lead anywhere, I said.

It would be inconclusive, Rick said, ever hopeful. It wouldn’t rule out suicide. But it also wouldn’t confirm it.

I lit another cigarette. During this case, I could still smoke at Kasey’s. And other places. Man, has the world changed. Probably for the better.

A dead homeless guy case would have fewer complications. But something nagged at the back of my mind, something about mental stimulation. The opportunity lay before me. I had to take it, for my own sanity.

How long before we have anything? I asked.

Guy down at the station looking at the phone said to call a little after ten. I say we visit whoever Mullins called last, see what they talked about. Rick beamed now, like a little kid who gets to drive the car on his Daddy’s lap. Remember doing that? Then like me, you’re getting old. It’s okay.

Okay, good idea. We’ve got about an hour, so why don’t we grab a bite here while we wait?

It’s after nine. Anything you eat late ends up on your gut.

That’s the fourth reason I thought about strangling Rick almost every day if you’re counting. Rick obsessed over staying in shape. I didn’t. He was a year younger than me but built a lot better. He always drank protein shakes, ate health bars, and took vitamins. He was a good specimen, and certainly didn’t fit the donut-eating cop stereotype. He looked like a Hollywood actor.