Sweet Caroline

By Gene Caffrey

Having established himself as a useful amateur, Owen Delaney is asked to check out what might have prompted the suicide of a promising female grad student at the university in Philadelphia where he teaches. Encouraged by the dead girl's father, he suspects foul play, although no one other than the grieving father supports his suspicions. But, with the help of a few interesting friends and the surprising help of his wife, he gets an unexpected confession to murder from another grad student who claims he was coerced by a criminal mastermind whose activities the dead girl had inadvertently uncovered. Believing the story and sympathetic to the young man's plight, Owen and his wife begin to put together a case against the mastermind. When the mastermind learns that Owen is on to him, Owen and his family become targets. In an exciting turn of events, the family survives and a crude form of street justice is done.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gene Caffrey
• Release date: Mar 5, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311706621

Gene Caffrey

Gene Caffrey is a retired Philadelphia lawyer and real estate investor who has had a life-long love of sports and the novels of Dick Francis. He has been married for nearly 50 years and is the father of two grown children. His familiarity with the gritty streets of Philadelphia and his near total recall of its characters informs his writing with a refreshing authenticity. He now divides his time between Philadelphia, Sarasota (FL) and his farm in New Jersey.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Owen awoke to the drawled announcement by the captain that they’d be starting their descent to Philadelphia International and that all seatbelts should remain fastened. He craned out his window at the galaxy of city lights below and felt amazingly rested for the end of a cross-country red eye. It was nice having money to spend on first class without thinking twice, though like so much about his inheritance, even this modest admission caused his stomach to sink a half-inch. But when that flash of guilt passed, he found himself humming a cheerful tune, happy he could get a cab home, shower, change, comfortably catch his train and teach his usual Monday classes at the University without needing more sleep.

He was also happy he hadn’t asked the Department for funds to make the trip. Otherwise he’d be brooding about skipping so many of the sessions to spend time with Chip Parker, which was the real reason he’d signed up for the L.A. meeting in the first place. That off-line time hadn’t done much to help him, but Parker was a fascinating guy, Ivy League philosophy professor turned full time private detective. The romance of it all appealed to Owen and Owen had hoped Parker could help him decide if such a move was right for him as well. Twice in his relatively short life of thirty-two years he’d stumbled into—maybe drawn into would be a better phrase—the role of amateur sleuth, and he liked it. As dangerous as those experiences had turned out to be, they provided a charge of excitement that heightened his senses and bolstered his self-confidence. He longed for more of it and had hoped for encouragement from Chip Parker.

The plane touched down and jostled him to full alertness before he had a chance to attempt another summary of what he’d learned from Chip. And before he knew it, he was quickstepping down the airport concourse hoping to beat his fellow fliers to the cabstand. The cab driver did not quite know the way to Owen’s Chestnut Hill neighborhood and Owen had to feed him directions at regular intervals all the way to the long drive of his huge stone home. The cabbie whistled, but as usual, Owen grimaced at the admiration of his riches. So he tipped the guy generously and walked to his back door, noting that the landscapers had done a fall cleanup while he was gone. The place looked good in the early morning light with chrysanthemums still in bloom and the half-naked maples showing off their muscular limbs.

Upstairs, Barb and the kids were still asleep, so he tiptoed to his closet to grab a change of clothes and then shaved and showered quietly in the guest bath. By the time he emerged, he could hear the family downstairs in the kitchen. Barb looked up from pouring cereal when she heard him come down the steps.

Hey, travelin’ man. How did it all go?

Oh, most of the sessions were boring as hell, but there were a few good ones. One guy gave a great presentation on the emerging idea of the unconscious in the works of D. H. Lawrence.

You know that’s not what I meant. Barbara faked a frown. What did Mr. Parker have to say?

Owen had been discussing his career predicament with Barbara for several months now. She knew he liked teaching and, from all that he and others had told her, had to believe he was good at it. But she had also seen his itch for more excitement first hand. While it initially scared her—and still did, he guessed—she understood its force. Indeed, Owen knew she had experienced it herself at the tail end of his last case, if that was the word for it. And Chip Parker’s story had intrigued her. So he knew she was not dead set against a career change. Money would be no problem, even if he never got a client. But she had been pretty clear that she wanted to avoid a disruption of her domestic routine. Teaching blended very nicely into the life she had established for herself and the kids, and that was important to her. She held the milk carton above the cereal bowls waiting for Owen’s answer.

Well, he says most of the cases he works on are boring as hell, but there are a few good ones. Owen gave Barb a cockeyed smile.

Aha! Barb nodded, poured the milk and brought the bowls to the table where Little Hank and Claire were sitting, still in their pajamas.

Eat up guys. We don’t want Hank to be late for school.

Mom! I told you to call me ‘HG’

Barb looked at Owen and raised her eyebrows. The boys at school are already calling each other by their initials. Like they were rappers or sports stars or something.

Owen pursed his lips with mock seriousness and stroked his chin as he took a seat across from Hank. Hmm. I guess that’s about right. Second grade. That’s when it should happen. Congratulations, HG. HG stood for Henry George, the boy’s given names.

Little Hank puffed out his pint-sized chest and smiled. Claire was busy picking a single Cheerio from her bowl and was oblivious to the momentous development. Her three-year old distaste for eating had not gone away now that she was four. Owen leaned toward Hank, nodded, and continued stroking his chin.

You know, HG. I was eight when they started calling me ‘Odee’. That’s an ‘O’ for Owen and a ‘D’ for Delaney. You’re doing pretty good for yourself, being just seven.

Hank smiled again and Barb tilted her head in recognition that maybe grade school was not corrupting her little boy.

After kisses all around, Owen set off for his train, not sure what would happen with his career but certain that Tolstoy could not have been right about happy families. They could not possibly all be alike. His was special.

• • •

When she returned from her school run with Little Hank—she hoped he’d get over that HG business—and settling Claire into her playgroup, Barbara took her usual stroll down to her friend Connie’s for coffee. She hummed as she kicked her way through the leaves fallen on the old slate sidewalk and fought off the impulse to skip her way down the block, weightless with a free floating joy that descended upon her periodically, particularly on crisp, sunny days that reminded her of the early days on the farm with her mom and dad and Ginny, before all her troubles. Life was good now; and the thought that her kids would grow up in that house with everything they could conceivably need for a decent life infused her entire body with such a powerful happiness that she wondered if it were possible for someone literally to explode from joy.

Of course, Barbara understood that people, not things, made for a good life. But like that comedienne had sad, rich or poor, it’s good to have money; and Owen’s money had provided the solid trellis on which she could grow her roses, both real and metaphorical. So what if he had this crazy idea about becoming a detective. No way should that affect her hard earned contentment. Sure, his infatuation with the idea was based on a couple of exciting, near-death episodes that he had stumbled into. But neither of them was the kind of matter that a real life private detective would ever encounter. A TV character, sure. But she had read up on it. No real world detectives got anywhere near those life and death adventures. Owen’s experiences were flukes. Like that Professor Parker had told Owen, most of his work would be boring and tedious. And, knowing Owen, if he did make a career change, he’d become more of a social worker than a cop.

So she decided not to mention the matter to Connie; even though the discussion would give her a chance to share her pride in the part she, herself, had played in the happy resolution of Owen’s last adventure.

Chapter 2

A full week passed without much movement on Owen’s career decisions. But as he bounced up the stairs of Dolby Hall to his third floor offices after his morning class the following Monday, Sandy Esposito waved a pink Please Call message at him. As usual, he was a little out of breath after his climb to the attic, as it was called by the junior faculty cooped up there with Sandy. He joked to himself that he might not be so curious about a career change if his office were on the first floor.

The message was from a William Kopinski. Owen certainly recognized the name, although he had not quite digested the William part and always thought of the man as Detective Kopinski. It was not yet lunchtime so he called right away.

Kopinski here.

Owen had learned not to be put off by the gruff voice and curt manner. Kopinski’s phone demeanor was a front. In person he was a lot more civil. Owen had come to know the guy in the course of his two criminal investigations and liked him, even though he’d mercilessly challenged Owen’s instincts both times.

Detective, this is Owen Delaney. Returning your call.

Oh. Hold on.

Owen heard Kopinski’s phone clunk on his desk and, after a few seconds, heard what sounded like a door closing before Kopinski got back on the line. He almost whispered.

Delaney, I need a favor. A little informal detective work at the University. You up for it?

Sure, Detective. Not only was Owen ready for his first client—a police detective, no less—but he owed Kopinski big time for his help with the Juan Castillo matter earlier in the year. What do you want me to do?

Well, you know about that girl’s suicide last weekend.

Actually, I don’t. I was away last weekend and I don’t remember seeing anything about it since I got back.

Yeah. I guess the news did fade pretty quickly. The University’s a master at that. But here’s the story. Kopinski paused and Owen could imagine him in shirtsleeves, leaning back in his chair, organizing his thoughts as he stroked his tie and propped his spit shined shoes on his desk. Maybe he even had his eyes closed. Owen had seen it all before.

The girl’s name was Caroline Pinkett. She was twenty-four and getting her PhD in Sports Management. Scholarship student. Looks like she jumped from the balcony of her ninth floor apartment in one of the graduate student residences. Happened about eight-thirty at night, two Saturdays ago.

From experience, Owen knew Kopinski didn’t like being interrupted, but he thought he should be taking some notes. Hold on, Detective, while I get something to write on.

No need, Delaney. I’ll send you everything you need. Kopinski hesitated, then hissed into the phone. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. It happened about eight-thirty and, because it was a Saturday night, the building was practically empty. No one home on her floor but her. Security cameras in the lobby show only residents entered during the day. They don’t log in visitors in that building—they just call upstairs to get permission to admit guests—but the guard staff doesn’t remember anyone visiting the girl since her boyfriend the previous weekend. He was a regular on Saturday nights.

Kopinski paused again and Owen’s mind wandered. Would he remember this call years from now as the turning point? The real beginning of a more gritty existence where life was not as predictable, and interesting characters were not found only in novels?

Owen’s pulse-quickening reverie was interrupted by more rapid-fire details from Kopinski.

There was no sign of a forced entry or a struggle in the apartment. No one heard any yelling and no one at ground level remembers hearing any screams as her body fell. There was no indication of drugs or alcohol or sedation of any kind. She sent three ‘I can’t take it anymore’ emails at just about the time of her jump, or fall, or whatever. The first was to her boyfriend. His name is Paul Taylor. Works at a small bond-underwriting firm in Center City. He says they changed their usual Saturday night dating routine because he had to work all day and then visit his grandmother for her birthday that evening. All this checks out.

Owen hoped all this stuff would be in the materials Kopinski planned to send him. He wasn’t sure he’d remember it otherwise. He looked around for a pen and pad as Kopinski barreled on.

The second email was to her brother who lives in Florida, where she’s from. He’s a former basketball star. Drafted by the pros, but his career petered out after a couple of years. That Saturday night he was giving a ‘work hard, stay in school’ talk at a high school football banquet in Bradenton, Florida,

The pen Owen had grabbed was dry and he made feverish circles on his pad to revive it before giving up and just listening.

The third email went to her father who also lives in Florida. Sarasota. That’s why I called you.

Kopinski exhaled deeply before explaining, in a noticeably softer tone, that the girl’s father, I.D. Pinkett, was a personal friend, a retired head of detectives from the Sarasota police. Kopinski’d come to know him in connection with his own work on educational programs for police detectives around the country. Pinkett, himself, was often a presenter at the programs. When the Philadelphia Medical Examiner issued his suicide finding, I.D. had called Kopinski to say it was impossible that his daughter had taken her own life. According to the old man, Caroline was doing great, getting lots of job interviews with NBA teams. Her dream job was to be the first female general manager of a National Basketball Association franchise and she was looking for a position that could set her on that career path. Apparently, women have risen pretty high in baseball and she wanted to be the first to do it in basketball. She’d been in love with the game all her life and was a major college star, all conference in one of the big east coast conferences. Kopinski couldn’t remember which one.

According to I.D., his daughter had not only been doing good, she was also feeling good. Since her mother died when she was thirteen, he had been both dad and confidant, and he always knew how she was feeling. Even when she was a thousand miles away in Philly. And she was not feeling suicidal.

So, you see, Delaney, I’m in a bind. Kopinski sighed. I want to do something to give a little support to I.D. But thanks to pressure from the University, the Medical Examiner’s finding has already been filed and the University would be more than a little perturbed if cops started snooping around suggesting something other than suicide. They get one or two of them a year and they’re infinitely more acceptable than murder on the campus. So I told I.D. about you.

Owen felt a like Little Hank looked when he had been praised about his new nickname. Vanity made him ask what Kopinski had said.

I told him you were a kind of private detective who I worked with on a couple of cases. I said you were smart and resourceful. Kopinski coughed. Yeah, I know, I exaggerated. But I also told him you were a University professor and might have good access to details about what was going on in Caroline’s life. He said okay when I told him I’d ask you to look into things. So that’s the favor I need.

Happy to do it.

Owen realized that if this was indeed the beginning of a new chapter in his life, he should have consulted with Barbara before agreeing to turn the page. He felt a small knot growing in his stomach. He was able to ignore it while Kopinski itemized the materials he’d be sending (the contact information he’d need, a copy of the campus security report and the sketchy results of the cops’ own investigation), and then offered his thanks to Owen for helping him out. But after hanging up, that knot tightened. Owen managed to loosen it a bit by telling himself that this Pinkett case would be a trial balloon and that he’d describe it to Barb that way, and that she’d probably think it was sensible to stick his toe in the water before jumping in.

Once he had convinced himself that those clichés actually made sense, Owen could feel an adrenaline rush and got up from his desk. He paced around his office ruminating about the kind of business cards he should get printed until it eventually occurred to him that there were licensing issues to worry about. Parker had told him he’d been associated with an established private investigator when he first started, so he didn’t have to bother getting his own license. But Owen didn’t know any licensed investigators and, besides, Kopinski probably wouldn’t want others to know what he was up to. So he Googled Licensing of Private Investigators In Pennsylvania and was disappointed to find that, to become licensed, an applicant must have been in some branch of law enforcement prior to making the application. Unsure what he should do, he made another call to Kopinski.

Kopinski here.

Detective, this is Owen Delaney again. Listen, I just checked the licensing requirements for private investigators in Pennsylvania and it turns out that you have to have prior experience as a policeman or sheriff to get one. How I am going to get licensed?

Whoa, Delaney. Slow down. The pitch of Kopinski’s voice went up a notch and Owen could detect a suppressed cackle. He tapped his foot as he waited for Kopinski to answer.

You’re getting way ahead of yourself, Delaney. I know the rules, but all I want is for you to do your thing. Ask around as a family friend, not a detective. Find out what was bothering her. I.D. is way off base on this. The suicide call was a no-brainer. You won’t find anything criminal. But I’ve got make some effort for I.D. He can’t believe she took her own life. But maybe you can find some problems he didn’t know about.

Owen slumped back in his chair and swallowed hard before saying Okay, I got it. Thanks.

Owen was unable to concentrate on anything for the rest of the afternoon. He had intended to prepare a class lecture based on the D. H. Lawrence presentation he’d heard at the L.A. meeting, but he found himself rehashing the conversation with Kopinski over and over again. His big case wasn’t a criminal matter. At best it was a case study in suicide, just make-work, so Kopinski could feel like he hadn’t let down his friend. Shit. Maybe he wouldn’t bother with it. That’d show Kopinski not to treat him like some unpaid summer intern. On the other hand, at least Kopisnki had thought of him. And even an investigation into the background of the girl’s suicide was a kind of detective work. Wasn’t it?

Owen’s anger had dissipated somewhat by the time he left Dolby Hall for his train later that afternoon and everything and everyone on his route to the station seemed in sharper focus and more alive than usual. As he bounced along in the brisk early December air, he thought about I.D. Pinkett. Maybe I.D. was right about his daughter’s death. While there seemed to be no other explanation than suicide, I.D. didn’t sound like the type who would deny the obvious without good reason. Who knows? He should probably touch base with I.D. before concluding Kopinski and the Medical Examiner were right.

Chapter 3

Kopinski’s materials arrived a few days later and Owen called I.D. Pinkett as soon as he found his number in the packet. The phone rang multiple times before it was picked up.

Yeah?

Is this Mr. Pinkett?

Yeah.

This is Owen Delaney, Mr. Pinkett. Detective Kopinski of the Philadelphia Police Department gave me your number.

Uh huh. The English professor?

That’s right. He thought I might be helpful finding out what was going on in your daughter’s life before she . . . Owen paused to find the proper word and I.D. jumped in.

Before she was ‘murdered’ is what you should be thinking.

I understand. Detective Kopinski told me what you think and—

Not what I think. It’s what I know.

Okay, Mr. Pinkett. I—

And cut that Mr. Pinkett shit. My name is I.D.

Okay, I.D. I promised Detective Kopinski I’d look into things at the University because—

Because Bill’s a chicken shit, is why. Afraid to ruffle feathers. Your University Security boys don’t want a murder on their hands. Nice, simple suicide is fine. But no murders, please. That might upset all them rich parents and their kiddies. Well, how do you think this parent feels? It’s my daughter’s been murdered.

I.D. was more than Owen had bargained for and Owen was at a loss for words. Unfortunately for him, I.D. was not.

And who the hell are you, anyway? Bill says he worked with you on a coupla cases. How long you been licensed?

Actually, I don’t have a license yet.

Damn! What are you? Some kinda student of the mystery novel? You sound like a bare-assed amateur.

Owen was clenching his jaw. He told himself to calm down.

All I can say, I.D., is that Kopinski asked me to help out and I’ll do my very best.

I.D. went silent and Owen could imagine him scratching his neck or pulling on an ear. Finally, I.D. sighed and Owen’s jaw loosened.

Sorry, Delaney. I shouldn’t be takin’ my upset out on you. And, who knows, maybe you can help. I ain’t gonna get anything better, anyway. He blew into the phone before continuing. Here’s what we should do. My son Marcus’ll be coming to Philly in a few days to close up Caroline’s apartment and drive her car back down here to Sarasota. Gimme your number. He’ll call you while he’s there and you two can meet and make some sort of plan.

Owen gave I.D. his cell phone and office numbers, then said Meanwhile, maybe I’ll start asking around. See what I learn before Marcus arrives.

Yeah, do that. I.D. no longer sounded angry, but Owen could just see his face tightening to a frown and his eyebrows squinching closer together.

Owen hung up and closed his eyes, letting his head drop down to the back of his chair. His thoughts turned to Mama Colgrove. She had rented a condo for the season on Longboat Key, which Owen thought was near Sarasota, and had been talking with Barbara about having them all down at Christmas. Owen had been resisting the idea. He never felt quite comfortable with his stepmother, or whatever you called the widow of the man who had fathered him while his mother was married to the man who actually raised him. George Colgrove and Big Hank Delaney. When little Hank knew the story behind those initials, he might not be so happy with his nickname.

On the other hand, a Christmas trip to the Sarasota area might give him a chance to meet I.D. in person and assess first hand his qualifications as a second guesser.

Chapter 4

As Owen walked up the steps to the lobby of Caroline’s building a few days later, he had no trouble spotting Marcus. He was the only six-eight, muscular black man standing around looking expectantly. He nodded slightly when Owen approached with his hand out and introduced himself.

Have you ever been to Caroline’s place before, Marcus?