with someone else. You’re sure?”
“How can I be?” Rick asked.
“Then maybe you should stick it out. Kids without a father living in the house are starting off with one strike against them. It might not hurt them, but it certainly isn’t helping them. You have to at least take that into consideration.”
Rick really looked defeated. It was hard to watch that. I sort of felt bad for him. Then again, he started on the topic. How the hell did I know he suffered so badly?
“I know,” he said. “It’s just so difficult. I don’t feel like a man. I feel like a kid. A damn, foolish kid, who needs his mother to tell him how to do everything. If it wasn’t for the job, I’d feel completely hopeless. Completely.”
I knew that feeling all too well. “I hear you.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence, thank God. It took almost an hour to get to Massapequa, which is about a third of the way to the end of the island. For people somewhat familiar with the island, Massapequa was on the south shore, with a lot of bay front property, and was right near the Nassau/Suffolk border.
There were several parts to the town, ranging from wealthy areas to downright decrepit ones. Massapequa was like a slice of Long Island, with all facets proportionately represented. I had gone there a few times when I was a teenager, mainly because of a burger place called All American Burger. It looked a lot like the sort of place you see in 50's movies, without the drive-in service. I never asked if they had girls serving you on roller skates wearing short shorts. They certainly didn’t have them when I went there. If they had, I would have moved to Massapequa a long time ago.
The Mullins house sat at the end of a dead end street, on the South Bay. Big iron gates prevented unwanted visitors from entering the property, which was, by Long Island standards, huge. A circular driveway which to the house, a large, almost Victorian building, with round columns in front. The Mullins family had a large pool visible from the front, and a tennis court. From where we pulled up, we could see two cars in the driveway, a Mercedes 500SL coupe, and a Lincoln Navigator, one of those huge SUVs that everyone important seemed to drive. The gates were closed, and and a call box sat right next to them. We pulled up to it.
“Be careful,” Rick said, “We scare her and we don’t get to talk to her.”
“Only thing gonna scare her is your femininity.”
“At least I don’t look like a mess all the time,” Rick said, obviously proud of how he carried himself. He had to take a jab at me. It was his only defense.
I rolled my eyes, opened my window, and hit the call button.
“Mullins residence,” a man with a thick voice said.
“New York Police Department calling, we would like to speak to Mrs. Mullins on official business.”
There was a pause, a long one.
“Please show me your badge, the camera is right above you.”
I looked and noticed a black camera halfway up the post. I took my badge out, and held it as close to the camera as I could reach.
The gates opened, and we drove up to the house.
The white gravel on the driveway crunched underneath the tires of the heavy Mercury. I pulled up next to the Navigator, a green one, and we got out. The weather had finally improved, and I could hear birds chirping in the large oak tree above us. How quaint.
“I can’t believe we got in,” Rick said.
“We haven’t passed the final test yet,” I said.
“True.”
Before we got to the door, a large wood one with an ornate brass knocker, it opened, and a man dressed in a tan pair of slacks and white polo shirt stood there, eyeing us. Security, no doubt. I scanned him quickly, to see if he was carrying a gun. None that I noticed.
“Detective Keegan,” the man said. Some camera that guy had. He was fairly tall, say about 6'2", built similarly to Rick. He had short light brown hair. He looked like an ex-military type. They never lose that look.
“Yes, and this is Detective Calhill, my partner.”
“I was said to expect you.” By whom, I wondered.
“Is Mrs. Mullins here?” I asked, knowing full well she was. “Yes. But she is busy contacting relatives at the moment. As I am sure you know, this is a difficult time for her.”
“I do. When need to speak to her for only a few moments. We just need some information.”
“What sort of information?”
“About her husband.” I walked closer to him. “Listen, I understand you are trying to protect your employer. We don’t wish to cause her any more grief, but in order to find out exactly what happened to her husband, we need to speak to her. We know she was in the Bahamas, and we are not considering her a suspect.”
“You guys consider everyone a suspect.”
“You know what I mean. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be. Just let us do our jobs, and we will be on our way.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Come in,” he said, “but I can’t promise that she will talk to you. She may only refer you to her lawyer.”
I wanted to tell him that, by law, I could just bring her down to the precinct and sort it all out there. I figured he knew that, and so did she.
We walked in to the house, the foyer, actually, which had shiny ceramic tiles and a Persian rug, along with a small chandelier. Nice place. A brass-trimmed mirror was on the left wall, and a fancy painting, one of a garden, was on the other. He led us into the room to the left, which I would say was the sitting room, with large bookcases, all half full, and a couch and two chairs. This room was painted an off-white, and had a painting of Mr. And Mrs. Mullins on the far wall. Unless the artist decided to be creative, she was some looker. Made Roseanna look like a run of the mill girl.
“Have a seat, and I will tell Mrs. Mullins that you wish to speak to her.”
“Please,” I said, obviously feigning politeness. It’s really the only way I can pull it off.
The guy gave me a look, then left the room.
“Nice painting,” Rick said. “You gonna ogle this one the way you did the housekeeper?”
“Only if that picture is a correct representation.”
“This is a serious investigation,” Rick said.
“And I am a serious investigator. What my eyes do serves a purpose. Don’t worry.”
“Whatever.”
We waited for about ten minutes, and then Mr. Security Guard came back in the room. He looked bothered, defeated.
“She’ll see you. Give her a minute or so.”
“Thank you, I appreciate it,” I said.
“Yeah,” he replied, then walked out of the room, to return to his ever-so-important duties.
Not more than thirty seconds after he left, Sondra Mullins walked into the room. She was the sort of woman who took control of whatever room she entered. She had blonde hair that came down to her shoulders, with a sort of curl at the end, and a body to die for. I figured her to be about 5'5", and she certainly had her breasts, um, augmented I think is the right word. What made her so attractive was her face. It was near perfect. Her eyes were big and blue, her small nose was appropriate, and she had nice, pouty lips. Someone up above surely wanted me to concentrate on other things besides this case. Looking at her, I really doubted that Mullins committed suicide.
Not with a wife like that.
“Detectives,” she said, in a deep, sultry voice. Man.
“We’re sorry to disturb you, ma’am,” Rick said, standing up.
“I understand,” she said. Nothing about her hinted at the fact that she grieved. She seemed composed, normal. Almost too normal. “This has been such a shock,” she said.
Sondra moved to the couch, sitting about fifteen feet away from us. She reached into a small box on the table next to her. “Do you mind if I smoke?” she asked.
I reached for my pack. “So long as I can, too.”
“Of course. Ron never liked my doing this,” she said, talking with the long cigarette dangling from her mouth. She lit it, to
ok a long inhale, then exhaled slowly, seductively. She was good.
“We would just like to ask you a few questions, so we might find out what happened to your husband,” I said, lighting my own cigarette. I attempted a masculine drag, but it just can’t be forced. DeNiro could do it. Others look normal. Unless you’re one of those guys that does it Asian-style, from the side.. Trust me, only Asians can do it and make it work. Don’t try.
“Of course.” She exhaled through the corner of her mouth, perfectly and then took another drag. She made it look like, well, you know.
“When was the last time you and your husband spoke?” I asked. Rick whipped out his notepad and began jotting all of this down.
“Monday night. I had just arrived at our condo in the Bahamas,” Sondra said.
“Was he supposed to go with you?”
“Yes, but he canceled at the last minute. Something to do with the company. He never tells me much about that. Probably because he knows I am not too concerned.”
“How did he act for the last few months?” I asked.
“Stressed.”
“Can you explain that further?” Rick asked.
“Well, he is always, was always, uptight. He worried about every aspect of his business, which I guess made him such the successful man he was.”
“But he was more stressed than usual?”
“Yes,” Sondra said. She moved her eyes from Rick to me, and just catching her stare made my knees weak. Really.
“In what way?”
“He was short-tempered. He was never short-tempered.”
“Never?” I asked.
“Never.”
“Do you know what about, exactly?” I asked.
“Well, I am sure