At This Point in My Life: Jack McCrae Mystery, #1

At This Point in My Life

A Jack McCrae Mystery #1

By

Frank Zafiro

Chapters

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

About the Author

Other Books by Frank Zafiro

At This Point in My Life: A Jack McCrae Mystery #1

By Frank Zafiro

Copyright ©2012 Frank Scalise

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without the prior written permission of the copyright owner(s), except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Code 4 Press, an imprint of Frank Zafiro, LLC

Redmond, Oregon USA

This is a work of fiction. While real locations may be used to add authenticity to the story, all characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Edited by J.M. Morton

Cover Design by Zach McCain

For my own daughter, Maria.

Once I had the strength but no wisdom;

Now I have the wisdom but no strength.

- Persian Proverb

ONE

You really gonna do it, Mac? You really gonna drop your papers?

Detective Third Grade Jeremiah Taylor stood at my desk, his palms planted on the edge as he leaned toward me. A wunderkind with less than six months as a detective and just five short years on the job, he didn’t have anywhere near enough gray in his beard to be asking me a question like that. Or to be calling me Mac, for that matter. But if I was ever the kind of guy to mention that to a kid like him, that time had long passed.

Detective Second Grade Angie Scialfa had no such compunction. Before I could answer, she called from her chair, two desks away. What the hell do you care, chucklehead? You’ve got your shield already. Him retiring doesn’t bump you at all. Unless you’re in a hurry to make Second Grade, that is.

Jeremiah swallowed. A trace of red blossomed on his cheeks. He looked like someone who had just walked through a cobweb of nervousness and was trying to decide whether anyone would notice if he swept his hands over his face to remove it. Angie had that effect on a lot of people.

I was...just wondering, he finally mumbled.

Yeah? Well, go wonder at your own desk, then, Angie told him. Leave Mac alone.

Jeremiah cast me a sheepish glance, then turned and shuffled out of the North Precinct bullpen, headed toward his own desk in the South Precinct offices across the hall. I watched him go, trying unsuccessfully to work up a trace of pity for him.

Stupid rookie, Angie grumbled.

I shrugged. He seems like a nice enough kid. Smart, too.

She snorted. Too smart, if you ask me. He’s like one of those genius code breakers who can’t tie their own shoe and are too socially inept to handle ordering a Happy Meal.

That made me smile. She was right. But Angie had a way of putting things that cut to the my funny bone.

I watched her lean back in her chair and prop her feet on the corner of her desk. High heels contrasted with the rest of her mostly conservative business attire. I suppose the neck line of her white blouse dipped a little lower than most other female detectives would allow, but that was Angie. You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can never take the Jersey out of the girl. How she worked in those heels, though, I never understood.

She removed a bag of Western Family brand baby carrots from her desk and tossed one in her mouth, crunching it with her teeth. You want? she asked, extending the bag toward me.

I shook my head.

Angie shrugged. She chomped for a few moments longer, then motioned toward the open file on my desk. You got anything going there?

I looked down at the file and sighed. Not really. Theft of a lawn mower.

Her jaw dropped. She swung her legs off the desk and planted them on the ground, staring at me in disbelief. "Akeela gave you a stolen lawn mower for your final case? You’re kidding me."

It doesn’t matter.

Bullshit, Mac. It matters.

A case is a case, I said, repeating what could be the mantra for my entire career.

Maybe day in and day out, Angie said, but your last case is your swan song. It should be something special. Something memorable. Not some goddamn lawn mower heist.

It was an expensive lawn mower, I offered. The riding kind.

Angie held up her hands and leaned back in mock surrender. Oh, well sorry. That changes everything. Fucking grand theft auto over here. That’s totally different.

I shrugged. It really doesn’t matter.

Angie gave me a long look and sighed. "It does matter, Mac. She paused, then added, Lots of things matter. That’s your problem, though. You don’t see those things."

What’s that supposed to mean?

Angie shook her head. Never mind. Go solve your high profile GTA.

Angie...

She tossed the carrots back into the drawer and returned to her own case file, ignoring me. I knew from experience that there was no getting past that wall once she threw it up, so I sighed and turned back to my case file.

My last case file.

I wasn’t certain how I felt about that. I’d come close to retiring once before. I was all set to go. I even mentioned it to a few people, which was a mistake. Anytime someone utters the R word around the police department, it causes a hum. That’s particularly true if the potential retiree has any rank at all. If a major retires, a captain is promoted to major. That promotion has a domino effect through lieutenant and sergeant to the line level. One retirement might make three or four different promotions. So, naturally, when whispers of someone cashing in their chips start flying, people get interested.

Being a detective, my retirement didn’t raise as much of a stir, though Kevin Brown, the patrol officer sitting number one on the promotional list, definitely raised an eyebrow. He even came to ask me if the rumor was true. By then, I was getting cold feet, so I told him I wasn’t sure. When I eventually decided not to go, it didn’t make him too happy. The list died with him sitting at number one. He hasn’t tested well enough to be within striking distance since. No surprise, he still doesn’t talk to me.

Why’d I stay? Hard to say, really. I guess that when I stood at that precipice and looked over, I just didn’t see a soft landing below. The question of what next? plagued me and I didn’t have an answer. At fifty years old, I just couldn’t see waking up in the morning not knowing what I was going to do that day.

It could be something more. Maybe I wanted to stay and earn Detective First Grade. I’d never had any breakout, high profile cases in my career. Those big moments just seemed to come along when I was on days off or assigned to another case. At best, I worked in a support role, one that may or may not even require testimony at trial. The cards just seemed to fall that way. So maybe, I hoped, if I stayed a few more years, my karma would change and I’d hit some case worth remembering. One that defined a career.

What I found was that people don’t change and neither does your karma. I spent another six years on the job, catching the same kinds of cases I’d caught for the previous fifteen as a detective. In the ten years before that, as a patrol officer, I’d been answering the same kinds of radio calls. Ultimately, I figured that’s what defined my career.

I eventually made First Grade the same day I made my thirty years on the job. Sergeant Williamson pushed the paperwork through, citing twenty years of consistent, diligent, solid investigations and steady reliability in all assignments.

In other words, sustained mediocrity.

The brass bought it, though, and I got my stripe and pay bump.

This event made me think about the job and about my attitude toward my career, in general. I came to realize that I was like an addict who was still copping, trying to find that first, magical high again. They call it chasing the dragon. As every addict knows, the harder you pursue it, the more unattainable it becomes.

Surely that was what kept me on the job. I wasn’t young enough to be kicking in doors and chasing down the big players anymore. Hell, almost all of them had dates of birth fresher than my date of hire. If I’d had a family, it’d be like chasing my kids’ classmates around this city.

I was fifty-six years old. I had thirty-one years on the job.

Enough.

I blinked, bringing my eyes back into focus. The type on the police report in my case file remained slightly blurred. I muttered a curse, slid my drawer open and dug for my reading glasses.

Angie cast a glance over her shoulder at me. What’s the matter?

Nothing.

Don’t give me that, she said. Five years I’ve been sitting here. I know when something’s wrong.

It’s nothing, I repeated. I just can’t read this report.

Eyes going?

No.

You looking for your glasses?

No.

They’re next to your phone, she told me.

I stopped digging in my drawer. A quick look at my phone told me she was right. I returned to digging in the drawer. I was looking for a highlighter pen.

Sure.

I found a yellow highlighter pen and set it on the desk triumphantly. See?

Yeah. You’re full of shit, Mac.

I sighed. Ever since Angie was assigned to the North Precinct five years ago, we’d become unofficial partners. Her biting sarcasm and my mild grouchiness could have been a toxic combination, but somehow we both seemed to find some comfort in it. No one else seemed to have me figured out quite like she did. Guess no one else cared enough to take the time.

It’s just that the goddamn patrol officer selected a point size so small that it’s impossible to read, I explained. Lazy bastard probably did it so that he could fit the whole report on one page and not have to fill out an additional narrative sheet.

Angie cocked an eyebrow at me. I never told her, but when she did that, the lines in her face became more pronounced. She refused to divulge her actual age, but I put her in her early forties. Most days, she could pass for mid-thirties, though. Except when she cocked that eyebrow.

What? I asked her.

The point size is standard, she said matter-of-factly.

I shook my head. Not this one. It’s small so he could fit it on one page.

No, it’s not.

Angie, cops have been doing this for years. You write small so you don’t have to—

She held up her hand, stopping me. Yeah, you’re right. We used to do it all the time when we wrote reports by hand. It saved filling out the header for an additional. Saved all of about four minutes.

Exactly my point.

She shook her head. Mac, they don’t have to worry about that anymore. The report writing program auto-fills additional pages. The computer does it for them. There’s no reason to keep it all on one page. No reason to write, or type, small.

I stared at her for a moment. Then I reached up and scratched my neck, looking at her. She was right, of course. I knew it, too. My reverie slipped me off track and I forgot. Angie kept looking back at me, so I said, Then I guess this asshole just likes writing his reports in tiny letters.

Angie smiled. "You’re grouchy enough you could have been born in Jersey, Mac.

Whatever.

Put on your magic glasses, she instructed, turning back to her own case file. The words will suddenly get bigger. Clearer, too.

I waited a few moments, drumming my fingers on the desk. Then I reached for my eye glasses. Sure enough, as soon as I settled them on my nose, the type became crisper and easier to read. I grunted my displeasure.

Told ya, Angie said without looking my direction.

I grunted again.

You know what goes right after the eyes, Mac?

Give it a rest, Scialfa.

First the vision fails, she said, and then pretty soon you’ll have a tough time getting other parts to work when you want them to.

My eyes are fine, I said. So’s everything else. Now shut up so I can read, please.

She fell silent, but I could sense her grin from where I sat.

And stop smiling, I added.

You’re not the boss of me, she said.

I shook my head and continued reading the case file. The further I got into it, the more it became obvious why Akeela had assigned it to me. The thing was a slam dunk. Two different neighbors saw the suspect loading the lawn mower onto the back of a pickup truck. It didn’t get much easier than that. The suspect even lived on the same block. About the only hole in the case was that neither neighbor realized that the lawn mower was stolen at the time, so no one thought to get the license plate number of the truck.

Still, this was a case that I could easily clear. I glanced at my watch. Barely nine in the morning. I could have this wrapped up before one, which was when the big sendoff for me was scheduled to take place. That was probably what Akeela had in mind when he made the assignment, in fact.

I stood and reached for my jacket. You want to come out with me on this? I asked Angie.

On the grand theft lawn mower? she asked.

Yeah. I want to interview the suspect.

Sure. What the hell. She closed her case file. This caper blows anyway.

Don’t do me any favors, I said.

Don’t worry, stud, she said, standing up and putting on her coat. I won’t.

On the way out to my car, I filled her in on the bare details of the case. She wrinkled her nose. Why don’t you just cut an affidavit and request a warrant based on the eyewitness testimony? You’ve got probable cause.

I held the exit door open for her. Probable cause doesn’t get the guy his lawn mower back.

Angie chuckled. You’re such a white knight, Mac. What the fuck do you care if he gets his lawn mower back?

Isn’t that supposed to be my job?

It’s your job to catch the bad guy, Angie said. If you recover the property, that’s a bonus.

It’s evidence.

Fine, but you don’t need it. You’ve got good witnesses. That’ll make the case just fine. Then you can move on to the next one.

I shook my head as we headed out to the motor pool. The crisp March air bit into my hands. If we got any rain today, it’d be dangerously close to snow. There is no next one for me, I told her.

Oh. Yeah, I forgot.

Besides, we have a responsibility to the victim, I said, repeating what my mentor had said to me hundreds of times when I first made detective twenty years ago.

That’s Akeela talking, Angie said. You pull that shit out whenever you know I’m right.

I didn’t say anything until we located my pale blue Crown Victoria in the parking cage. I opened the driver’s door and popped the lock for her. Once inside, I started the car and let the engine warm up.

Heat, Angie requested, rubbing her hands together briskly.

It’ll only blow cold air, I told her. Let the engine warm up.

You always say that.

Well, I’m right. I waited a moment, then said, And so was Akeela . He was a great detective in his time.

I know, Angie said. He’s a fucking legend. But he didn’t deal with the volume of cases we deal with now, Mac.

He understood our duty, I said.

Angie sighed. Look, you know the numbers as well as I do. We’ve got the same number of detectives working now as we did in 1964. Same number. But the population of the city has grown by what, fifty or sixty thousand since then? And the crime rate has tripled, at least.

That doesn’t change anything.

"It changes everything, she countered. We have to be more selective in the cases we work and how far we work them. Get in, get out and move on. That’s the way it is today."

I don’t like it.

Duh. That’s why you’re retiring.

A silence fell between us. I scowled and stared down at the temperature gauge, waiting for it to nudge off of cold. Angie sat impatiently, blowing on her fingertips. Finally, the red needle twitched. I dropped the car into gear and headed out of the parking lot.

I cruised slowly toward the suspect’s address, almost on auto-pilot. After thirty-one years of working this city, I knew the streets like the back of my hand. Driving the most direct route to any address was second nature. But in the last ten years or so, I started noticing how every block I drove down had an eerie familiarity to it. I recalled radio calls I’d responded to or cases I’ve investigated that took place in houses on that street. Most of those calls and cases were pleasant memories. For me, there were ghosts on every block now.

About half way to our destination, Angie spoke up. Look, Mac, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your case. If you want to interview the suspect for stronger PC, that’s cool. And recovering the evidence props things up, too. I’m just saying that you don’t absolutely need it. That’s all.

The victim deserves it, I said.

The victim has insurance, right? Angie replied. He’ll get a new mower out of the deal.

I shrugged.

Don’t pout, she said.

I’m not.

You’re scowling, and that’s how you pout.

Stop acting like my wife.

I might as well be your work wife, she said. She paused, then added, From what I can tell, that’s about as close to getting laid as you’ve come in recent history.

I turned my head to look at her. Detective Scialfa, did you just proposition me?

Dream on, she answered. I’m just making a statement of record.

Let’s not worry about my love life, okay?

Okay.

It’s not a problem.

Whatever you say.

It’s not.

I believe you, she said. After a pause, she added, I mean, I’m sure you have it well in hand.

Says the social butterfly, I popped back.

She raised an eyebrow. Is that veiled reference to my virtue?

Or lack thereof, I said.

Her eyes narrowed. Those who can do, she said. Those who can’t…mock.

I shrugged. There was no defeating her. The best strategy was surrender.

We fell silent again, each left to our own thoughts. I drove mechanically, considering her point. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was an old thing in a new world. The telegraph after the telephone was invented. Maybe the world has moved on. Now was a new world—not my world any longer. New ideas were taking hold with new priorities and new rules. It was no place for me to be any longer.

This case would be my final opportunity to finish things my way, regardless.

The suspect, James Kerry, lived on a decent block of West Nebraska Street. I pulled to a stop a few houses west of the residence and put the cruiser in park. I pointed through the windshield. It’s the blue house, I told Angie.

"Yeah, I recognized the numbers on