Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  Even better than the candy was that Roy talked to me like an adult, wasn’t ever condescending, and generally treated me well. That he and my dad were still friends after all this time—and after all my father’s shenanigans—spoke volumes about his character, even if he did spend much of his time these days knee-deep in kitty litter.

  “Shay!” Roy held his arms out. I stepped in and gave him a hearty squeeze. He pushed me back and gave me the up-down assessment the older generation gives the younger when it’s been some time since they’ve seen each other. Roy beamed at me. “You’re looking well!” His gaze caught Lisa over my shoulder. “And you’re a special friend of Shay’s, may I assume?”

  Lisa’s look of surprise quickly morphed into mischievousness. “No, I’m not that kind of friend, but I’m working on it.” She blatantly ogled me up and down, much as Roy had done, but with very different intent.

  I did an internal eye roll. “This is Lisa Vecoli, and no, she’s not that kind of friend.”

  Roy always tried hard to show me he was down with the whole gay thing. Even if it was a little overdone, I appreciated his efforts. I thought of him as that odd yet kind uncle who everyone seems to have in the family.

  “Roy,” I said, “can we talk to you for a couple of minutes?”

  “Of course. Vi, will you please excuse me for a moment?”

  The woman we’d met in the elevator smiled. “Absolutely.”

  We followed Roy out into the hall and to a conference room. The focal point was a fancy, high-gloss oval table that sat at least ten. A bar with a mini-fridge was situated in one corner, and a white board took up the bulk of two walls.

  “Sit,” Roy waved at the table. “Can I get either of you anything? Water? A Coke?”

  We both declined and settled into well-cushioned, smooth leather chairs. Apparently the kitty litter biz was doing pretty well.

  Roy pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and twisted off the top as he sat.

  One of the techs I’d seen working on the set stuck his head in the door. “Hey Roy, sorry to bother you. We’re almost ready for the first take with the cats if you want to watch.”

  “Thanks, Joe. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Joe nodded and disappeared.

  Roy took a deep swallow from the bottle. “So what brings you here, Shay?”

  I told him a brief version of what had been happening since New Year’s Eve. I ended with, “I’ve looked everywhere. I don’t know where my dad is. Did he say anything to you Friday night during the game? Did it seem like something was wrong?”

  Roy took two more glugs and gently set the bottle on the tabletop. “No, Pete seemed fine. A little preoccupied, perhaps. He’d had a substantial amount to drink, and I know when I left I was glad he didn’t have to drive anywhere. But Pete could drive a straight line even when he was pickled.”

  That was the first anyone mentioned my father drinking more than his usual fair share that night.

  I threw my head back and closed my eyes. “Maybe he was well on his way off the wagon.”

  “Now, Shay, I didn’t say that.” Roy tapped a finger against his chin and gazed into the distance. “Come to think of it, Pete and Mick seemed a bit at odds.”

  Lisa said, “What do you mean?”

  “They were polite, but it felt like they were tip-toeing around each other. The underlying tension between them never really went away all night long.”

  A loud commotion in the hallway interrupted Roy. A panicked voice shouted, “Heeeere kitties! Heeere Purrby, heeeere Zamboni!”

  Alarmed, Roy pushed his chair back and stood. Lisa and I followed his lead. Before any of us could make another move, two felines charged into the room. They zoomed around the perimeter once. One of the crazed cats made a frenzied leap and proceeded to scale Mount Roy. Those claws had to hurt.

  Before we could react, the cat launched himself off Roy’s shoulder. The second cat leaped onto the table and was scampering around in drunken circles when the other one joined him.

  Vi burst into the room. Upon seeing the cats, she shouted, “In here!” She flung herself across the table, attempting to grab one of the furry beasts. A high heel went sailing though the air. Both cats nimbly hopped over her flailing arms. One cat landed on her ass, and from there made a mad leap toward Lisa. From Vi’s screech, her butt must have taken the brunt of the claw-footed jump.

  The other cat bounded to the floor and dodged out the door as Jack Hanna-ette dashed into the room.

  “Oh my god. Purrby!” she yelled at the cat Lisa was attempting to wrangle. “Hang on to him. Where’d Zamboni go?”

  I pointed.

  She spun and raced out of the room.

  Vi was still sprawled across the table, one shoe on and one shoe off. Her once-neat hair was in wild disarray. She was holding onto one butt cheek and howling.

  Roy had two long scratches down the side of his face oozing blood, and he looked shell-shocked.

  Lisa gripped the cat in a football hold against her side, and after a few moments of struggle, it gave up and started to purr. From the volume of the little guy, it was obvious why his name was Purrby.

  At the moment, there was no way we were going to be able to have a heart-to-heart with Roy. I’d have to try again when things weren’t quite so chaotic.

  Lisa and I bowed out, leaving Roy and the rest of his crew to try to salvage their kitty litter shoot. Once we had settled in the Escape, the quietness stole over me like a blanket. I didn’t usually mind chaos, but lately I was increasingly appreciative of the more silent moments in my life.

  “Wow,” Lisa said as she clicked her seatbelt buckle. “That was exciting.”

  “Excitement in excrement.”

  “You’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?”

  “Not usually. You’re getting me at growing desperation.” I slumped back in my seat. “Roy didn’t have much more to share beyond the fact my father was well on his way to a huge sousing.” I pulled my silenced phone from my pocket to see if I’d missed anything. There were three calls and one message from Eddy not ten minutes ago.

  “Where to next?” Lisa asked.

  “Hang on a sec.” I pulled up the message and listened to it.

  “Shay,” Eddy’s voice came through loud and clear. “I need you to call me when you get this. And I mean right now.” She had disconnected with an audible thump.

  I frowned. “That’s weird.”

  “What?” Lisa looked over at me, a bottle of root beer halfway to her mouth.

  “Eddy wants me to call her.” I hit redial. On the second ring, she picked up, her voice breathy and tight.

  I said, “Hey it’s me—”

  “Oh, thank you, Lord Jesus. Shay, I spoke with your father.”

  Relief, concern, and a new blaze of fury flushed through my veins. The hand holding my phone shook. “And?”

  Lisa sat up straight and looked at me expectantly.

  “You stop right there and get a grip, child.” It must have been clear my emotions had gone from calm to infuriated in half a blink. Eddy continued, “Are you driving? You better pull over. We know how you get—”

  “Eddy!”

  “Well, you do.”

  I loved the woman, but some days what I’d give to reach through the phone. “I’ll be right back,” I told Lisa. I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. If I was about to learn my father was a killer, it was probably a good thing to get the news without an audience. “What exactly did he have to say for himself?”

  “You stopped the car?”

  Oh. My. God. “Yes, Eddy. I’m parked. At a meter that’s about to expire. I’m standing on solid ground. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

  “Easy girl. No need to get so testy.”

  Long pause.

  “What?”


  “He said he woke up in some ramshackle cabin somewhere. Wasn’t sure what day it was.”

  “Figures. Where?”

  “I’m getting to that. Hold your horses.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Oh, the sarcasm was building.

  “Are you giving me lip, child?”

  “Would I do that?”

  “Yes, you would. Now hush. As I was saying, he said he woke up sick as a dog.”

  “Serves him right.”

  “Maybe so. Anyway. He can’t remember anything. After he came to, he said he passed out again. Came back around maybe twelve hours ago. He’s still not clear on where he is. Or maybe he’s not telling me.”

  Even for my father, days—plural—was a long time for a hangover. Of course, he absolutely knew how to do it up right, so that wouldn’t necessarily be out of the realm of possibility. “Why didn’t he call me?”

  “You know how your father is. He can’t remember much these days, much less telephone numbers. Said it took him a whole mess of tries to get my number right, and he’s known it for a long, long time.”

  That totally illustrated why everyone should have a cell phone. “Is he getting his ass back here or what?”

  There was a silence on the other end. I wondered if we’d gotten disconnected. “Eddy?”

  “I’m here. He told me when he woke up his clothes were covered in blood. Way more blood than he could’ve bled. Then he made it out to his car and there was blood all over the interior of that too.”

  “What?”

  “He can’t remember a thing, Shay. He doesn’t know whose blood it is, aside from some from his own nose. He thinks it’s broken.”

  This time I was the reason for the pregnant pause. Holy fricking moly. No wonder the cops wanted to talk to him.

  Eddy continued, “I told him the police have been around asking for him and that damn six-shooter of his.”

  Had my father literally iced the dead guy? Had they gotten into a fistfight? Fear and dread bubbled, searing deep in my gut. “Where exactly is he?”

  “I told you. He doesn’t know.”

  Now I was moving from frozen stiff shock to fidgety impatience. I inadvertently rubbed my sore knee a little too hard and yanked my hand away. “Well, shit. What are we supposed to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Can’t exactly go to the police and tell them we heard from your father. This is one of the first times my faith has ever wavered in the guilt and innocence of those I love.”

  I knew exactly what she meant. If my dad was pushed far enough, and if I was completely honest with myself, I did believe he could kill someone in a moment of rage. Eddy knew it too. Especially if he’d been wanking the bottle. Oh fricking frankenfuck.

  I said, “Okay. Let’s think this through, step by step. The cops could come knocking anytime. Well, they already did on New Year’s Eve … ” My voice faded. My mind leaped from one conclusion to the next. Impossibly damn fast.

  Lisa had shown up at the Lep looking for my father after he’d gone missing.

  Lisa had insinuated herself into my world by lending a desperately needed hand.

  Lisa hadn’t given a straight answer about why she wanted to talk to my dad until she came up with some weird BS about her mom on her deathbed, telling her to seek out Pete O’Hanlon to give him a nickel. A nickel? Riiight.

  Lisa was a cop.

  And we bought her story. Lock, stock, and rain barrel. She agreed to accompany me, a near stranger, as I went door to door looking for my old man. A man who may well have offed someone. Nothing like handing him right over to the long, lying arm of the law.

  “Shay?” Eddy said.

  “Hang on.” My hammering heart was making it difficult to breathe. I stumbled around to the back of the SUV and leaned against the back hatch. Then I ducked my head around the corner to see if Lisa was going to get out and follow me.

  I hissed into the phone, “She’s a cop. She’s got to be an effing police officer.”

  “Who does?”

  “Lisa. She must be a goddamned cop!”

  “Watch your language, little lady.”

  “Sorry.” I darted another gander around the SUV. Lisa’s door was still closed. “Oh Jesus. I can’t believe we let her con her way into our inner circle. We must rate as some of the easiest marks ever. Weasel your way into the clan and then you’re in the front seat on the crazy coaster while they cough up the suspect you’re looking for. She’s got to be with St. Paul.”

  “Now you cool it a second, child. Why St. Paul? Has JT met her?”

  “On New Year’s Eve. She didn’t recognize Lisa. A St. Paul cop came by wanting to talk to Dad. Asked about his gun. Didn’t I tell you that?” I honestly couldn’t remember who I told what anymore. “It makes sense Lisa would be with SPPD, too.”

  There was an irritating buzz, and I pulled the phone from my ear. JT was beeping in. “Hey, I need to figure out what to do. JT’s on the other line. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I swapped the line.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Found out some interesting info,” JT said without preamble.

  I was having a hard time keeping up as subjects changed like diapers on a newborn. “What?”

  “St. Paul ID’ed Ice Cube Man. His real name is Eugene Charles Shoemaker. Goes by a number of aliases—including Gene Shoemaker, Gene Schuler, Chuck Shoemaker, Chuck Schuler. He’s got a rap sheet three pages long. He’s a two-bit con artist who’s had numerous run-ins with law enforcement. Was last incarcerated in Stillwater for twelve months on probation violations. Currently is affiliated with Subsidy Renovations.”

  This conversation was so not going where I wanted it to go. JT said gravely, “Babe, you’re not going to want to hear this.”

  My vocal cords took a time out. I may have moaned.

  “Your dad is officially wanted in connection with the death of Shoemaker.”

  My stomach bottomed out. I jammed my hand in my pocket and pulled out some folded bills, a few crumpled receipts, and the purloined Intent to Purchase contract.

  JT said something, but the roar in my ears drowned her out.

  My hands shook as I unfolded the crumpled contract. The business card was still stapled to the upper left hand corner of the sheet. It fairly glowed in my grasp, like it was radioactive.

  Chuck Schuler, Mgr.

  Subsidy Renovations

  Minneapolis, MN

  Cell: 612-888-7767

  My mind looped, replaying the same thought. Chuck Schuler was Ice Cube Man. Chuck Schuler had been shot dead. My father’s gun was found with Schuler’s body. There was literally blood on my father’s hands, in his car. There was motive galore, if you made the not very large leap that Schuler was indeed the one pushing my father to sell and my father ran out of patience and pushed back.

  Holy fuck-a-duck.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the contract even though I was no longer able to focus on the actual words.

  A link (was it the link?) between my father and the dead man rested in my hands. Was this particular piece of paper the only one in existence? How likely was that? There was probably another copy wherever Schuler worked. But there was always the chance there wasn’t. The very fact that I could be holding my dad’s ticket to life in prison shook me to the very core.

  One thing was certain. I wasn’t going to do a thing with the damning piece of paper until I knew for sure what in the hell had happened.

  Six

  I don’t know how I finished the conversation with JT. It was like my fight-or-flight response had kicked into caveman survival mode. My rational mind bid me “see you later, sucker.” I was functioning on autopilot. I didn’t dare tell JT about my father and his bloody duds. Or that Lisa Vecoli was a real-life Olivia Benson.

  I have no idea how
I managed to find some lame excuse to drop Lisa off—in one piece and without booting her out of my vehicle at sixty on the freeway. Nor do I know how I deflected the questions she kept lobbing at me all the way back. I must have come off suspiciously or maybe plain nuts, but I did what I had to do to get rid of her.

  I still couldn’t believe we’d all been blindsided. Bamboozled by the offer of help from a cute chick and she turns out to be a cop out to get my own flesh and blood. That shit was so not going to fly. At this point I didn’t care if Coop was done with his contract work or not. We had an emergency of epic proportions.

  Coop had recently moved into one side of an old duplex on Garfield between 22nd and 24th streets. I pulled to a stop in front of his place and took the porch steps two at a time. The ancient doorbell had stopped working sometime back in the Fifties probably, so I banged on his front door with a bit more force than necessary. I hadn’t called ahead because I didn’t trust myself behind the wheel while talking on the phone. Fury and confusion were distraction enough. Score probably the only point today for Shay thinking rationally.

  I pounded on the door again. Finally I heard some scuffling. The door swung open.

  Coop looked like he had just crawled out of bed. He was wearing a wrinkled Vegan or Bust T-shirt, and his pasty, hairy legs stuck out of a pair of navy blue boxers. However, I knew the more likely scenario was that he hadn’t been to bed yet at all. His shaggy, ash-blond hair was standing up at various angles and the bags under his eyes were colossal.

  “Dude,” I said, my voice constricting, “I need help.”

  The threat of tears was enough to propel my usually deliberate, slow-moving friend into action.

  In seconds, I was settled in the living room in Coop’s favorite recliner with my feet up, waiting for him to reappear after taking a lightning-quick shower and exchanging his up-all-night duds for some up-all-day ones. Ten minutes later, he bounded down the stairs barefoot, wearing a Rabbit Hole sweatshirt and faded jeans that hung low on his skinny hips. His hair was still standing on end, but it was clean. He plopped himself on the couch to my right and bent to the task of dragging socks over his long feet.