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

by Jessie Chandler

  I fought the last dregs of rush hour and at about nine thirty we pulled up in front of a sizeable two-story clapboard house that had been renovated and rezoned for business. The four of us entered the foyer en masse, this time without Eddy’s Whacker. I don’t know where JT had hidden it, but I was grateful for its absence.

  The house smelled of age and dust. Cream-colored plaster walls needed a coat of fresh paint and some substantial patching. Worn plank floors would probably come back to life if they were sanded and sealed. They creaked under our feet. This place sure didn’t scream renovation to me. Doors, some with business names stenciled on the outside and brass numbers attached at eye level, lined a long hall. A surprisingly elegant stairway toward the rear led to the second floor, testament to what had once been an enormous, stately home.

  A well-used two-by-three-foot blackboard with tenant names hung on the wall next to the entrance showing a number of blank spots, probably office spaces available for rent.

  Coop walked over and ran a finger down the list. “Here. No Subsidy Renovations, but Norman Howard is written on a piece of masking tape. Number 203.”

  “Classy,” Eddy said.

  We hit the stairs. Each step protested loudly, and I wondered if the racket interrupted business being conducted behind closed doors.

  Office space 203 was two doors down on the right, past Stellar Photography and Ernest Bail Bonds. 203’s door was void of the business name.

  I raised a hand to knock, but Eddy darted under my arm and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked and she pushed the door inward. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. The office was maybe ten-by-eight, probably at one time a bedroom. Water-stained, dark wood panel walls were bare, although nails protruded here and there, evidence of long-gone decorations.

  The only furniture in the room was a beat-up desk that looked like a reject from a crappy surplus store. There were no filing cabinets, not even a phone. It would be kind of hard to conduct business without a telephone. Well, maybe Howard was a cell phone only kind of guy.

  Apparently customers were expected to stand, since the only chair was situated behind the desk. It was currently occupied by a thin man with limp, greasy hair that was long enough to tickle his nape. He was leaning over the desktop, a rolled bill at his nose, loudly snorting a line of white powder from the glass of an 5-by-7 frame that didn’t seem to have a picture in it.

  At our unexpected entrance, Snuffy practically tipped over backward in his haste to straighten up. He growled, “What the fuck?”

  Before I could draw my eyes away from the drug paraphernalia on the table, JT stepped forward, badge in hand. Damn, she was quick.

  She asked, “Are you Norman Howard?”

  The man’s hollow-cheeked, pockmarked face paled at the sight of the badge. “Could be,” he said slowly. “What’s it to ya?”

  JT tucked her badge away. “Subsidy Renovations ring a bell?”

  Howard narrowed his eyes. “I conduct a lot of business here, lady.”

  Yup, it sure looked like he conducted a lot of business.

  JT moved forward, towering over the seated Howard. She braced her arms on the edge of the desk and leaned into his space. Howard tried to roll backward, but his chair hit the wall. The whites of his eyes showed as he peered up fearfully at JT. Well, to be fair, if she did the same thing to me under the right circumstances, the whites of my eyes would probably show too. Actually they had, once upon a time. More than once.

  “Now,” she said, her voice low and deadly. “I’ll ask again. Subsidy Renovations. Tell me all about it.” She glanced down and made it very obvious that she was taking in the hastily dropped rolled bill and remnants of coke or crank or whatever one snorted these days. She said slowly, “Be straight with me and maybe,” she looked back at Howard’s face and nodded at the desktop without breaking eye contact, “just maybe, I’ll let this go. If you don’t spill your guts in approximately fifteen seconds, well, I’ve got nothing better to do than spend some quality time at the Ramsey County jail booking your ass on drug possession and whatever else I can find to nail you on.”

  Holy shit.

  The alarmed look on Howard’s face would have been comical under different circumstances. “Hang on, hold on,” he muttered. He was probably trying to get his drug-addled neurons to fire.

  “I haven’t got all day.” JT reached behind her back and pulled out a pair of cuffs. I didn’t even know she was packing them today. If it was me in that seat, I’d be spilling my guts about everything I’d done wrong since I was a snot-nose toddler.

  “Okay! Take it easy. Sheesh,” Howard practically squealed and he held his hands out defensively. And they call cops pigs. “Whattya wanna know?”

  JT slowly straightened. “That’s more like it.” The cuffs dangled from her fingers, a not-so-subtle reminder that Howard better keep his gums flapping. “Why do you want to buy the Leprechaun from Pete O’Hanlon?” Howard did a shifty-eyed thing. JT crowded him again and said softly, “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “Okay, okay. Jesus.” Despite the cool room, perspiration beaded on Howard’s forehead and formed a trail down the side of his face. “Uh, the block the Leprechaun is on represents a great investment in the gentrification of Northeast.” The words came out in a rush. “I’m in it for a fast buck.”

  That sounded well rehearsed. I rolled my eyes and stepped forward, coming even with JT. “Why did you sic Chuck Schuler on my father?”

  Norman Howard’s eyes flicked from me to JT and back.

  JT said, “Come on, Normie. Spill it.”

  Howard shrank back in the chair, deflated. “Fine.” He rolled his eyes. “Look. My ass is in enough hot water.”

  “So,” JT said, “Keep your ass from drowning.”

  That did it. Howard opened up like a moss rose in the afternoon sun. “My brother-in-law approached me to run one of his businesses.”

  Coop said, “Subsidy Renovations is registered in your name.”

  Howard didn’t seem to know where to pin his gaze. The way his eyes were rolling around, it was a regular game of eyeball Ping-Pong. “My brother-in-law set it up. He told me if I could get O’Hanlon to sell that dump of a bar, there’d be some good money in it for me.”

  I bristled at his “dump of a bar” comment but gritted my teeth and managed to keep my mouth shut. I felt the first stirrings of the Protector inside.

  “So,” JT said, “you sent goons to soften up O’Hanlon? When he wasn’t cooperating?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that.”

  JT leaned forward again and spoke very softly. “So tell me how it was.”

  “See, I like to make money, who doesn’t? I’m a businessman. I run a busy office here.” Howard spread both hands palms up, indicated the empty space and obvious lack of visible work. “I hired a guy I knew and told him I’d give him a portion of the take if he could persuade O’Hanlon to take the buy-out.”

  “Huh.” JT nodded. “Now we’re getting somewhere. You paid him to threaten O’Hanlon? To vandalize property?” Her voice rose and she said fiercely, “To jump people in the parking lot of the goddamn bar?”

  Whoa. I knew she was thinking about the night Lisa and I had been attacked. I took a breath, proud of myself because for once I was doing pretty well controlling the Protector and not leaping over the table to introduce my fist to Normie’s nose. But JT was getting twitchy, so I reached out and gripped her arm before it took on a life of its own and she bopped him herself. She continued, somewhat calmer, “You pay him to beat people?”

  “No, no! I never told him what to do. The agreement was that he get O’Hanlon to come to terms and I’d pay him for it. I never asked how he was going to do it.”

  From behind me, Eddy grumbled, “There’s always an excuse. What’s the name of the loser you hired, Mr. Poopy Pants?”

  I suppressed a semi
-hysterical giggle. Eddy knew how to lighten a moment.

  Norman Howard’s eyebrows drew together and he scowled at Eddy. “Who the fuck are you?”

  Even I was sorry we’d made Eddy leave her Whacker behind. This piece of work deserved a thumping.

  Eddy responded, remarkably coolly for her. “I have the potential to be one nasty old lady. You’re darn lucky I’m unarmed.”

  I nodded. “She’s not kidding, mister. You’re lucky as hell. Who was he?”

  Normie sounded exasperated. “His name was Schuler, and yeah, he somehow wound up iced. But I sure as hell didn’t do it.”

  JT said sarcastically, “Really.” She paused a beat. “Since you’re so willing to name names, who’s your brother-in-law?”

  “Christ, lady, I could get my fucking balls cut off here.”

  “Not my problem.”

  Howard huffed and stared at the remnants of his white powder binge. “Phil Hanssen, okay?” In a lower tone, Howard mumbled, “My sister is going to fuckin’ kill me.”

  “Like you killed Schuler?” JT said.

  “No! I told you. I did not do Schuler. Maybe Hanssen did. Maybe Schuler’s other business acquaintances got tired of him. I don’t fucking know.”

  JT drew herself up to full height and looked down her nose at Howard. “Spell that name for me.” He did. “Don’t go too far. Never know when I might want to have another chat. I specialize in finding rats who hide.”

  She tucked her cuffs away and headed for the door.

  Eddy took a step toward the desk and stooped over. For a minute I thought she was sick. Then she stood again with one of her low-top Converse sneakers in hand. Like lightning, she clobbered Howard over the head with it before he had a chance to think about ducking.

  Eddy said, “Language, young man. There are ladies in the room.” She popped him again. “That’s for Pete.” She slammed the shoe on the top of the desk, making the drug-covered picture frame hop. “You’re lucky I don’t boot you in the rump.” With that, she stomped out, slightly lopsidedly. “Don’t that beat all,” I heard her say. “I don’t need my Whacker after all.”

  Howard sat hunched in his chair looking dazed. I told him, “Gotta watch out for that one. She’s dangerous.”

  Coop and I exchanged a high five and vacated the premises.

  Back in the car we dissected what had just gone down. While we were at it, Coop used his cell to set Bogey Too in search of Mr. Phil Hanssen.

  My phone rang in the midst of Eddy delightedly rehashing her shoe-bashing moment. It was a call from the Lep. “Yo, Johnny, what’s up?”

  There was a lot of background noise. I glanced at the time on the dashboard. 10:28. The bar didn’t open till noon. “Johnny? You there?”

  “Shay, hey.” Johnny sounded strained, out of breath. “You might want to get over here. The Roto-Rooter guy showed up this morning. He found something awful, and we called the cops. And they brought in—hang on.” Johnny said something I couldn’t make out, and then the low rumble of a voice that sounded vaguely familiar filled my ear.

  “Shay O’Hanlon?”

  “Yeah,” I said warily.

  “I need you need to come to the Leprechaun, since it seems you’re the one in charge these days.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Your favorite nightmare. Sergeant DeSilvero, on loan to Minneapolis PD. Remember me?” He gave me no time to answer, but hell, yes I remembered him. Wish I didn’t. And I really wish I hadn’t heard his next words. “Your father’s got a tarp full of bones dressed in what was once a pretty pink dress buried under the cement in his cellar.”

  TEN

  Police cars, a couple unmarked squads, and a Hennepin County crime scene van were parked in the street in front of the Leprechaun when we pulled up. The entire drive to the bar I’d chanted, “Dad did not do this,” over and over again under my breath. My world felt well and truly fucked up.

  I parked, rocketed out of the Escape, and charged with single-minded focus to the front door. JT hoofed it along behind me, Coop and Eddy bringing up the rear.

  I wrapped my fingers around the handle and was about to yank the door open when a big brute of a cop stepped in front of me, forcing me backward. He had to be at least seven feet tall and half as wide. “Sorry,” he said, blocking us with his bulk. “This is a crime scene. Bar’s closed.”

  I barely registered his words.

  Over my shoulder JT said, “It’s okay, she’s—”

  I dodged around the cop and again latched onto the handle. Before I could fling it open, the cop spun on his heel and grabbed hold of my belt.

  Had to give him credit, he was quick for a big guy. He struggled backward. My belt acted like a second handle, and the door slowly swung open.

  Big Boy dragged me back, my shoes skidding across the salt-covered sidewalk. The cop dug his heels in and heaved as if he were the anchor in a tug of war. I held on for dear life. Suddenly I was in mid-air, feet off the ground, suspended between the door and the cop. If he’d only been a couple feet shorter, my feet would still be on the salt-stained sidewalk.

  Red tendrils of rage swirled at the edges of my vision. From afar I heard yelling. I churned my legs. Someone grabbed my waist. My feet hit the cement. I desperately hung onto the door handle. Trying to regain traction, I felt Big Boy’s knuckles dig into the flesh of my lower back. Then my shoulders were being shaken so hard my teeth clattered.

  The bar popped back into view.

  I peered back at JT, her eyes black and piercing as she held onto me for dear life. “Stop it! Shay, get a hold of—”

  “Well, well. If it isn’t Little Miss Firepants.” Sergeant DeSilvero appeared at JT’s shoulder. “She always a pain in the ass?” he asked as he looked past me to focus on the four-hundred-pound gorilla at my back. “Jones—” The expression on DeSilvero’s face shifted from smug to astonished in an eighth of a second.

  I twisted around to see what his eyes were popping out at. There aren’t many times I’ve been stunned speechless, but this was one of them.

  Eddy had hopped onto the back of the huge cop and her arms were wrapped around his neck. Big Boy’s face was going purple, either from rage or from lack of air. Probably both. The sight took the rest of the fight out of me and I let go of the door.

  The cop had been using his bulk to keep me from moving forward, and when I relaxed, momentum reversed. Both he and Eddy tipped backward, in slow motion, toward the sidewalk. The cop hadn’t yet released his grip on my belt, and he dragged me along for the ride.

  I landed hard atop Big Boy.

  Eddy howled, “Get him off! Get this piggy pork chop off me!”

  A few minutes later—after JT somehow managed to convince Officer Jones not to arrest Eddy for assaulting a police officer—we huddled in front of the bar, facing the entrance. I’d told Johnny to take a hike, which he was trying to do. DeSilvero looked like he was making triple sure he had Johnny’s correct contact information before he allowed the kid to leave.

  I owed the Johnny another one, big time. After all the IOUs I was racking up, there wasn’t going to be much left in my IOU arsenal.

  Eddy was still grumbling and rubbing various bruises when DeSilvero sauntered our way.

  He said, “So, Ms. O’Hanlon, why don’t you tell me what you know about the body in the basement.”

  I mumbled, “Too bad it wasn’t you.”

  JT nailed me with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

  I grunted.

  DeSilvero moved uncomfortably closer. I leaned backward until I was arched against the edge of the bar, his face mere inches from mine. “What was that?” he asked softly, in dangerously measured tone. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  He must have had something with garlic for breakfast. I tried not to scrunch up my face in disgust, but I’m not sure I succeeded. “I, uh,” I
paused to lick my lips, “I said I don’t have an answer for you.”

  DeSilvero gave me the evil eye and slowly straightened.

  I took a deep breath.

  He backed out of my space. “Where is your father?”

  “I told you, I have no idea. That hasn’t changed.”

  Coop and Eddy watched our exchange. JT kept a hand on my arm in case I lost my mind again.

  DeSilvero stared at me thoughtfully. “So who’s in the basement, huh? It’d be easier on all of us if you told me now. They’ve been there awhile. You help your old man stow the evidence, maybe?”

  My temper and I wobbled on the brink of a violent outburst, preferably directed squarely at DeSilvero. I ground out, “My father didn’t kill anyone, and I didn’t help dispose of anyone down there.” The son of a bitch. Wasn’t I supposed to be offered a lawyer or something if I was going to be harassed by the cops?

  JT’s felt me tense and her grip tightened. “Shay.”

  I lifted my chin.

  DeSilvero said with barely concealed disbelief, “You haven’t heard from your father since New Year’s Eve?”

  “The last time I talked to my dad was three days after Christmas.”

  I only hoped he wouldn’t ask Eddy the same thing. That outcome would definitely not be good. Eddy didn’t lie well. Usually.

  A man wearing a navy sweatshirt with BCA in white block letters walked up and said something to DeSilvero. DeSilvero nodded, and the man disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.