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

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Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder Page 17

by Jessie Chandler

“Ms. O’Hanlon. Exactly how violent is your father? Is he the love ’em and kill ’em kind?”

  I sucked in a lungful of air and was about to launch into an energetic retort when Eddy said, “Peter O’Hanlon is a gentle soul. He’d never harm anyone. That there body in the cellar, why, that’s none of his doing.”

  DeSilvero’s eyebrows hiked up. “How exactly do you know that, lady? You help him put the body there?”

  Eddy drew herself to her full five-ish-foot height. “Sir, my name is Mrs. Edwina Quartermaine, and I’d appreciate it if you addressed me as such. No, I didn’t put any poor dead body anywhere. But,” she nailed him with her stop-being-a-jerk scowl, “maybe that could change.”

  Go Eddy!

  DeSilvero’s jowls popped out and in rhythmically. He blinked a couple of times. “Mrs. Quartermaine, how exactly do you know Mr. O’Hanlon?”

  “Family friends, and I got no more to say to you without my attorney present and accounted for.”

  DeSilvero blew a noisy breath and shifted to stand in front of Coop. “Who the hell are you?”

  I glanced at Eddy, thankful she didn’t have her Whacker in hand. From the rather enraged expression on her face, she looked ready to take a swing at the sergeant, and that would be very, very bad. Or maybe she’d pop him one with her shoe. The thought almost made me smile.

  Coop said, “Nick Cooper, and I don’t know who killed who. And I didn’t do it, either.”

  JT spoke up. “Look, DeSilvero, if you’re going to interrogate them—”

  “I’m not interrogating anyone, Bordeaux. I’m just asking a few fact-finding questions.” His voice rose and a vein popped out on his forehead. “There’s a dead body in the basement of this dump.” He slammed his fist on the bar top. “Someone lost their life and was buried beneath concrete for god only knows how long. I want to know who it is and who put them there.”

  He was right. Jerk or not, the truth was that a deceased person had been found on my dad’s property. Some unlucky soul was buried in the basement, and their family had no idea what happened to them. They probably felt like I felt before my dad contacted Eddy so at least we knew he was still alive. The news this person’s family was going to receive would change their lives forever. There was nothing good about it, though we could hope that knowing would lend some kind of closure.

  The sad fact at this point was that I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t at all sure that my father wasn’t responsible for the corpse in the cellar, considering he had been covered with blood and had no recollection of how that came to be. But I surely wasn’t going to impart that tidbit to DeSilvero.

  “Look, Sergeant,” I said, my voice resigned, no longer combative. “The honest-to-god truth is that none of us know who killed whoever is down there. None of us know where my dad is. Believe me, I wish I did. I’ve been looking everywhere for him. But I can’t—no,

  I won’t believe this is something my father would do. I want to cooperate with you, but your attitude is making it next to impossible.”

  DeSilvero actually shuffled his feet like a kid squirming during a scolding. “I’m passionate about my work, about bringing justice

  to those who can no longer do it for themselves. I do what it takes to make that happen. If that offends you, nothing I can do about it.”

  That was as close to an apology as we were going to get.

  “This bar,” he said, “is now an official crime scene, and will be for the foreseeable future. I’ll let you know when it’s cleared and you can resume business. In the meantime, the entire building is off limits.” He handed each of us his card, and although I still had the first one he’d given to me, I took it without argument.

  DeSilvero waved a hand at the front door. “Now, get the hell out of here, and call me if any of you hear from Peter O’Hanlon.”

  We rolled into the Uptown Diner a little before noon, and, I hoped, before the lunch crowd. The Uptown was a neighborhood icon and had helped nurse me through more than one hangover. While some called it a greasy spoon, I called it comforting. And comfort was exactly what we needed right about now.

  Once we were seated, a young woman with bright purple hair and colorful tattoos on her forearms handed over the menus. In a flash she returned with our drinks and proceeded to take our order. I was stressed out. The chocolate chip cookie dough pancakes should help that.

  Our server, who informed us her name was Aquarius, but that we should call her Aqua, hustled away to dispatch our order.

  Eddy said, “That girl’s hair should be blue if her name’s Aqua. We should get Kate to help her with that.” Kate, Rabbit Hole businesswoman extraordinaire that she was, wore her hair in whatever whimsical color that came to her on a given day. One time it even changed color halfway through the day. I had no idea how she had any hair left after that much abuse.

  I twisted my napkin and shredded it when it wouldn’t twist any more. I didn’t want to verbalize what was on my mind, but it felt like my insides might implode if I didn’t. Keeping my eyes on the pieces of torn napkin that littered the table, I mumbled, “Do you think the reason Dad kept putting off repairing the sewer was because he knew there was a body there?”

  For a moment no one moved. Then Eddy slapped her non-shredded, napkin-wrapped silverware on the tabletop. “No, ma’am! I do not think the reason your father didn’t get the stink fixed was because he was stashing a cadaver in the cellar. Peter can be a handful and he has a short fuse, but he’s not murderous. Why, he told me that profit was down throughout the summer. He wondered if it was because the Leprechaun wasn’t trendy like the Gay 90’s or Psycho Suzie’s. He even talked about turning the parking lot into a volleyball court. I told him to stow that idea and hang in there. Years past have had similar slumps. It’s always come back.”

  Still more people had known about my own father’s issues, and I’d had no clue. How the hell had I managed to lose sight of what had been going on? Feeling disgusted with myself, I dropped the mangled remnants of the napkin and felt JT’s hand squeeze my knee. I slid my fingers beneath her palm and held on.

  After a long, uncomfortable silence, Coop said, “God, I need a smoke.”

  “Eat first, child.” Eddy patted him on the back. “So what happens now?”

  JT said, “We need to have a chit-chat with this Phil Hanssen. He’s the next link in the puzzle.”

  Personally, I was tired of talking. I was tired of hunting. I wanted my father back, and I’d even take a big old fight between the two of us. At least that would be in the realm of normalcy. “Speaking of Hanssen,” I glanced at Coop, “did Bogey Too come back yet?”

  Coop pulled his cell out. “Actually, yeah.” He fiddled with the gadget. “Says here Phil Hanssen lives in Eden Prairie. Looks like the guy has some dough. Let’s see. Coachman’s Lane.”

  More fiddling.

  “He has a work address listed in Vadnais Heights. Apex Pharmaceutical For Action. It’s a political action committee. For drug makers, apparently.” Coop continued to read, then looked up. “That’s about all I got.”

  “Wow.” Surprise colored JT’s tone. “I had no idea you had the ability to get that information through your phone. Nice job, Coop. How’d you do that?” Coop opened his mouth, but JT held her hand up before he could speak. “Never mind. Didn’t mean to ask. I do not want to have any knowledge of your capability of finding out what you shouldn’t know.”

  Discussions of PACs and ill-gained knowledge were put on hold when Aqua showed up with a huge serving tray.

  Oh god, it smelled good.

  In a shake and a half, Aqua dispatched her load and whisked herself away to get more butter for Eddy’s toast. We were a quiet bunch as we stuffed our faces.

  Fifteen minutes later, it was all over.

  Eddy belched quietly. She sat back against the red-padded booth and patted her stomach as she surveyed the wreckage on t
he table. “We sure know how to pack it away.”

  “No kidding.” Coop made a face and groaned. “But well worth the pain. I think.”

  Coop’s phone rang before I could add my gastronomic woes to the mix. He snapped it up and answered, listening without a word. He eventually said, “Hang on. I’m going to put you on speaker. Shay, Eddy, and JT are with me.”

  Coop set the phone on the table and pushed a couple of buttons. “You’re on.”

  “Hello, everybody!” It was Rocky, and his voice quivered with excitement. “Guess what! We are at the most awesome retail establishment ever! My lovely bride Tulip and I are here in the beautiful city of Bloomington. At the most wonderful Mall of America. We wish to request a ride home.”

  “How’d you get there, Rocky?” I asked.

  “Ms. Agnes’s nephew, Basil Lazowski, better known to you as Baz the Spaz, gave us a ride here in his very scary 1993 Chevrolet Corsica that used to be midnight blue. Now it has more rust than paint. He was going to bring us home, but then he saw a kiosk for the Grand Casino and he left for Hinckley, Minnesota. But it is okay. It was not pleasant to see the pavement through the holes in the floorboard of his vehicle. And it was very cold. I am trying very hard to like him, but it is difficult.”

  I think I heard Eddy actually cuss, albeit under her breath. It sounded a lot like son of a bitch, but I couldn’t swear on it. She did grumble somewhat louder, “That no good, Basil. I’m going to have to have a talk with that little conniver. Don’t you worry, Rocky. I’ll come and get you two. Where should I pick you up?”

  “Come to the east ramp. That’s the ramp that faces Wisconsin. Not the one that faces South Dakota. Go to the New York level. We will be right by the pedestrian bridge that allows us to cross from the parking lot to the mall in comfort and safety, so we don’t get run over.”

  “Gotcha,” Eddy said. “I’ll see you two in a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

  “Thank you, Eddy Quartermaine. Did you know that seven Yankee stadiums can fit inside the mall? And it’s seventy degrees inside year-round.” There was a click and then dead air.

  We all stared at Coop’s phone for a beat before he picked it up and tucked it away. “Guess he was done.”

  Eddy pulled some bills from her wallet and tossed them on the table. “Happy New Year. Lunch is on me.”

  We dropped a chorus of thank-yous. Eddy waved her hand at our appreciation. “Drop me off to get my car at the Lep, and you kids go put the squeeze on that Hasford guy.”

  “Hanssen,” I said.

  “Whatever,” Eddy said. “Go squash something useful out of the man.”

  ELEVEN

  After dropping Eddy off, we headed for Vadnais Heights, a northern suburb of St. Paul. Along the way we discussed our interview strategy. We decided JT’d take the lead, since that had worked so well with Norman Howard.

  The office was in a neat, single-level complex that looked like it had recently been rehabbed. Half of the six storefronts were empty, For Rent signs in the windows. A guy by the name of Myron Erle, Certified Accountant, occupied one of the spaces. Another was filled by a tiny—and I mean tiny—Hmong grocery. Looked like it would be a challenge to turn around once you set foot inside. However, from the number of people entering and leaving, they were doing a brisk business, even in the early afternoon.

  Apex PAC took up the end space.

  A huge pile of snow sat in the far corner of the lot, occupying at least eight parking spots. It was the perfect snow mountain. I flashed back to winters as a kid where I’d spend most of my playtime outside, making tunnels and forts under the white stuff. It would be nice to be able to hold onto that winter wonderland feeling instead of dreading it.

  I wedged the Escape between a newer Honda Accord and a tricked-out 1980s Caprice Classic with pimp-mobile tires and fuzzy pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

  JT said, “Let’s go.” She got out of the Escape and headed for the door and pulled it open.

  As we stepped inside, it felt like we walked into a sauna. They must have had the heat cranked up to eighty. If we stayed here for any length of time, I might actually thaw out.

  The office space was at least twice the size of the grocery. The area was divided by gray-colored partitions into a number of separate cubicles on one side and a large open space on the other. The low tones of numerous voices hummed in the background. I imagined volunteers on the phones trying to talk their marks into whatever objectives this particular organization had.

  The open side of the office had an eight-foot table by the wall along with five filing cabinets next to it lined up like metal soldiers. The table was covered with stacks of papers, boxes of envelopes, three telephones, a couple staplers, tape, paper clips, and other miscellaneous office supplies.

  Along the back were two closed doors, probably to additional office space or restrooms.

  A tubby man with a pockmarked face and a graying goatee sat at one end of the table, an envelope in one hand and a tri-folded sheet in the other. I blinked twice at the black polka-dot bowtie and black suspenders he wore over a crisply starched pastel green shirt.

  He looked up at our entrance. “That was quick. I didn’t realize the agency sent out help this fast.”

  JT stepped up to the man, flashed her badge, and slipped it back in her pocket. “We aren’t from an agency. And you are?”

  I had to admit it was a hell of a rush to watch my girl in action.

  “I—uh, you’re not—oh.” The man stuttered a moment and then fixed his eyes below JT’s neck, where her unzipped leather jacket gaped open at her throat. He said, “I’m Tab Tindale. What can I do for you?”

  JT leveled her cop “don’t even think about lying to me” look on him. On his forehead, actually. She said, “We’d like to speak to Phil Hanssen.”

  “Phil? He’s out back having a break.” Mr. Tindale hadn’t managed to peel his eyes away from JT’s chest. It wasn’t like she was all that well endowed, and most of her was covered up, but apparently that didn’t matter.

  I might have felt insulted on JT’s part if I didn’t think it was pretty funny. I hadn’t seen anyone so blatantly mesmerized by a pair of knockers since we had to ask a customer to leave the Rabbit Hole and not come back because he couldn’t carry on a conversation with any female over the age of three. He’d literally forget what he’d be saying as his eyes wandered where they didn’t belong. Eddy finally couldn’t take it any longer. She threatened him with her Whacker and booted his ass out. The man probably would have died if he’d gotten a glimpse of Ms. Mad Nail Filer’s boobs at Schuler’s office.

  “Mr. Tindale!” JT barked and snapped her fingers next to his head.

  “Oh!” Tab Tindale’s head bobbed up and he peered at JT’s face. “What was that?”

  “Can. You. Please. Get. Him?” JT said softly, carefully enunciating each word.

  Tindale fluttered the envelope in his hand toward the far wall. “Through that door on the right. Down the hall and out the back door.”

  I wondered if JT ever wanted to pull her gun on guys like this.

  “Thank you.” She took off in the direction Tindale indicated. I could tell by the tone of JT’s voice that her patience with idiots was being sorely tested.

  Coop and I followed JT down a short hall and through the back door. The resulting blast of cold air stiffened my back and my body involuntarily shuddered. I tried to force my shoulders to relax.

  There was a narrow alleyway between the building and a seven-foot tan fence that ran the length of the property. A green dumpster sat at one end of the alley, and it was overflowing with garbage bags and other trash. Someone had apparently forgotten to pay the garbage guys lately.

  A six-foot-tall man stood facing the dumpster, speaking in angry tones into an old-style flip cell phone. He had a rangy build and salt-and-pepper hair. A khak
i-colored topcoat billowed around his knees in the breeze. He stopped talking long enough to take a deep drag off a cigarette he held cupped in one hand, then resumed whatever tirade he was in the midst of.

  JT locked on our prey like a guided missile. She marched right over and tapped him on the shoulder.

  The man glanced back at JT, then slowly turned around. From the sour expression on his face, he wasn’t too happy at the interruption. “Whaddya want?”

  JT did her super-fast flash-the-badge thing again and said, “Phil Hanssen?”

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Sir,” JT said politely now that she had his attention, “we have some questions for you.”

  The man narrowed his eyes and into the phone muttered, “Let me call you back.” He snapped the phone shut and focused on JT. “What’s this about? Can’t you see I have a business to run here?”

  Yup, it sure looked like he was conducting complicated business transactions by the dumpster. He sounded a little like Coke Up the Nose Normie.

  JT said, “We have some questions regarding the nature of your association with Norman Howard.”

  “My association with Norman—my brother-in-law? What do you want with that joker?” Hanssen took one last puff from his smoke and flicked it into the dumpster. I wondered if it would ignite the multitude of cardboard stuffed inside the bin. What a jerk-o-saurus. And someone needed to implement a recycling program here, pronto.

  JT said, “Does the name Charles Schuler ring any bells?”

  The man blinked a couple of times, probably trying to keep up with the subject change. “Charles Schuler? No. I don’t know any Charles Schuler.”

  The man’s voice rose, and I noticed his face had turned redder than it had been seconds ago. Or maybe it was naturally ruddy and I missed it on the once-over. Hard to tell in these temps.

  My own level of adrenaline was rapidly increasing as I watched the interview play out. My hands trembled, but not because I was still feeling the cold. I flexed them and tried to relax. It wouldn’t be a good thing to lose my temper now, especially since we hadn’t yet gotten anywhere with this dude. But between two dead bodies and a missing father who may or may not have committed homicide, the impotent anger and confusion that I’d stuffed away from the very beginning began to rear its ugly little head.

 

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