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

by Jessie Chandler

  JT propped her hands on her hips. “Why did you hire your brother-in-law to pressure Pete O’Hanlon into selling his bar?”

  “What?” Hanssen spluttered. “I did no such thing.”

  JT took a step toward him. He took a step back. I drifted along beside her, and Coop was right behind us. My heart began to pound harder, and air became thick.

  “I beg to differ, Mr. Hanssen.” JT’s voice took on a flat cadence, something I had never heard before. “You told Norman Howard you’d pay him good money to rattle O’Hanlon and convince him to sell his bar.” She moved right into his face and said in a low, venomous voice, “Why?”

  Hanssen’s back was now pressed against the dumpster. Between the three of us, he was penned in. He held up a hand. “I don’t know this O’Handle, and I did not try to convince anyone to sell some dive.”

  The O’Handle crack did it, but the dive part probably helped too. The tenuous rein I’d had on my temper since the initial phone call from Whale asking where my father was snapped. I hip-checked JT out of the way, grabbed the lapels of Hanssen’s overcoat, and yanked the man toward me.

  “Listen, asshole! The name is O’Hanlon, you lying sack of shit. We know you hired Norman Howard to harass my father into signing over his business. Now we want to know why.” I gave him a good shake.

  Hanssen’s hands came up and he grabbed my wrists, his eyes wide.

  I said, “That bar is his goddamn livelihood. Why?” Nothing like a little bellowing to get someone’s attention. I waited a couple of breaths, but no answer was forthcoming. I hauled Hanssen forward, then stiff-armed him against the dumpster a couple of times. None too delicately, either.

  Rational Shay was fading fast. My field of vision narrowed to encompass only Hanssen. “Tell me what you did to my father, you stupid son of a—”

  Suddenly I was jerked backward and nearly lost my footing. My hands were still fisted into Hanssen’s coat, and he came right along with me.

  I heard shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words over the roaring in my head.

  The tunnel vision vanished, and I was back in the frigid alley. Coop stood behind me, his arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, my back pressed against his bony chest. JT was yelling my name, her body half-wedged between Hanssen and me.

  With a strangled oath, I shoved Hanssen away from me and let his jacket go. He crashed into the dumpster and lost his balance, arms flailing as his hard-soled shoes slipped and slid on the ice. He’d have gone down if JT hadn’t grabbed him.

  JT leaned into my face, her eyes locked on mine. “Easy, Shay.”

  “I’m fine,” I sucked in a breath of chilly air. “I’m just fucking fine.”

  She glanced over my shoulder at Coop. “Don’t let her go.” She turned and dragged Hanssen toward her with one hand. He reminded me of a rag doll Dawg and Bogey had gotten a hold of once. They ripped it to pieces. I held back an insane bubble of laughter at the thought that JT might do some dumpster thumping herself.

  Hanssen’s complexion had gone from flushed to ashen, and his eyes practically popped out of his head as they bounced back and forth between JT and me.

  “Look at you,” I jeered. I struggled for a moment against Coop, more for effect than anything else. “You’re nothing but a creampuff crybaby.”

  JT spun on me, her dark eyes flashing in warning. I did not want to get on the wrong side of that look. I held my hands up, palms out. “Sorry.”

  She returned her attention to Hanssen and released her grip on him. She drew herself up and crossed her arms, command presence rolling off her. Even with his height advantage, JT was downright intimidating. She said in a low voice, “You better tell us—right now—what’s going on. Or I’m not going to stop her next time. She gets very violent when she’s upset. And she’s really upset.”

  I wriggled hard against Coop again. It was gratifying to watch Hanssen flinch. He indignantly whipped both hands down the front of his coat in an effort to smooth the creases. “Whatever. Just keep that crazy bitch away from me.”

  “Let’s try this one more time,” JT said. “Tell me why you were pushing Pete O’Hanlon to sell the Leprechaun.”

  “Jesus Christ.” His face scrunched up, and it looked like he was either waging an internal debate or was having a bad gastrointestinal moment. “If I could get O’Hanlon,” he snarled at me, “to sign on the dotted line, it was worth a lot of dough, okay?”

  “Let go,” I whispered to Coop, and slid out of his grasp. I stepped even with JT and said, “All of this is about money? What in the hell could my father’s bar be worth to you?”

  Hanssen tilted his neck to one side and the other before he said, “A half mil.”

  I almost snorted. Someone was fronting five hundred grand to force my father to sell out? That was insane. I said, “Why?” at almost the same time JT said, “Who?”

  For a moment Hanssen’s gaze flicked between JT and me as if he were trying to figure out which lunatic he should answer first. “Look. I don’t ask questions. That leads to problems. I don’t know why, okay?”

  JT said, “How about the who?”

  Hanssen rolled his eyes.

  JT unzipped her jacket and pushed it back far enough to let Hanssen get a gander at the gun on her right hip. That kind of encouragement would’ve worked on me.

  And it worked on Hanssen. He said, “Oh for god’s sake. Easy with the hardware. Limburger Larson, all right?”

  “Who?” I asked. “I don’t know of any Larson who goes by the name Limburger.” I glanced pointedly at JT. “Do you?”

  “Nope,” she said. “How about it, Coop?”

  Coop shrugged. “Guess I missed out on that Larson somewhere along the line.”

  “You three are regular wise guys, ain’tcha? Roy Larson hired me to … well, to encourage O’Hanlon to sign the bar over. Okay? Jesus.”

  I was pretty sure I did not hear that right. For a long moment no one said anything.

  Coop said derisively, “Kitty Litter Roy Larson? He hired you to strong-arm Pete into selling the Lep?”

  My brain was trying hard to link the King of Feline Elimination to the violence that had been heaped on my dad, and incidentally on me and Lisa, but I couldn’t make the leap.

  I said, “That’s bullshit. My dad and Roy Larson go back years. There’s no reason Roy would want the Lep. My dad bought it from him. That makes no sense.”

  “Listen lady,” Hanssen whined, “I never said anything was gonna make any goddamn sense. It is what it is.”

  After I threatened to upend Hanssen into the dumpster one last time for fun, we exited the alley. We decided to head over to Roy’s office and clear up this avenue of ridiculousness. There was absolutely no reason Roy would want to acquire the Lep from Dad. He was absorbed in his own business and his son’s politics. And even if he did want the bar back for some insane reason, he and my dad would have a face-to-face discussion, which wouldn’t evolve into the murder and mayhem that had occurred.

  Phil Hanssen was blowing smoke, covering for someone. We needed to figure out who. And why.

  Back in the Escape, I called to make sure Roy was still at the office, and it was a good thing I did. After a brief conversation with the same receptionist Lisa and I had met, I disconnected. “Change of plan. Roy took the day off to work at home.” I headed for the freeway. “Off to Roy’s house we go,” I said and goosed the gas.

  Larson lived in a tony neighborhood of Minneapolis called Kenwood, which usually meant old money and fancy houses.

  “I don’t get it.” Coop broke the heavy silence that had descended on our party like a wet rag. “Your dad and Roy Larson have been friends forever.”

  “I know,” I said. “There’s no plausible reason Roy would want the Lep back from my father. He sure doesn’t need the money. Not that the bar’s pulling in a boatload anyway. More like a leak
y canoe’s worth.” I sighed. “This is going to sound callous, but I’m beginning to think this whole intimidation thing is some kind of a sick joke. The real issue here, well the three real issues, in my opinion, seem to be A,” I put a finger up, “where the hell is my father? Then B,” I added another finger, “what exactly happened the night before New Year’s? Did Dad actually have something to do with Charles Schuler’s death?” Up went a third finger. “C, How did a body get dead and find its way beneath the cement in the cellar?”

  No one had any answers. With the exception of MPR’s talking heads mumbling on the radio in the background, silence enveloped us again.

  I let out a grumpy sigh. JT reached over for my hand and gave it a squeeze. I curled my fingers around hers and held on. I wracked my brain trying to remember if my father had ever put new concrete in the basement, thus opening the far-flung potential that he might have had something to do with stowing a body beneath the new slab.

  It was a cold hard truth that a bullet from my dad’s gun had dispatched Charles Schuler to the great beyond. Combine that with the second body found in the Lep, and the probability that my father was an innocent bystander was bleaker than the Vikings chances of making it to the Super Bowl any time soon. In addition, there was the fact he had been putting off having the crack in the cellar floor repaired. But that could be explained away easily enough by the cost factor.

  We were stuck on a rickety Tilt-A-Whirl, possibly one created by Roy Larson, the distant relative of the original ride’s inventer. No wonder I felt like I was going to throw up. Again.

  After four eternities, I pulled into the half-moon driveway of Roy Larson’s estate. And an estate was exactly what the place was. The three-story house was on par with some of the mansions that dotted St. Paul’s Summit Avenue. It sat on over a half-acre of land, which was almost unheard of in the city in this day and age.

  During the summer, the lawn would be well tended and lush, the blanket of green cut into geometric designs by some overpriced lawn care company.

  Currently, nature’s once-green carpet was covered with snow. Of course, the drive had been neatly plowed and the sidewalks practically sculpted.

  A black Lexus SUV with vanity plates reading KTYLTR was parked near the entrance. A three-car garage with a steeply pitched roof was attached to one side of the house, and a silver Chevrolet Silverado sat in front of the center stall. A red, white, and blue sticker on the back bumper read, Greg Larson ♥s Minneapolis. Beneath those words it read, Vote for Greg!

  Looked like Greg wasn’t planning on following Roy’s steps into the kitty litter hall of fame anytime soon. Couldn’t say I blamed him.

  I pulled up next to the truck and killed the engine. “Okay, guys, let me do the talking this time. I’ve known Roy most of my life.”

  Coop and JT agreed. We trooped across the drive and up six steps to the imposing front door. It was gray-bleached, polished wood with a peak at the top, attached to the jam with heavy iron hinges. The whole thing looked like it would fit nicely in some old Irish castle.

  I pressed the doorbell. The resulting gong vibrated the cement right through my tennis shoes.

  “Holy crap,” Coop said under his breath.

  The deep reverb faded, and the door opened to reveal a man with a cue-ball head, decked out in a black suit with a black shirt and a black tie. He was either one scary looking butler or a totally cliché mobster.

  “’Allo.”

  I looked up. And up. He was tall. Really, really tall. And really, really thin. Ichabod Crane in the flesh. His nose had a bump on the bridge, and it was prominent enough that it looked like a boil that would have done the Wicked Witch of the West proud.

  The temptation to respond with an “’Allo” myself was palpable, but I figured it would probably not do to make him mad. Instead, I shot Ichabod my best, most disarming smile. “Hello. We’d like to speak with Roy.”

  He drew himself up to full height, which had to be close to seven feet, and stared down his beak at me. “I am sorry,” he said in a thick accent. “Monsieur Larson is indisposed at the moment.”

  “I think if you tell him Shay O’Hanlon is here to—”

  “Oh no, Miss,” Ichabod stopped me cold. “Monsieur specifically told me he was not to be bothered.”

  “Really, I—” Behind Ichabod, across an entryway that I swear could have held a racquetball court, I spotted Roy himself entering one of four doors that lined the spacious room. He either hadn’t seen us or was simply ignoring the commotion at the front door, because he disappeared from view as he pulled the door shut behind him.

  I darted around the very surprised butler. “Come on,” I called to Coop and JT. My posse hot on my heels, I arrived at the door Roy had disappeared through, with poor Ichabod rapidly scurrying along behind us.

  “Miss, stop. Miss! Monsieur specifically—”

  “Monsieur”—nope, there was absolutely not a hint of sarcasm in my tone—“will talk to me.” I flung open the door and charged inside the room.

  The space was a library that doubled as an office, with tall bookshelves occupying three of the four walls. The fourth was a gigantic floor-to-ceiling glass wall opposite the door. The view looked out across a vast yard and into the trees beyond. It was one hell of a sight.

  There was a large desk with a credenza off to one side. The desktop was piled high with colorful yard signs and political flyers. Roy Larson stood in front of the desk talking with another man who held one of the signs in his hand.

  It took a second for me to realize the other guy was Roy’s son, Greg.

  Greg was a little taller than my five-seven, and he had to be in his late thirties. He’d been a senior when I was a freshman, and although I was aware of him, I hadn’t known him well.

  His stomach was flat—it hadn’t yet gone the way of the All-American beer belly, probably due to his athleticism. Greg had been a college track star, and had obviously done a commendable job of maintaining his physique into middle age. Muscular shoulders nicely filled out a long-sleeved, aqua-colored polo shirt. The polo was tucked into a pair of neatly pressed gray Dockers. The aqua in his shirt mirrored eyes that were still some of the brightest blue-green I’d ever seen. His high school trademark golden-brown “hair-band” mane was now tamed, cut well above his collar.

  Roy was the first to recover from our surprise entrance. “Shay! What on earth brings you here?”

  Ichabod stepped in front of me, holding his arms out to the sides like a kid on school patrol. He blustered, “I’m so sorry, Monsieur, she—”

  “Don’t worry about it, Dijon,” Roy waved him off. “It’s fine. You may go. Please close the door behind you.”

  Dijon? Yikes. Even Ichabod deserved better than mustard for a name. Dijon backed out of the room with a scowl but pulled the door gently shut.

  Roy crossed the room with an amused smile. “What a pleasant surprise to see you. Twice in less than forty-eight hours.” He gave

  me a one-armed squeeze and turned me to face his son. “Greg, you remember Shay O’Hanlon? She was the little squirt who used to run wild around the bar before I sold it to her father. Shay, my son, Greg.”

  I put my hand out to shake Greg’s. He grabbed it and smoothly pulled me in for a semi-stiff hug. It was a well-practiced move, probably honed on the city parade and county fair circuit.

  “Shay, of course I remember you. We went to the same high school. I was a couple years ahead, I think.” He grinned warmly, his mesmerizing eyes boring into mine so sincerely that I couldn’t turn away if I tried.

  Roy said, “Have you heard anything from your dad yet?”

  It took me a second to unmesmerize myself and refocus on Greg’s dad. “No.” I was such a liar. To distract Roy from asking anything further, I did the introduction thing with Coop and JT.

  “Coop,” Roy said, “it’s good to see you again.” He gave
Coop a clap on the shoulder and turned his attention to my girl. “And you’re JT. It’s high time we met. Pete talks about you all the time.” My jaw about dropped as Roy pumped her hand and said, “Old Pete has told me more than once it was high time Shay settled down with a good person.”

  Oh my god. My father actually said that? For years we’d been at odds over my sexual orientation, and periodically we’d have hair-raising battles borne of the stubborn Irish blood we shared. After a week or so, one of us usually made a grudging peace and things would return to normal until the next time the crap hit the proverbial fan. Come to think of it, we hadn’t had a good go-round in months. Not since before JT and I got together, actually. Had it really been that long?

  Yet one more thing I hadn’t noticed. That plaguing thought made my chest ache. I didn’t know my own father at all anymore. At what point had we lost touch? Or maybe it was all me. The past year had been a pretty crazy one for me, what with Coop’s boss being killed, a toy snake stuffed with money, and JT’s nemesis getting pickled—literally and figuratively. I guess shooting the breeze with Dad hadn’t been my top priority.

  I was ripped out of my momentary melancholy when Coop nudged me in time to hear JT say, “Right, Shay?”

  I blinked. I had no idea what I was agreeing with. “Ah, yeah. Yup.”

  Roy rocked back on his heels and clasped his hands together. “Today should be a little calmer than your visit yesterday, Shay. I think we’re safe from four-legged escapees here.”

  I offered up a half-smile. “Yeah, I think we are.” What would the kitty-litter-buying public think if they knew the King of Cat Poo didn’t have any feline friends? The thought was gone almost as soon as it registered, and I was back on task. “The reason we’re here, Roy, is—well, I have a question for you.”