Hide and Snake Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  I sighed, and it turned into a huge yawn. Weariness swirled through me. I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes.

  The next thing I knew, somebody was opening the car door. I was disoriented by the scenery until I realized I was no longer at the arena. Instead, the car had pulled into the newly finished FBI headquarters in Brooklyn Center. Ironically enough, the building was a stone’s throw from Sharpe’s manufacturing plant, where this mess had started just a few hours before.

  A disheveled young man dressed in a rumpled, dark-colored suit had opened the back door. I clambered from the car and hurried to keep up with his long, silent strides.

  We entered the building. The new smell hadn’t yet worn off, and for some reason it gave me a sense of normalcy. I didn’t mind the scent of newly installed carpet and freshly applied paint. It made some people sick, but it always gave me a renewed sense of hope. Like a fresh start.

  The lobby had a vaulted ceiling. I guessed it would be bright and airy in the daylight.

  I trailed the man into an elevator, and he punched the button for the third floor. I leaned with a sigh against one wall. He stood looking straight ahead.

  Just to try out some conversation, I asked, “Where are my friends?”

  He looked me in the eye for the first time. “On the way. You’ll be free to go as soon as we get your statement.” He had a kind voice, hoarse from stress or yelling, or a combination of both.

  “Do you know what happened to the woman who was shot? She was one of the first to leave.” I wasn’t sure if he’d tell me even if he did know.

  The man didn’t say anything. I prompted, “Her name was Zorra, or maybe Luz?”

  A muscle bulged in his cheek, which was baby smooth. He was just a kid. His lips narrowed, and he forcefully blew out air through his nose. “If you’re talking about the woman drug lord, she died on the way to the hospital.”

  I half-expected those words, but hearing them spoken aloud was like a fist to the solar plexus. I opened my mouth to say something and closed it before anything came out. But I had to know. I whispered, “I thought she was one of yours.”

  The agent considered my words. His Adam’s apple bobbed below his collar and bounced back up. “Nope. She was one of the most powerful drug lords in Mexico.”

  I shook my head. Luz’s words clearly echoed in my mind. “She really wasn’t FBI?” Maybe for some reason she had second thoughts about killing us and lied to get us to follow her.

  He shot me an impatient look. “She really wasn’t. Where’d you get that idea, anyway?”

  “She said she was.”

  The elevator binged and the door slid open. He half laughed and said, “You can’t believe anything a drug dealer tells you.”

  My watch read 2:23 a.m. when I shuffled out of the elevator and dropped into one of the beige easy chairs scattered in clumps throughout the lobby. I had answered questions until I was blue in the face, and then answered more. I was talked out.

  I scrunched down and rested my head against the back of the chair. My body felt boneless, my arms too heavy to bother trying to lift. Everything hurt. I didn’t want to think anymore. I wanted to sleep for a week. I considered calling JT even though it was so late, just to hear her voice, but I didn’t have the gumption to dig the phone out. The way my body felt reminded me of my aches and pains after the broomball tourney Kate, Coop, and I played in a few months earlier, but five times worse. I was completely wrung out.

  A few minutes later, the elevator pinged. Kate emerged, along with a fresh-faced, solidly-built blonde dressed in faded jeans and black t-shirt covered by a navy windbreaker. Bright yellow letters spelled FBI on the left chest of the jacket. Of course: I got the grumpy guy, and Kate’d got to have a cute female Feeb twist the screws on her thumbs.

  They approached. I was too drained to do more than utter, “Hey.”

  “Hey.” Kate looked at me for a moment. “You’re toast.”

  I nodded.

  “Agent Louden here,” she indicated the woman, who nodded at me, “is going to take me home and pick up the money bear for evidence. Want to come?”

  Did I ever. The thought of crashing into a soft bed nearly brought tears of relief to my eyes. I heaved a noisy sigh. “No. Thanks, though. I’m going to wait for Coop.”

  “Okay.” Kate turned to leave, then swung back. She dug in her pocket a moment, and threw her keys at me. Reflexively, I snagged them out of the air. It was nice to know my reflexes weren’t entirely gone.

  “The car’s only a few blocks away if you want it.” She shrugged. “If not, we can get it tomorrow.”

  I gave her a half-grin. “Thanks.”

  Kate and Agent Louden disappeared out the front door into the darkness.

  Fifteen minutes later, the elevator pinged again and disgorged Coop.

  “Over here,” I called.

  He looked rough. His lip was split, there was a cut on his cheekbone, and he limped as he walked toward me.

  “Looks like you’ve had a tough night.”

  “You’re not looking much better.” He eased himself gingerly down in the chair next to me. “That cut on your forehead looks pretty raw. And your chin is really red.”

  A red chin? I tried to think where that had come from. No one had smacked me there lately. Then I remembered. An unbidden laugh burst from my mouth.

  Coop raised his eyebrow.

  “Oh,” I giggled. “I think it’s—” My giggles dissolved into a roar of laughter. “Face burn—” I gasped, “From your crotch. I was using your buckle to get my blindfold off. I’m sorry if I hurt your … ” My gut convulsed with laughter. The level of my mirth sounded like I really wasn’t sorry, which wasn’t true at all.

  Coop watched me struggle for control, tried to keep a straight face, and lost it. We both melted into quivering lumps of human flesh as we howled the stress of the night away.

  I tried to catch my breath and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “I really am sorry.”

  Coop snickered, but managed not to fall into hysterics again. “I know. It’s okay.” He shifted uncomfortably. “But it’ll be a while before the ’nads recover.”

  We both heaved great sighs and lapsed into silence.

  After a couple of minutes I said, “Kate gave me the keys to her car. It’s pretty close, I think. We could walk.”

  Coop considered my words. “Wanna wait for Baz?”

  I considered that. “I’d really like to ditch the little rat here.”

  “Could.”

  “He and Sharpe ran when Tomás confronted Luz.” Oh. Luz. Saying her name made me wonder if Coop knew.

  I was about to ask when he said quietly, “She didn’t make it.”

  “I know.”

  A heavy silence fell. There wasn’t much more to say. When Coop and I got some sleep and some distance from this thing, we’d talk.

  Coop said, “What should we do about Baz?”

  I crossed my arms and shrugged. “Let’s wait.”

  “’K.”

  Baz was sprung a little after three. We trudged to the car. Every time Baz tried to say something, I shushed him. After a while, he got the message. At some point, we’d have to hash this whole mess out with him, too. If I tried now, though, the fury he made me feel would come out in some very inappropriate yet savagely satisfying ways.

  Kate’s car was right where we left it outside the plant before going in to find Coop. As much as I wanted to go home and sleep like the dead for a week, we needed to talk to Eddy and Agnes. Resolutely, I pointed the car toward Northeast Minneapolis and the Leprechaun.

  Three cars sat in my father’s small, potholed lot when we pulled in. Winter and snowplow blades were hard on gravel parking lots. I’d been after my dad for the last few years to have it paved, to no avail.

  The bar appeared locked down and dark, as did Dad’s apartment above. I had a key, and I let us in the back. I hadn’t bothered calling ahead because I didn’t want to wake anyone, but with the thr
ee cars outside, I guessed that wouldn’t have been a problem.

  I led the way through the kitchen. The smell of pizza was strong, and to a lesser extent, the odor of stale cigarette smoke and booze. I was starving. “I think I could eat a whole pizza.”

  Coop said in a near moan, “I really, really need a smoke.”

  Baz grumbled from behind Coop, “I really, really, really want a drink.”

  Interesting how smells triggered different responses. If I had my way, the answers to those three vices would be hell yes, hell no, and maybe.

  We exited the kitchen through the swinging door and entered the main part of the bar. Here, the odors of alcohol and smoke were pungent. Light glowed from an open door in the rear of the bar that led into a large room where special functions, large parties, and my dad’s poker games took place. I suppressed a laugh. Of course they’d still be playing poker. Crazy people.

  Not wanting to startle anyone, I called out, “Hey, Dad,” and we threaded through the tables toward the light.

  “Hey, honey,” his voice drifted from inside the room. “Come on in.”

  When I crossed the threshold, I shook my head. Should have known. A low-hanging light surrounded by a Bud Light shade lit up the players.

  My father, Eddie, Agnes, and three men I was vaguely familiar with sat around a green felt-covered poker table, cards in hand. After playing poker for hours on end, they still looked bright-eyed and feisty.

  Clouds of smoke hovered above their heads and curled in wisps around the fluorescent bulbs. A cigarette smoldered in my dad’s hand, and two of the three men puffed on cigars. Eddy had a stogie clenched between her teeth. At my entrance, she rumbled around the cigar, “It’s about time you kids showed up. I hope you’ve been staying out of trouble.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ON TUESDAY, THE FRONT page headline of the Minneapolis Star Tribune read:

  OPERATION WHITE STAG BAGS

  MEXICAN AND CANADIAN CARTEL LEADERS

  Well over a year in the offing, Operation White Stag netted six feared drug czars. It all came down to a shootout in Fridley’s old Columbia Ice Arena, best known for its moment on the big screen in the movie The Mighty Ducks. The mysterious female drug cartel leader, known only as Zorra, was among those killed in a firefight that lasted …

  The story went on, but my eyes kept straying back to the phrase “among those killed.” I still found it next to impossible to believe that the mild-mannered woman Coop and I met at Coffman Union was the infamous Zorra. It also bothered both of us she’d claimed to be FBI when she came to our rescue after issuing the warrant for our demise. We’d talked about it at length, but none of us came up with a reasonable answer. Whatever the truth was, it would be buried with her.

  We tried a number of times to engage Baz in our amateur debriefings. He wouldn’t return any of our calls or texts. Agnes told Eddy that Fletcher Sharpe wasn’t pressing charges against Baz, but he would spend the next six months in the county lock-up on work release for violating the conditions of his probation. They’d know more after his court date in a couple of weeks. I hoped he felt some seriously major remorse after dragging all of us into his deadly nightmare. And I hoped (but seriously doubted) he’d stop swiping stuff. Next time it probably would get his ass killed for real.

  Fletcher Sharpe returned to the limelight as a tragic innocent in a tale that enmeshed his beloved business with the illicit drug trade. The police were able to prove that Sharpe hadn’t been aware that his director of product development, Kelvin Mudd, had been a key player in a major drug-running scheme.

  The bruises were beginning fade a little by the time Friday rolled around. At least they wouldn’t glow like neon signs when I picked up JT that evening at the airport. When we spoke on the phone after our terrifying and perplexing ordeal was over, I filled her in on only the basics of that deadly night. I wanted to tell her the most horrifying parts face to face.

  It drove me nuts wondering who the guy bleeding out in the circus desk was. I checked every media outlet I could think of to see if there was any coverage of a body found in a desk at the Hands On Toy Company. I came up with zip.

  In the last few days, a slew of exhausting, confusing emotions buffeted me, with anger leading the pack. But right now the only one I had left was impatience.

  JT’s flight had landed at 7:45 p.m. I looked again at the time on my brand-spanking-new iPhone. It still said fifty-three minutes after seven.

  I waited near the glass-enclosed exit from the terminal proper into baggage claim. Arriving travelers began to trickle down one of the two sets of escalators that ran on either side of a flight of stairs. A TSA official sat at a podium inside the glass enclosure carefully monitoring the exiting passengers and the people milling about the baggage area.

  The low ceiling on the baggage claim level cut off the view of the top two-thirds of the escalators and steps. As the escalator rolled, each passenger was slowly revealed from the bottom up. Watching, wondering if this next person would be JT, rivaled the excitement that used to course through me on Christmas morning.

  Two women with builds similar to JT’s had already stepped off the escalator and come through the automatic doors. My heart sped up both times as I watched them descend.

  A pair of black boots rolled into view, followed by long legs encased in dark blue jeans. My heart ratcheted up a couple notches again. Then came a familiar, well-worn black leather motorcycle jacket hanging open over a faded black shirt. My blood pressure rose some more. When her head appeared, there was no doubt. The chestnut hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail, the angular features, and the delighted grin that spread across her face as she caught sight of me definitely belonged to JT Bordeaux.

  My pulse roared, thundering so loudly in my ears that the rest of the airport faded from my senses. My eyes locked on target, and that target hit the bottom of the escalator and strode purposefully through the sliding doors toward me. When she came within reach, I launched myself at her. I didn’t give a damn who might be watching or what they might think. This was about heart and love.

  JT dropped the duffle bag she was carrying and her arms came up, squeezing me tight. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt whole. Her scent surrounded me like a balm and for the first time in a very long time, tears rolled down my face.

  Warm, strong hands cupped my cheeks, tilted my head back.

  “Shay,” JT whispered, worry etching her face. “Are you crying?” Her eyes narrowed at the sight of the cut on my forehead and the fading bruises.

  My lips caught hers in a searingly fast kiss. I broke away and rested my forehead on her shoulder, preparing to unleash the gathering storm within.

  “Shay?” She said sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  I lifted my head and looked in her eyes, seeing affection, concern, and apprehension. I pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, “I love you, JT Bordeaux.”

  “You,” I said with a huff, “have way too much luggage.” I dropped the last bag on the floor next to the other three in JT’s large entry and kicked the door shut with my foot. Her red-brick, two-story colonial revival overlooked Lake of the Isles. The only way she could afford the joint on a cop’s salary was because she’d inherited it from a wealthy relative. JT was a fortunate woman.

  Dawg bounced around, racing from the foyer to the living room and back. He stopped periodically and enthusiastically head butted JT, slurped her hand, and then did it all over again. I understood how he felt.

  “I know I do. But I needed my stuff.” JT laughed and rubbed Dawg’s cheeks. Slobber flew through the air. “You missed me, didn’t you, boy?” He nailed her square on the nose with his over-sized tongue. “Ugh,” she said as she straightened and wiped her face on her sleeve.

  “We both missed you.”

  JT met my eyes, and it was like drowning in bowls of liquid chocolate. I shook myself, needing to stay focused. When JT found out we’d been in the middle of a gun battle between the feds and some of t
he most dangerous drug runners in North America, she was going to blow a gasket. It might be some time before the granite that was about to show in her eyes melted back into the warm pools I loved.

  I inhaled, put my hand on the back of the sofa and squeezed. “JT, we need to talk.”

  She was in the process of throwing her jacket across the arm of an easy chair. She paused mid-toss. “What is it?”

  “Come on, let’s sit down.”

  She followed as I circled the couch and sat, one leg tucked under me. JT mirrored my position, worry creasing her smooth forehead, pulling her expressive eyebrows toward each other.

  Dawg came over and put his head in my lap. I fiddled with his soft ear and looked absently out the picture window.

  “Shay,” JT said gently. She hooked my chin and tugged until I met her gaze. “Spill it.”

  I licked my lips, took a deep breath, and spilled. Everything.

  An hour later we’d shifted positions. JT and I were cozy in one corner of the couch, and Dawg snored, stretched out across the other two-thirds.

  Her hand rested on my shoulder as she considered my words. Up to now, she’d done nothing but listen carefully and ask clarifying questions.

  “Well,” she said after a few moments of pensive silence, “I think you absolutely did the best you could with what you had.” She kissed the top of my head.

  “You’re not going to blow a cork?”

  “If blowing a cork would help in some way, I would. I am angry. Angry with Baz for putting you all in this position. I’m angry with Kelvin Mudd and his cronies, and with all of the drug lords in Mexico. But,” as she spoke, her arm tightened around me, “I’m absolutely furious you could’ve been killed, and there wasn’t a goddamn thing I could’ve done to prevent it.”

  “JT, babe, can you ease up a little?”

  That broke the tension, and she loosened her hold but didn’t let go. I leaned my cheek against her chest, listened to her heart pound. My own thumped merrily along with hers, beat for beat.

  I said, “The one thing that really bothers me about this whole thing is Luz. Zorra. Whatever her name is.” I straightened and propped my head on my hand against the couch. “None of it makes any sense.”