Coop swirled his mug and stared as the liquid spun. “About every customer on the Bingo Barge at one time or another.”
Eddy scowled. “Young man, that’s not helpful. We need some solid suspects. Haven’t you seen or heard Kinky—Sweet Jesus, I can’t call a dead man ‘Kinky.’ What’s this poor man’s real name?” The crease between Eddy’s eyes was on the verge of becoming cavernous.
“Stanley,” I supplied, attempting to stop the corners of my mouth from turning up in amusement. If she could read my thoughts, Eddy would surely give me a whack for disrespecting the dead.
“Okay, who has Stanley been having words with lately?”
“He’s always in someone’s face about something,” Coop said, “but I haven’t been around the last few days to see who he pissed off lately.”
We sat sipping in silence, the only sound the occasional plunk of water dripping from the kitchen faucet. A thought occurred to me, and I sat forward, leaning on my elbows. “Coop, what about Rocky? He’s always around, his ears are wide open. I bet he knows who Kinky was clashing with.”
Coop brightened, his head bobbing slowly. “You might be right.” Then his face fell. “But he’s a night owl. And once he’s on his feet, he’s always with people, either at the Bingo Barge or hanging out on the block outside his boarding house. If I try to talk to him, someone’ll see me and turn me in for the huge reward I’m sure the cops are already offering up on America’s Most Wanted. I can see it now. ‘Nick Cooper, wanted dead or alive’.”
“For goodness sake, stop being so morbid.” Eddy shifted her gaze to me. “Shay, do you know this Rocky?”
“Yeah.” Coop and I bought Rocky lunch at Popeye’s on Lake Street once in awhile, and we sometimes played catch with him afterward. We always teased him that he should be pitching for the Twins with his wicked, deadly accurate fastball.
The munchkin man was an odd duck, and his mind didn’t work like a regular person’s. No one knew exactly what made Rocky tick the way he did. He had to be autistic or a savant of some kind. At any rate, he was high functioning and lived on his own. The man had numerous personality quirks, with communication one of the biggest. Would he talk to me without Coop around? If he didn’t know someone, he’d barely speak, and if he said anything at all, he’d cough up only the very basics. If he was pushed, he locked up like a bank after hours. But once Rocky chilled and got to know you better, he wouldn’t shut up. Who knew where I fell in his conversational spectrum.
Eddy poked me in the shoulder. “You’re going to go look for Rocky and have a word with him.”
Coop said, “You aren’t going to find him till after five or six. If you find him at all.”
“You hush, child.” Eddy patted Coop’s hand. “Shay, wait till after the supper rush when the café’s settled down. If you don’t have anyone coming in for the night, Kate can cover for you, or if she can’t, I will.”
Kate McKenzie was a good friend and my business partner. We’d gone to college together, after which we’d each tried to fit into conventional nine-to-five life and failed abysmally. Eventually we pooled our resources and, with Eddy’s donation of business space, opened the café. Five years later we had a couple of employees and a fairly successful enterprise. No one was getting rich, but we weren’t begging for change at the corner of Hennepin and Dunwoody either.
“We have someone scheduled for the evening shift,” I said.
Eddy turned her attention back to Coop. “You need a place to hide out. I know I should tell you to turn yourself in, boy, let the wheels of justice churn you out in short order, but I know better than to believe in that nonsense. I’ve seen too many good people get run over by those wheels and left for dead. ’Course most of the time, things turn out fine, but sometimes it’s better to take matters into your own hands.”
Coop swallowed hard. Emotion was getting to him, and he struggled for composure. He cleared his throat. “Eddy, thank you for believing me.”
She waved her hand. “I’ve helped folks deal with far worse in my lifetime. We’ll get it straightened out. First things first, though. Let’s get you into the loft.”
I looked sharply at Eddy. “What loft?”
“The loft above the garage.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like I said, what loft? You said there’s only an old attic full of crap in the garage.” Then my other eyebrow rose to meet the first. “Oh. There’s no attic full of crap.”
“No attic full of crap.”
Coop watched our exchange, his head moving between Eddy and me. “What on earth are you guys talking about?”
Eddy smiled mysteriously. “You never know who might need a safe place to hunker down. The attic is actually a loft that has been used for a long time by good people who needed safe refuge. People just like you.”
_____
Eddy bustled Coop away while Kate and I spent the next few hours making drinks and bullshitting with customers. Kainda Hannesen popped in, a professor who’d been coming to the Hole for the last few years. Kate had the hots for her in a bad way and was frustrated as hell that she couldn’t put a Kainda notch on her belt.
Kainda was tall with thick, almost-frizzy-it-was-so-curly black hair and skin that was perpetually golden. I myself felt a twinge of interest now and then, but I wasn’t about to go toe-to-toe with Kate. And anyway, I tried to make it a policy not to see women who forked over dough to keep our establishment running. Good thing one of us felt that way, or we’d be out of business at the rate Kate went through ladies.
I cleaned what needed cleaning, and then cleaned what didn’t. Time is a funny thing. Sometimes minutes and hours fly by at supersonic speed, and other times you wonder if the clocks went on strike and stopped working altogether. This was definitely an on-strike moment.
The Rabbit Hole was not sizable, but it was cozy. The café was off Hennepin Avenue on 24th Street in Uptown, not far from Sebastian Joe’s Ice Cream Café, a place I frequented.
Inside the coffee shop, eight round tables with French café chairs were scattered in front of a glass counter filled with sandwiches and sweets. In two corners we’d arranged four overstuffed armchairs.
A big stone fireplace took up one wall, and the huge hearth was a popular place to hang when the temperatures fell and the nights darkened prematurely. Aromatic coffee blended with the fragrance of the I’d Tell You My Recipe But Then I’d Have To Kill You cinnamon rolls Kate regularly supplied. The walls were painted warm, swirling yellows, browns, and reds.
Lost in thought, I hunched over one of the tables and scrubbed at a particularly sticky mocha-caramel latte spill, wondering for the fifty-seventh time if not telling Kate what was going on was the right thing to do. Knowing her love of gossip and her sometimes endearing, sometimes crazy-making tendency to speak before thinking, I convinced myself that keeping my trap zipped was best for now. My clashing thoughts vanished in a blink when someone, or actually two someones, hovered directly in front of me.
A dark-skinned black man, almost as tall as Coop but with a Schwarzenegger build, stood a half step behind a woman who exuded an Outta My Way or I’ll Kick Your Ass attitude. Indigo-
colored jeans hugged her curves in interesting places, and a lightweight, fawn-colored leather jacket covered her navy t-shirt. A few strands of chestnut hair had worked their way loose from her rough ponytail and floated around her face. Sunglasses rested atop her head, and rich, deep-brown eyes assessed me.
My inner “who’s-this-babe” meter gave a thrumming jolt until my eyes came to rest on the police shield secured in the leather wallet in her hand. I snapped my gaze back up to her face. Recognition dawned as she flipped the badge closed and pocketed it.
I slowly straightened, hoping I had enough air to speak, and shot a glance toward Kate, whose eyes were on the woman staring at me.
“Detective Bordeaux,” I said. Breathe. “Been awhile.”
The corner of her mouth quirked. “It has. Shay O’Hanlon, this is Detective Tyrell Johnson.” She jerked a thumb
at the man next to her.
I nodded. My mind bounced around like a super ball in a tin box.
Minneapolis Detective JT Bordeaux had been a regular in the Hole for many months, up until a little over a year ago, when she’d gotten transferred from Vice to Homicide. Both Kate and I had admitted to a certain fascination when she first started frequenting the café. Despite some rather enjoyable flirtation, I’d never acted on my impulses, keeping my self-imposed touch-no-customer rule well in hand.
Kate, however, with her insatiable thirst for conquering an intriguing romantic challenge, had put JT on top of her priority list. Try as she might, she hadn’t gotten any further than perfecting JT’s favorite drink and scoring big in the tip department. Her quest had been abruptly cut short when the detective’s transfer came through and she stopped coming by for her caffeine fix.
I quickly tamped down an inappropriate primal response that hit me low in the gut, and frankly, surprised me. I guess it’d been a long time.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about Nicholas Cooper.” JT’s voice was honey, her dark eyes granite.
Holy hell in a hand basket. I needed to refocus, fast.
“Questions?” I finally managed. Too many angles were floating through my mind, and my brain took the easy way out by simply shutting down.
“About what?” I asked, as my attention redirected itself to our current problem and I concentrated on putting a polite, blank look on my face. My tripping heart began a steady slam in my chest. The rag I’d been using to wipe the tables dripped as I squeezed it hard, trying to hide my trembling hands. “Has something happened to Coop?”
She said evenly, “Not that we know of. We have some questions for him. Mind if we sit down?”
Man, when she was working, she was one serious, to-the-point officer. We settled at one of the tables near the window. Kate floated over to us, pixie-like. She glanced at Johnson and then settled her twin lasers on JT. If looks could set the hook, the detective would have been reeled right into Kate’s waiting net.
“Anything I can get you all?” Her words encompassed the table but her gaze remained glued on Detective Bordeaux. Table service wasn’t Hole protocol, but when a hot babe showed up, Kate was willing to go the extra mile. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she told the detective. “Can I get you your usual?”
I glanced at Detective Johnson, who was busy trying to suppress a smile, and I squinted at Kate, willing her to back off. She ignored me and shot her signature You Are So Back In My Sights gaze at JT, who ordered her usual cappuccino with double espresso while Johnson declined a beverage. Kate gave me a toothy grin and scooted off to make JT her drink.
Perched warily in my chair, I said to JT, “Still a caffeine junkie, huh?”
Silence ensued, and my ears burned in mild embarrassment. I wondered if it was detective modus operandi to ignore the unrequested comments of the interrogated. Detective Johnson bailed me out. He eyed my t-shirt, asking if I’d seen the last Minnesota Wild hockey game. Johnson chatted while I uh-huhed and um-hmmed about the possibilities of the Wild’s chance at playoff action for the upcoming season.
Kate returned with a steaming beverage and handed it to JT, who took a sip. She gave Kate a quick nod of satisfaction, and set the glass mug on the table.
“You haven’t lost your touch, I see,” JT said to Kate.
“No, I haven’t lost any touch at all.” Kate eyed her provocatively. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
JT turned to me as Kate sashayed away. “So, Shay, how long have you known Mr. Cooper?”
I tried to remember if she’d ever run into Coop when she’d stopped by the café, but I couldn’t. It was so odd to hear him referred to as Mr. Cooper. “We grew up in the same neighborhood, went to the same schools, and remained friends through adolescent hell.”
Detective Johnson rested his arms on the table, his heavily muscled shoulders bulging under his shirt. “Ms. O’Hanlon, when was the last time you saw Nicholas Cooper?”
Cut straight to the chase, why don’t you? I wondered what the penalty was for lying through my teeth to the cops. However, my Tenacious Protector side had started bouncing around like Tigger on steroids.
“I think the last time I saw Coop was this past Friday. He was getting ready to head over to Pickering Park with his environmental group.” Thank God he mentioned that in the garage. “They were going to protest the removal of some trees.” That much was true. “Is that what this is about?”
The two detectives glanced at each other and then leveled their stares back at me. JT said, her voice silky now, “So you haven’t seen Mr. Cooper all weekend?”
I shook my head as I thought about Coop in the garage not a hundred yards away. I was going straight to hell. No passing GO, no collecting two hundred dollars, and there would be no Get Out of Jail Free cards.
“Is he in trouble?” I stared directly into JT’s eyes. The hard demeanor she presented when she’d first spoken softened, but her features remained impassive. “We’re not sure. An incident occurred at his workplace and we just want to talk to him.”
“What kind of incident?” I said the words as nonchalantly as I could, but my hands were curled tight around the base of my chair to keep them still.
Detective Johnson’s voice rumbled. “Mr. Cooper’s employer was murdered last night.”
“What?” My eyebrows shot up of their own accord, even though this wasn’t news. “You’re kidding. What happened?”
Could they tell I was spewing tall tales? Were they about to whip out the cuffs?
Instead of flashing metal, Detective Johnson said, “We’ve got some video showing multiple persons entering and exiting the office where the murder took place. Your friend was seen on the tape leaving in a rather agitated state.”
Videotape. Could it clear Coop? If it did, why were the cops looking for him? Speaking carefully, I said, “You think Coop killed Kinky? He won’t kill a mosquito. Seriously.”
Johnson hitched an eyebrow. “You know Stanley Anderson?”
Whoa. Open mouth, insert grimy shoe. “I met him a few times when I’ve gone to see Coop at work. And Coop wouldn’t lay a finger on his boss.” I didn’t add that Coop was so grossed out by Kinky that you couldn’t pay him to put a pinkie on the man.
JT eyed me for a beat. “We don’t know who killed Mr. Anderson.” Then her dark eyes softened again for a moment. “You’re sure you haven’t seen Mr. Cooper today, Shay?” Those eyes intrigued me, even as I watched them shift back into assessment mode.
“No, I haven’t.” The lie came a bit easier this time. I wanted to ask them if they had fingerprints off the dauber, but they hadn’t yet told me what the murder weapon was. Man, it was as hard to withhold information as it was to lie. If the cops didn’t have fingerprints, maybe they were just running down all of the people on the video and asking questions. How long did it take to identify fingerprints? Hours? Days?
They peered at me silently. I decided some interrogation of my own couldn’t make matters much worse. Maybe they’d tell me something that we could use to help Coop. “How did Kinky die?”
Johnson shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not something we can discuss.”
Detective Bordeaux dug into her jeans pocket and threw a five on the table. “If you can think of anything that might help us, or if you see Mr. Cooper, please give me a call. Actually, better yet, have him call me.” She handed me her card, eyes still glued to me like a hungry animal patiently waiting for feeding time. I wanted to squirm, figuratively and literally, under that hot gaze. Did she just want information from me?
After thanking me for my less-than-helpful help, the detectives threaded their way through the room to the front door. Before Detective Bordeaux stepped outside, she called out, “Kate, that capp was just like it used to be. Thanks.”
Kate saluted JT, and I grinned weakly. After the door shut amid the chime of bells, I collapsed into the chair with my head in my arms. My min
d was a blur of dread and guilt, mixed with some intriguing thoughts about some rather unethical but very hot ways Detective Bordeaux could try to pry the truth out of me. I had no idea if my untimely re-attraction was one-sided, but under different circumstances, I could easily have been persuaded to find out. Unless, of course, Kate beat me to it.
For a half hour, I dodged the questions Kate kept lobbing about my visit with the Daring Duo. I was relieved when my longtime pal Doyle Malloy stopped in late in the afternoon for coffee and a chat. He was my first, last, and only boyfriend. Convinced he’d turned me into a lesbian, he often laughed about our doomed relationship. He was a Minneapolis detective who only worked high-level homicides. Maybe I could get something out of him to help Coop.
Once he settled at a table, I sat across from him. “So Doyle, you hear about the murder on the Pig’s Eye Bingo Barge?”
“Yeah, I heard about—ah damn!” Doyle swore as the sip of coffee meant for his mouth was sucked up by the front of his white oxford shirt. He swiped halfheartedly at the tan-colored stain.
I stifled a laugh. “Don’t worry. It matches that mustardy-looking smear there by your pocket.”
“I don’t know why I try.” He sighed. “I heard Bordeaux and Johnson are on that one. By the way, Bordeaux’s still footloose and fancy-free, on the market.” He raised an eyebrow at me.
Doyle knew I’d been fascinated from afar by JT when she used to stop in, and for some reason he felt it was his lifelong duty to try to hook me up with someone. In all actuality, he sucked as a matchmaker.
I pointedly ignored his addendum. “Any suspects?” I asked.
“I’m just sayin’.” He held his hands up in appeasement as he narrowed an eye at me. “Anyway, I know they’re working a couple leads, looking for one of the staff members.” Doyle scratched at the stubble on his cheek. “I don’t think I heard who …” He trailed off and looked at me. “Doesn’t Nick Cooper work on that tub?”
Doyle wasn’t what I’d consider friends with Coop, but we’d all gone to school together, and he knew Coop and I were close. “Yeah,” I said, “he does.” Or did, at any rate.
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