Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder

by Jessie Chandler

  Despite her profession, terror over JT’s well-being wasn’t something I was used to, and the emotion welled up again unbidden. I’d fought panic’s rising tide the entire way from Shakopee to Minneapolis, and every time I thought I had it under control, the force of it made me grind my teeth. I was going to have a jaw-ache before this was done. Typically I was pretty levelheaded. On the rare occasion when I lost it and the Tenacious Protector popped out to play, there was usually hell to pay on someone’s part. If somebody somehow threatened my loved ones, I lost my mind—but there was no one to scream at or punch out about this. And right now it made me somewhat sick and impotently furious that I couldn’t do a damned thing to help the woman I loved. Of course, I was pretty damn sure I was overreacting. Come on, Shay, I chided myself, JT is a good cop with a good reputation. She won’t be sitting in that cell for long. But when I was in the midst of heart-pounding fear and supreme confusion, losing my mind was easy to do.

  I toed a crack in the dirty linoleum floor and focused on regulating my breathing and slowing my heart. I was pretty sure I’d have a heart attack if I kept this up for too much longer.

  After what seemed like twenty minutes but was probably only five, one of the doors swung open and Tyrell stepped into the lobby.

  “Hey sugar. What’re you doin’ here?” A grin sliced his face and set his dimples dimpling. In two big steps he engulfed me in a bear hug. For a moment, Tyrell’s cologne, Sean John’s Unforgiveable, overtook the station stink, and I inhaled deeply. I knew what it was because JT and I had given it to him for his birthday a couple of weeks before. We’d spent twenty minutes at the Macy’s men’s fragrances counter, and I’d lost my ability to distinguish between scents before she settled on the Sean John stuff.

  I dragged myself out of my cologne-induced reverie. As soon as I contemplated what I had to tell him, any calm I’d managed to gain during my wait evaporated. “Ty, we have to do something. I don’t know what happened. They slapped handcuffs on her—”

  “Cuffs on who? Eddy?”

  “No! JT. He just—and she—” I was losing it again, hyperventilating. I gasped, “Half his head was gone—”

  “Shay! Exactly who and what are you talking about?” Tyrell gripped my shoulders and pushed me to arm’s length, alarm finally registering on his face. I wasn’t usually quite so random when I spoke, but for the life of me I couldn’t seem to put together a coherent sentence.

  “The dead guy tipped over—with a pickle—I had to use the bath-

  room—”

  “SHAY!” Tyrell gave me a good shake, making my teeth clack. “Calm down now and tell me what the hell happened.”

  I tried again. “They handcuffed her. Arrested her. They took her—”

  “Arrested who? Took her where?”

  Obviously Scott County and Minneapolis were not currently sharing information. Okay. I hauled in a shuddering breath. “JT. They arrested JT for murder.”

  With a foam cup of ghastly cop coffee in my hand, I sat on an old metal chair, its seat ripped from too many criminal butts. I faced Tyrell across the file-strewn mess he called his desk.

  After he understood that it was JT who’d been cuffed and stuffed into a cruiser like a common criminal, he whisked me through a locked door and up a flight of warped, green-linoleum-covered stairs to a squad room. Desks, filing cabinets, and a long table at the back of the room filled the space. Only a couple other detectives were in residence, and both worked feverishly on computers sitting on top of their desks. They paid me no mind as we passed by.

  Ty had led me to his desk and pushed me into the chair. “I’ll be back in two shakes.”

  I’d tried to gather myself as I had stared at the dirty gray wall. I was on a rollercoaster that clacked its way up the track, rolled over the top, and finally dropped with sizzling speed into that breath-taking moment of free fall. Usually the cars would hit the bottom of the hill and head up the next incline. The problem was that I’d been in free fall since the moment JT disappeared through the fence toward the waiting squads in the field beyond. My heart had been in my throat ever since, and the end wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  I really needed to get a grip, but I had no idea how to regain my equilibrium. I tried to breathe slow and deep again, through my nose. That seemed to help a little.

  Tyrell had returned with a cup of lukewarm joe and handed it to me. I took a sip and nearly choked on the bitter liquid that flowed over my tongue. It was nothing like the rich brew we served at the Hole.

  He now settled in his own seat and said, “Okay, Shay, take it slow and start from the beginning.”

  I did, and for the next twenty minutes filled him in on everything that had happened. Maybe the horrible coffee had done its job after all.

  “So,” I concluded, “JT told me to come to you, and here I am.”

  Tyrell leaned back in his chair and crossed his heavily muscled arms over his heavily muscled chest. Tightly curled black ringlets framed his chiseled face. His hair was longer than I’d seen it before. That made sense; because of the position he was now working, he often went undercover. He pulled a big breath in and let it out slowly, his dark mocha complexion unusually pale. “Are you sure the name of the victim was Russell Krasski?”

  “Yes, I’m positive.” That name would forever be branded in my brain.

  Tyrell ran a hand over his chin. “Shit.”

  “What’s going on? Who’s this Krasski guy?”

  “JT never told you about him?”

  “No.”

  Tyrell suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. He shifted and gave me a considering look, but I couldn’t read his dark gaze. “If JT never told you about this, I’m not sure I should.”

  “Ty, come on.” I barely restrained myself from jumping out of my chair and across the desk. “JT is sitting in a cell at the Scott County jail right now. She needs our help. I can’t help her if I don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  Tyrell’s jowls bunched as he clenched his teeth. “Let me call a couple people and see what’s up. Then I’ll explain.”

  I listened to two one-sided conversations and couldn’t glean much from either except that JT was indeed in custody, and she was being held away from the rest of the inmate population because she was a cop—a well-known cop with a lot of busts. There were a number of cons she’d had a hand in putting away who’d be after whatever revenge they could get. My blood ran cold at the thought of JT in there, alone and possibly in danger. My heart revved and I fought the red haze that appeared whenever my Protector came knocking. Deep, even breaths, Shay. In and out.

  Tyrell hung up and slid his right desk drawer open without meeting my eyes. He flipped through a number of files before shutting that drawer and opening one on the opposite side. After a moment, he pulled out a thick manila folder with the name Krasski scribbled in black Sharpie on the tab. He thumbed it open and shuffled through the contents. After a minute or two, he closed the file and threw it on his desktop. He then leaned back in his chair, threaded his fingers, and put his hands behind his head.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now, Shay, you sit calm while I tell you this. I can only give you the basics because the case is classified. So don’t go all crazy on me, you hear?”

  That didn’t sound good. I felt like I was stuffed in the pouch of a cocked slingshot about to be flung to Kingdom Come. The slightest nudge would set me off, which is never a good idea when the person in front of you has a gun and badge. I breathed deep once, then again. Oh God, just end this. “Tell me.”

  Tyrell pulled in his generous bottom lip and chewed on it a moment. “Awhile back, JT and I were on a team that set up a sting on a ring that abducted kids, usually minority children whose parents had no resources and questionable status within the country. Girls were sold to the highest bidder, usually to someone overseas. The girls who couldn’t be sold as marriage material, and all the
boys, were bartered, traded, or sold as child slaves.”

  He paused. “For close to a year we worked the shit out of the case. We had the ringleader, Krasski”—he pointed at the file—“in our sights. He was a bastard of the highest caliber. He and his posse raped the girls and beat the boys to within an inch of their lives. Pretty soon those poor children were walking and talking robots. The kids that came from Krasski were in high demand. He used violence and the threat of violence against the kids’ families, so none of them would rebel and attempt to escape.”

  Jesus. That was unspeakable. I closed my eyes a moment, then refocused on Tyrell, rampant emotion evident in his expression.

  “The case was like JT’s obsession. She researched Krasski, followed him, staked out his ass night after night. He was the worst kind of slimeball. The kind of weasel who was wrapped in Teflon—every charge we tried to slap on him somehow slid off. For the life of us we couldn’t get a damn thing to stick.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The night of the bust … We had it all planned. Every stinking move. We finally managed to pull together all the evidence we needed to make an arrest, which would have shut down a huge Midwest operation.” He inhaled sharply and held his breath for a moment before slowly letting it out through his nose.

  I was riveted by Ty’s tale, lost in the middle of some kind of horrifying psychological thriller—a horrifying thriller that involved the love of my life—instead of calmly looking at the hard facts of a real-life case.

  “The operation went off without so much as a hiccup. We went in, busted a bunch of assholes, including Krasski. They were in the midst of—” Tyrell’s face hardened. “God, it was awful. Anyway, we rounded up everyone. Not one person got away. JT and I had Krasski between us. We escorted him outside. And as we tried to stuff him in the car, he said something to JT. I missed it, and JT hasn’t repeated it to this day.” Tyrell closed his eyes. “She lost her freaking mind. With Krasski’s hands cuffed, she beat the shit out of him. I needed help to pull her off him, and by then the damage was done. She put him in the hospital with a broken jaw and cracked ribs and I can’t even remember what else. She nearly killed him. Goddamn it, the asshole deserved it.”

  Tyrell slumped back in his chair. His gaze was locked over my shoulder as he relived the memory. “JT was suspended. The case we worked so hard to make against Krasski fell apart.”

  Holy shit. “What about the others you arrested?”

  “They were charged and most of them went down. But the number-one man was free. Once he healed up, the bastard could start up the whole thing all over again. JT was furious with herself. Talk about a boatload of trouble. She had to take anger management classes, do some other Internal Affairs crap.”

  “She’s usually so in control. I can hardly imagine her on a rampage. If she snapped … I can totally see where it’d be next to impossible to stop her.” I stared at Tyrell. “She blamed herself, didn’t she?” I knew JT well enough to understand that it would drive her beyond crazy that she was the reason a no-good criminal walked.

  “Yeah. She ran herself through the wringer. When she came back to work, even I wasn’t sure she was ready. While she was off, she decided it was her personal vendetta to nail the bastard somehow. Whatever it took, on the books or not. So she started following him on her days off, showing up at places he frequented. She wouldn’t say anything to him. She’d just be there, make it obvious she was on his ass.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Soon things started to escalate. She became even more obvious. She’d pull him over with our unmarked car, harass the hell out of him. Started getting in his face.”

  “Oh my God,” I whispered. This was a JT I didn’t know. Why didn’t she ever tell me any of this? I thought she loved her job, fully believed in what she was doing.

  “Krasski wasn’t stupid. He went to one of the watchdog groups that pull the police brutality card during trials. Got them all fired up. Wound up taking out a harassment restraining order on JT.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. A criminal had been allowed a restraining order? On my JT?

  “Part of the order was if JT were to come within a hundred feet of Krasski, she’d be arrested. Basically, her career would be toast. I think the order’s expired by now, though.” Tyrell heaved a huge sigh. “So that’s an abbreviated version of what’s probably the worst thing JT has ever been through professionally.”

  I was still reeling over the fact that a badass hooligan had taken out a restraining order against JT. It was really hard to believe she’d never said a word about it to me. I could almost feel her pain, her shame, the incredible frustration she must have felt.

  Tyrell said, “She tried to do what she could to prevent him from returning to the crap he’d been doing, but it was all just one huge cluster that spiraled into chaos.”

  “She had every reason to want to kill him. I get that. But, Ty, do you think she really could’ve done it? That she could completely lose her mind? I would never believe she’d be capable of doing that.” Right?

  Tyrell shrugged. “I don’t know, Shay. I do know she’s worked like hell to put this whole fucked-up nightmare behind her. I’ll see what I can find out and let the guys who can help know what’s going on. They’ll have ideas on a lawyer. Try not to worry, hey?”

  Yeah right. Not worrying wasn’t an option.

  Four

  It was close to nine, fully dark, and maybe fifty degrees when I emerged from the station. After letting the dogs do their business, I drove off in a complete fog, despite both Bogey and Dawg periodically slurping me. They knew something was up. Dogs were like that.

  I hit Redial for Coop’s cell, tapping my thumb against the steering wheel impatiently as it rang in my ear, and hung up when voicemail kicked in. I didn’t want to go through what I’d just learned with Judith, the name Coop gave the irritating robotic female voice that narrated most voicemail. I’d have started to worry about him if I wasn’t already spending all my worry currency on JT.

  Thoughts raged inside my head. One moment I was furious with JT for hiding all of this from me and the next I was terrified that she even theoretically may have hosed someone. Granted, it was someone who apparently deserved it, but the repercussions of her actions were unthinkable.

  Waste. Whack. Pop a cap. Rub out. The words bounced through my brain like an echo from a megaphone blasting at full volume.

  Instead of heading directly home, I decided I needed the cool, calm advice of Eddy Quartermaine, my ex-landlord and mom stand-in. She lived in Uptown in the back of a large Victorian she owned. The front half of the huge old house was occupied by my café, The Rabbit Hole, on the main floor. Above that was a dinky one-bedroom apartment I’d lived in for years until just a few months ago, when I’d moved in with JT.

  I was an independent person, and it took some serious cajoling on JT’s part to convince me to attempt to live in harmonious two-become-one-ness with her. We’d been cohabitating at her place now for a few months. In fact, I had surprised myself: I was actually pretty pleased with the whole situation.

  Now the upstairs flat above the Hole was occupied by Rocky, a very endearing, somewhat challenged, multi-fact-spewing man of middling age who was mentally still in his teens. Almost a year earlier, Kate and I had hired him to help out at the Hole doing menial tasks and delivering rolls and coffee. The arrangement worked out nicely.

  I parked in front of the detached garage just off the alley at the back of the house. My fingers were working about as well as my brain and I fumbled to open the gate to the fenced-in backyard. The motion light popped on, scaring shadows away. I filled Dawg and Bogey’s water bucket from a spigot attached to the house and left them racing around after each other.

  The screen creaked as I pulled it open. I keyed the lock, and the knob on the main door twisted easily in my hand. Eddy was a night owl, most likely watch
ing reruns of Cold Case or another crime drama. It was her version of crack.

  I stepped into a tidy, comfortably worn kitchen filled on this night with the familiar scents of vanilla and cinnamon. A deep sense of comfort and love settled over me. The light above the range was on, and the sound of the TV filtered through the doorway leading to the living room.

  “Eddy,” I called out, not wanting to be the cause of a heart attack.

  “Shay!” she hollered. “Come on in, girl. Just let me pause this show. Don’t know what I ever did without the wonders of a DVD player.” She cackled with glee. The DVD player was a recent addition. Coop had tried numerous times to show her how to use the DVR that came with her DirecTV, but she promptly blocked him and the instructions out. I gave it another five years before we’d be able to cajole her into learning how to use it. Eddy didn’t like change much.

  Well-padded, almost-new carpet cushioned my footsteps. It was officially called Sand Swirl, but it looked to me more like the color of Dawg’s belly hair. However, I doubted that Dawg’s Fawn was the name of a color anyone would want to put on their floors.

  I dropped onto the couch. Captain Frank Furillo’s profile was frozen on the TV screen, his mouth open. I’d recently given Eddy the first two seasons of the early Eighties series Hill Street Blues, and she’d finally cracked the wrapper.

  Eddy was kicked back in a recliner, Winnie the Pooh slipper-clad feet crossed. Her rich mahogany skin was a marked contrast to the white housecoat with frilly pink cuffs she was wrapped up in. She gave me a once-over. “Child, you look plum wore out. And sort of queasyish. Did you eat one too many Scotch eggs at the Renaissance Festival? Crazy people sell ’em, I know. Where’s JT?”

  I was attempting to formulate how to explain the events of the last half-day, but Eddy’s comment about the Scotch eggs startled a laugh out of me. Something about the comment hit me as so inanely hilarious that I rolled from a gentle chuckle into a full-blown laughing fit in the space of a heartbeat. I gasped for breath.