Both Bogey and Dawg were still conked out at the foot of the bed when I was dressed for the day. They didn’t stir as I passed by.
I descended the stairs slowly, feeling the effects of being tackled by two lawmen. I sure wasn’t getting any younger. I stopped in front of the patio door and hollered, “Who wants to go out?”
For a count of three, silence greeted my words.
Then there were a couple of thumps overhead. The sound of nails scrabbled against the hardwood floor in the upstairs hall. Then the dogs banged down the stairs, bounded around the corner, and raced toward me. If I didn’t know them better, I’d have been afraid that two nearly hundred-pound canines would send me head over keister and crashing right through the sliding glass door.
But even though Bogey had a hard time controlling his snoot and Dawg enjoyed bouncing on anyone he loved, they both managed to screech to a halt just before plowing me over. Their muscles quivered in anticipation of the great outdoors, misty or not.
I slid the patio door open and they nearly tripped over each other as they burst outside. I followed them to the edge of the covered porch and leaned against one of the two carved pillars that framed the short set of stairs leading to ground level.
It was damp and chilly. I hugged myself and watched the pooches chase each other around the yard. They charged around the corner and out of sight down the run beside the house and then zoomed back again. After some vigorous snuffling and taking care of biz, they returned to careening around the now mostly brown lawn, carefree and exuberant.
Carefree and exuberant I was not. I was a study in contrasts, on edge and raw. Panic bubbled within me, in turns manageable, and then unbearable. The thought of JT locked away, probably terrified, conflicted with my darker contemplation of her tangled web of secrets. The crappy night of sleep wasn’t helping any.
I squeezed the back of my neck and blew out a long breath. I had to do something. Eddy often liked to tell me when I was younger that action was always better than contemplation. As usual, she was right.
With the dogs romping contentedly, I headed back inside to fill their dishes and pour myself a bowl of Lucky Charms. Maybe some of that little leprechaun’s luck would rub off.
I slumped into a dining room chair and chowed my breakfast. Once I washed down the last bite with a glass of orange juice, I dialed Tyrell’s cell. Hopefully he’d have good news for me.
On the fourth ring, he picked up. “Johnson.” His voice was hoarse and thick.
Oops. “Ty, it’s Shay. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
I heard rustling and a couple of soft grunts as, in my mind’s eye, he probably struggled to sit up. “No problem. You okay?”
“Hanging in there. Mostly. Did you hear anything more last night?”
“No. I tried. The Scott County Sheriff’s Department is pretty much locked down when it comes to anything related to JT’s arrest. Not sure why they’re being such dickheads.”
“It’s got to have something to do with that Clint Roberts, the detective who arrested JT. I’ve never seen her so hostile with another cop before.”
“Dunno, maybe he is the stumbling block. I’ll try again and see if he’ll play. Why the hell would JT have a beef with the guy, though, is what I don’t get. She gets along with everyone.” He sounded almost envious.
Did Tyrell let himself entertain the damning yet impossible notion that JT might actually have pulled the trigger? I had to admit that the circumstances did look terrible—considering the pickle chunks and juice splattered on her shirt, combined with the amount of time she’d been MIA. But I just couldn’t see her doing the deed. However, I knew better than most that even good people can be pushed into doing things they typically would never consider. I prayed this wasn’t one of those cases.
Eddy’s file peeping suggestion nagged at the back of my mind, and no matter how I tried to tune the thought out, it kept popping up and waving at me. She was right again. If Krasski was really as reprehensible as it appeared, the man would have enemies galore. Knowing how thorough both JT and Tyrell were, there was sure to be a list of potential killers in that file.
“Shay, you still there?”
I pulled myself back to the conversation I was supposed to be having. Might as well ask. “So, in that file you have on Krasski … ”
“Yeah?”
“Are there others who might want this piece of horse hooey dead?”
Tyrell was silent so long I could practically see his wheels turning as he tried to figure out where I was going with this.
Finally, he said, “Oh, hell yes. The man doesn’t have many friends, especially after a bunch of his pals wound up in prison after the botched bust and he didn’t. I’ll do everything I can to get a hold of
the detective on the case and make sure he has the full picture.”
“You know I appreciate it. Do you think they’ll let me see her?”
“Don’t know. I’ll see if there’s any strings I can pull. I’ll let you know when I hear something.”
“You going into the station today?”
“Nope, I’ve got to head back under for the next couple. Have a rash of homeless beatings I’m working. But I promise I’ll call and let you know as soon as I hear anything. And Shay?”
“Yeah?”
“Stay out of trouble, okay?”
Five
I paced around the house like a lion stalking the fence around his enclosure. The next logical step was to follow Eddy’s advice: figure out who offed Russell Krasski and get my girlfriend back home where she belonged.
Tyrell wasn’t going to be at the station today, so this was the perfect time to take a crack at having an unauthorized look-see in Krasski’s file. I hoped it was still on the desk where Tyrell left it. The big question was how was I going to manage to weasel my way into the heart of the cop shop. No police officer was about to allow me access and then hand over confidential files so I could figure out where to start my search for vigilante justice. If I really was going to attempt this insane scheme, that was the sticking point.
Maybe I could claim I forgot something at Tyrell’s desk when I talked to him last night? He wouldn’t be there to contradict my story, and it was Sunday, so maybe the place would be empty. Now that would be dreaming.
A plan started to congeal in my thick head, and, as harebrained as this course of action was, it made me feel better to have some kind of goal.
Action is better than contemplation. Remember that, Shay. However, before I ran off on this wild pheasant hunt, I needed to do one more thing.
I looked up and dialed the number to Scott County jail.
After a fifteen-minute runaround, the person in charge of visitation finally came on the line. I launched into my spiel one more time.
“I want to find out if I could visit someone being held at your facility. JT Bordeaux.”
“One minute.” The dude sounded as if I’d woken him from a Rip Van Winkle nap. Or he was busy smoking Marlboro’s instead of working a jail. He put me on hold and one minute turned into five. Hold music would’ve actually been nice. I leaned against the arm of the recliner in the living room with my feet crossed at the ankles. My top foot was shaking back and forth so hard I nearly lost my balance. Nervous energy at work. I stood up, putting my foot to work instead, and paced some more. At the eight-minute mark a loud beep sounded in my ear, and he was back.
“Yuh, Bordeaux’s here.”
No shit, Sherlock. “Can I see her?”
“No, ma’am. No visitors.”
“Why not?”
“Security risk, ma’am.”
This guy was a man of few words and those few words were pissing me off.
“How is she a security risk? She’s a cop, for Pete’s sake.”
“Orders, ma’am.”
“From who?”
P
apers rustled. “Detective Roberts, ma’am.”
I was right. “Can I at least talk to her?”
“No, ma’am.”
I swore to god if he called me ma’am one more time I was going to reach through the receiver and pull his tongue out.
“Can you tell me when I might be able to either speak with her or physically see her?” It was a monumental task not to sound too sarcastic.
“Court’s open tomorrow. Maybe then. Maybe not.”
“Okay. Thanks ever so much.” This time the sarcasm came through loud and clear.
I hung up and moaned in frustration. I’d run out of options; it was time for action.
I procured a parking space close to the café on 24th just off Hennepin. The dogs and I piled out of the truck and they trotted ahead of me on their retractable leashes. Bogey’s tail whipped the air, and Dawg’s butt wiggled in thrilled excitement. There was never a lack of petting hands and treats inside, and they knew it.
The bells above the front door jingled merrily as I swung it open. The rumble of caffeinated chatter filled the space with a comfortable “you’re home now” buzz, and the scent of cinnamon mixed with the pungent smell of brewed coffee made my mouth water.
It was a typical Sunday morning at the Hole.
I unleashed the hounds and Dawg headed toward the counter, stopping along the way to greet customers who’d become friends and try to make new ones. I was still waiting to be busted by the city for allowing four-legged critters in my establishment. Our standing story was that Bogey and Dawg were service dogs, although we weren’t exactly sure what service they might provide. No one had turned us in yet, so we hadn’t had a chance to try out our story. Thank goodness; Dawg loved people, and I’d hate to keep him away from his fans. He was all about, “Hey, I’m a good pal. Can I be your pal, huh, huh? Can I? Please? Huh? Huh?” Wag, wag. “You look lonely. Just pet me and you’ll be happy. You’ll feel even happier if you rub my tummy!” Wag wag.
Attention hog.
Bogey was Dawg’s opposite. He would wait with a sour, put-upon expression for someone to reach out to him. He was happiest either crotch-sniffing on his own terms or snoozing in front of the fireplace. That pooch was just plain strange. I had to say, though, that he did remarkably well not inhaling our customer’s nether regions while he was in the Rabbit Hole. Maybe he was afraid we’d toss him out on his delicate schnoz. He was actually worse when he was on the leash, out of his comfort zone. I guess snorting crotches was his form of Valium. Maybe he needed a canine psychiatrist.
The Rabbit Hole wasn’t too big, and it wasn’t too small. The walls were painted in a swirling vortex of cozy colors. The shades fit the fall season nicely and reflected the warmth Kate and I wanted to extend to our customers.
Most of the three-foot-round French café tables were occupied with the pre-church or just-waking-up crowd. Even the two groups of overstuffed chairs that flanked a gigantic stone fireplace were filled with lounging caffeine and tea junkies.
Doyle Malloy, my first—and last—high school boytoy, sat at one of the tables with his girlfriend, Amanda.
Even before high school, I knew I was different from most girls. They wanted to play dress up, and I wanted to play war. They loved frilly things, and I loved my mud-encrusted adventure clothes. By the time I hit high school, I realized I didn’t mind the frilly things on someone else. That someone else just didn’t happen to be Doyle, although for all I knew, maybe he liked to wear frilly things too.
Regardless, I’d wanted to make sure I gave the male species every opportunity to prove my same-sex instincts wrong. Doyle and I had only been seeing each other for a few short weeks when he—unfortunately—walked into the school’s band storage room during the annual Queen of Hearts dance at a very inopportune moment. I’d fallen off the testosterone wagon and was busy defrilling—although not yet defiling—a sizzling-hot cheerleader. Oops.
Now Doyle was an ex-Minneapolis PD Homicide detective. The ding dong had resorted to hiring a private dick to help him solve his cases. When the MPD realized this, they canned his ass. Turned out the private eye he employed was an ex–Scotland Yard inspector, and now he and Doyle were running their own show out of an old dentist’s office in Minneapolis.
“Hey, Big D!” I stopped at their table and slapped his arm. I added, “Hey, Amanda.”
Amanda raised her coffee cup at me in greeting.
Doyle said with a big fat smirk, “If it isn’t the turncoat in the flesh.” He claimed to still resent the fact I’d swapped teams during our doomed romance, and he brought it up at least once in each conversation. Deep down I thought he was kind of proud of himself for thinking he was the reason I “became” a lesbian. He had trouble grasping the whole “it’s biological” concept, but only because he was a numbskull, not because he was at the anti-gay end of the spectrum.
The one great thing Doyle was always reliable for was cop gossip, even if he wasn’t a cop anymore, and I was pretty sure Amanda was now working for the St. Paul police department. Maybe one of them had heard something about JT. The trick was in getting Doyle to share his (usually ill-gotten) information without giving him too much in return. His penchant for gossip ran both ways.
I ruffled his hair affectionately and smiled at Amanda. “So what’re you two doing slumming it in Uptown? I thought you were St. Paulie folk now.”
Doyle took a noisy slurp of his coffee and waved the cup at me, sloshing tan liquid down the front of his light-blue shirt. Somehow he managed to wear a bit of everything he consumed. He brushed ineffectively at his front and said, “It’s the battery acid you make. It goes down slicker than a hooker in the shower.”
I cast an all-too-knowing glance Amanda’s way at the disgusting yet complimentary comment. She shrugged, her expression of semi-horror mirroring my own. God only knew where Doyle came up with his array of inappropriate editorials.
“So,” I said, pointedly refraining from commenting on hookers and showers, “you two heard anything through the grapevine lately?”
Doyle leaned toward me.
I leaned toward him.
He whispered loudly, “I got laid this morning.”
This time it wasn’t me who whacked him.
Amanda cut her eyes at the man. “I think when he woke up this morning, his brain remained deeply embedded in dreamland.” Then she focused on me. “Other than a couple of gang-related incidents in the last few days, everything’s been quiet.”
I asked, “No rumblings from the burbs?”
Doyle said, “The burbs? You’re kidding, right?” For him, if it didn’t happen in Minneapolis or St. Paul, it may as well have happened in the North Pole.
Amanda said, “Nothing more than the usual stuff. Why?”
Bite your lip, Shay. “Oh, no reason. I—”
“Shay!” Kate’s sister Anna called across the café.
Oh, thank you, lord of the crappy liars. I slammed my jaw shut, looked up, and called out, “Be right there.”
I bid the duo a friendly adieu and skedaddled over to where Anna stood behind the pastry case. She said, “Thought you might want the last cinnamon roll.” We’d recently hired the kid on as extra help, and she was rocking it, as evidenced by quickly learning my favorite edibles and drinkables.
“Hot damn, you bet I do,” I said with extra enthusiasm. Saved by my sweet tooth.
“I’ll whip you up a coffee, too.” Anna went to work prepping my little bits of heaven. Unlike her sister—who was petite and willowy, with an ethereal build and spiked, multi-colored hair—Anna was almost as tall as Coop’s six-four. Plus she was ripped, not scarecrow thin like Kate. She could probably do a chin-up with one hand. The young woman had broad shoulders, curly blond hair that hung to the middle of her back when not tied back, and twelve-pack abs. She would’ve been right at home with Xena and the Amazons. Anna was a third-year mechanical engi
neering student at the U of M, and one of the highly unusual brainiacs who also possessed a healthy dose of common sense. She was similar to Kate in her ability to anticipate the wants and needs of her customers, me included. I adored her.
Kate was behind the cash register finishing up with a customer. She was a dear friend and fantastic business partner. We’d done college together and, after parting ways for a few years, we reconnected and opened the Rabbit Hole. Neither one of us was particularly good at following established, expected paths. The café suited us both.
Today, green hair sprouted from Kate’s head like spring grass on a misshapen bowling ball.
“Nice hair,” I said.
“Thanks. I was going to do Rock Star Red, but I want to hold onto summer a little longer.” Kate’s short locks sported varying shades of every color under the sun. I wasn’t sure what her true hair color actually was anymore.
“Nice.”
“What brings you in this early?”
I wasn’t typically a morning person, although being in this line of business meant I saw plenty of sunrises. However, on my off days, it was rare to see me in before noon, if I showed up at all.
“I’m dropping Mopey and Dopey off for visitation.”
Kate’s gaze settled on Dawg as he wandered from one customer to another. “Okay. Dopey’s working the crowd. Where’s Mopey?”
We both glanced around, and then Kate pointed. I followed the direction her finger indicated. Bogey was flopped upside down on the rug in front of the fireplace, eyes shut, huge lips splayed out on either side of his head. A toddler was snuggled up beside him.
I leaned a hip against the counter and grumbled, “He’s doing what I only wish I could be doing.”
“Aren’t you Little Miss Freaking Sunshine.” She tilted her head and studied my face. “You look stressed. How’d you like the Renaissance? Late night?”
Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder Page 5