Between Coop and Rocky, Officer C. Chevalier would be well entertained until I returned. With luck, the distraction would make it much less likely that she’d call anyone else to let them know I was on the way up.
I took the stairs two at a time and burst into the squad room. Praise be, the place was devoid of life. I scuttled over to Tyrell’s desk, and sure enough, still laying on top of his mess was Krasski’s file. With a quick inhale, stale coffee, old building, and fear of getting caught played over my senses. My hand hovered over the manila folder, and I again darted glances all around. The room was still as empty as it had been a moment before.
I was tempted to grab the entire file and run but quickly reconsidered. My lungs froze as I flipped the cover open. Paper-clipped to the inside was a mug shot of the same man I found in the privy—minus the pickle protruding from his mouth and with his entire skull intact, of course. I tore my eyes away from the photo and focused on the rest of the papers that were stacked none-too-neatly within.
The first pages were police reports. I rapidly scanned through them but didn’t see what I was looking for. I really wanted to find a note titled KRASSKI ENEMIES. Or, to make it even clearer, something with a nice, neat rundown of who wanted Krasski dead. Fat chance of that.
The next few pages were newspaper clippings starring the bad boy himself. He’d been hairline deep in a number of nefarious criminal activities. Started his criminal career when he was in elementary school and got nailed hotwiring the principal’s car. Damn. He must have had terrible influences growing up.
My heart hammered so hard I had to stop every couple of seconds and make sure I didn’t miss the sound of someone coming through one of the numerous doors that led into the room. I hauled in a frazzled breath and again refocused on the file. I quickly flipped through a copy of the restraining order Krasski had taken out against JT. I still couldn’t believe that he’d managed to secure a restraining order, or that she’d never told me. When I got mad enough, it was an out-of-body experience. Like watching a movie that starred me through the red haze of anger and panic. JT should have known I’d be on her side against this monster, that I would understand.
Frustration made me want to growl or cry. Maybe both. That line of thought wasn’t going to do a damn bit of good, so I shoved it away and kept sorting through the file.
My ears were pricked for the slightest sound of returning cop, and the muscles in my legs and back were so tense they trembled. There were only a few more items in the folder, and I was pretty damn certain this dumbass plan was hatched for nothing. I scanned yet another report that meant nothing to me. As I flipped the page, I spied a tattered sheet of paper torn from a spiral-bound notebook.
I again scanned the room, then refocused on the creased page. I recognized JT’s handwriting. In neat, precise block letters she’d printed KNOWN KRASSKI ASSOCIATES. Below it she’d made a list of names in a column. After a few of the names, she’d made notes about where they lived and their status. Three of them had lines drawn through them, and I wondered if that meant they were locked up or dead.
Then a terrible, yet sickly amusing thought hit me. What if the people who’d been crossed out had been murdered? Maybe JT was pulling a Dexter and killing off the baddies in a misguided attempt at justice. Maybe she was a serial killer killer. I almost snorted in demented laughter. I considered cramming the sheet in my pocket and hightailing my ass right out of there.
The sound of two voices filtered in from the door that led to the kitchen, where Tyrell had gotten me coffee last night. I froze, one arm outstretched as I reached for a pen to use to jot down the names.
Holy shit.
The voices were closer now, right on the other side of one of the thresholds. I didn’t recognize either of the gruff tones.
One guy said, “If I drink one more cup of this shitty sludge, I’ll have to go to HCMC and have my stomach pumped.”
A man with a deep, growly voice said, “It’d help if the last one out at night would shut off the coffee maker.” The whirring sound of a microwave revved up. “That’s why I stick with tea. Can’t go wrong. Have you tried Flowery Orange Pekoe? It’s fruity, delicate to the palate. You can try mine in forty-five seconds.” Interesting words coming from a guy who sounded like James Earl Jones.
“Fruity? Palate? What the fuck. Are you kidding me? You know I don’t drink tea, Gibbs. Jesus.”
“You should try it. Calms the nerves.”
“Some goddamned decent coffee would do the same thing.”
Forty-five seconds. By now, probably thirty. I needed to get my ass out of there and not become mesmerized by crazy cop convo. But damn, I really wanted that list.
Then the light bulb burst over my head as bright as fireworks after a show at the State Fair. My phone. I prayed that they’d hang out in the kitchen while Gibbs’s tea finished brewing.
I whipped my phone from my pocket, clicked the home button, slid a shaking thumb across the bottom of the screen. Waited forever for the fricking thing to load. That’d teach me to upgrade when I had the chance. The camera on the newest version of the iPhone was supposed to open in no time flat. Guess that’s what I got for being thrifty.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I chanted under my breath. I was so tense I thought I might shatter into thousands of guilty little pieces.
Finally the list of names came into focus. I tried to keep an eye on the door to the kitchen and blindly snapped two pictures of the names. The two cops were still yapping at each other. In a separate space in my mind, I wondered if they were street partners. If they were, it sounded like there’d be plenty of daily verbal fisticuffs.
I slapped the file closed and dumped it back on the desk. I’d taken two steps toward the stairs and freedom when Gibbs said, “Hey there, little lady. Something we can help you with?”
Uh oh. I froze, then pivoted on the balls of my feet to face them. My knees were literally shaking. I tried out a sickly smile. “I forgot my wallet on Tyrell’s desk last night.” I fished it from my pants and held it up. “Got it.”
A thin, broad-shouldered man said, “Yeah, I remember you. I was here for-fucking-ever typing up that goddamn report.”
Gibbs, who looked about ten-foot-seven, rumbled, “Too bad you lost the coin toss, Zappo. So it was you who left the coffee on all night.”
That set them off again. I gave them a wave and hustled for the stairs.
“Admit it, Zap. It’s better to come clean.”
“Hey, Johnson was up here last night. He drinks coffee too—” his voice was cut off as the door shut with a snick behind me.
I rattled down the dingy green stairwell as fast as my legs could go and burst into the lobby with enough force that the door slammed against the wall. The racket startled Hoodie Boy, and he jolted from his insolent slouch and sat up straight.
Coop and Rocky, who were still at the window talking to Chandra, spun around at the clatter.
My wallet was still in my hand. I held it up to show Chandra. “Got it.”
Her voice sounded even tinnier at this distance. “Oh good. That’s a relief. Hope you make it in time.” This was accompanied with an exaggerated, knowing wink. “Coop and Rocky, it was so nice to meet you.”
Rocky turned back to face her. “Officer Chandra Chevalier, it was very nice making your acquaintance as well. Don’t forget that the FBI says that in 2010, fifty-six law enforcement officers were killed in the line of duty, and thirteen of those killed were part of a city with at least two hundred fifty thousand residents.” He turned on his heel and bounced toward me.
Officer Chevalier was still smiling, so that was a good sign. She gave us a wave and walked away from the window.
Coop brushed past me. “Come on, Shay, what you waiting for?”
Rocky zoomed along after him, and I fell in step with the little man. I said, “You did a great job, Rocky. Thank you.�
�
“It was no problem, Shay O’Hanlon. Officer Chandra Chevalier is a very nice lady.”
“Yes, Rocky. Yes, she is.”
As soon as we cleared the doorway, we hoofed back to the truck. Eddy had the engine running, and we dove in.
Before we’d slammed the doors, Eddy shifted into gear and pulled out of the lot at a surprisingly sedate pace. That was rather impressive since she wasn’t known for driving anywhere close to what could
be considered sedate. The farther away from the cop show we got, the more her natural driving habits returned.
Once I managed to get buckled in and righted myself from a sharp left Eddy made onto Lake Street, I tossed my phone at Coop.
He caught it. “Find anything?”
Eddy slammed on the brakes and squealed to a stop at a light that switched from yellow to red. The shoulder strap of the seat belt locked down as my upper body jerked against it, and I put both hands on the dash for balance.
“Uh,” I grunted.
“Sorry,” Eddy said.
Over my shoulder I told Coop, “I took a picture. Just in the nick of freaking time, too. Two cops fighting about the coffee almost busted me knee deep in Krasski’s file.”
The cab was silent as Coop scoped out my photo.
After a minute he said, “I can read all the names on it if I zoom in.”
“Nick Coop,” Rocky said, “What are you looking at?”
Coop said, “Shay took a picture of the names of some bad people.”
I prayed we weren’t going to enter the “why?” conversation maze.
In the visor mirror I watched Rocky settle back against the seat. He said, “You should use Google to do your search. It gives you results in one-third to one-half a second. That’s faster than I can blink. Faster than even you can blink, Shay O’Hanlon.”
I laughed. “I see you’ve moved on from Facebook, Rocky.”
“Oh,” he said. “No. Never. I can never, ever leave Facebook. I love Facebook. I love Tulip on Facebook. Soon,” he rubbed his hands together gleefully, “I will have enough money to go and visit my Tulip.”
Rocky’s round face beamed in the reflection of the mirror. Oh man.
Coop said, “As soon as I get home, which with any luck will be in just a couple of hours, I’ll start checking on these guys. I’ll just send this … ” he poked the buttons on my phone, “to my email.” Technology was an amazing thing. The things Coop did with that technology was scary. His skills probably put him on a covert government watch list.
“Thanks.” I cut a glance back at Coop. He caught my eyes, and in their depths I could see compassion and affection. We’d been friends almost as long as I could remember. If I’d liked boys, I’d have hauled his butt to the justice of the peace and made an honest man out of him long ago. Coop was one of the kindest people I’d ever known. He was usually honest, gentle, and stood up for what he believed in. With the newfound confidence born of not one but two dangerous situations in the last year, he could kick some serious ass. In my heart of hearts, I knew he’d do anything for me, and the feeling was mutual.
Eddy signaled and made a squealing right onto Lyndale. “Nicholas, I’ll drop you and Rocky off to continue your deliveries. Shay, we’ll hash things out over a nice hot chocolate.”
Soon enough we’d dropped off the two phone book delivery boys and were zooming toward the Hole. Eddy pulled around to the alley and parked in front of the garage. As usual, I was ready to spring from whatever vehicle Eddy piloted and drop to my knees in thanks that we made it to our destination alive. She was a demon who usually went from zero to sixty and back to zero in the space of a block. Just because Eddy was driving my truck didn’t mean this ride was any different, and my legs trembled in a mix of adrenaline and fear as I stum-
bled from the cab.
I propped my hands on the side panel of the pickup bed and dropped my head between my arms.
Eddy jumped to the ground and slammed the driver’s door shut. “You all right there, child?”
“Yeah. I just need to think for a minute. Go on in.”
“There’ll be a cup of something good for what ails you waiting. Take your time.”
Eddy knew me well enough to know when I simply needed space or when I needed something more, like a swift boot in the seat of my pants. As usual, she’d read me right on.
I stood quietly as Eddy strolled toward the back door of her place, letting my body acclimate to solid ground. The insanity of the last day roared through my head.
This craziness belonged on a half-assed television show, a sit-com, maybe. Not in my life.
Again.
I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Eddy was right. Since I couldn’t get the dirt straight from JT’s mouth, I was going to have to do it the hard way. Talk to those who knew JT best and see if I might be able to unravel why this part of her life had been so deeply hidden. I knew what shame could do to a person. It was an emotion I knew JT would wear deep under her skin, where no one would see it. She could be a damn stubborn, mule-headed woman. Maybe that’s why we got along so well; her stubbornness gave my orneriness a run for its money.
So who exactly could I talk to? JT had a brother, but he was last known to be living in the mangroves of Key West. I had no idea how to go about getting a hold of him. After retiring, her parents had travelled the US and abroad and had finally settled in Seattle. I’d never met them, and to my knowledge, they hadn’t come to the Cities since JT and I’d been together. The few aunts and uncles she had still above ground were scattered across the states.
There was one living grandparent in the metro, and he was cooling his jets at the Shady Grove Nursing Home in St. Paul. He’d been a Minneapolis cop, and JT idolized him. She had followed in his footsteps, much to the chagrin of her parents, who wanted her to go into something a little less dangerous and a lot more profitable. They’d always expected her to take up a career that would line her pockets in the shortest possible time. They wanted her to be a personal injury attorney, insurance broker, or maybe a financial advisor who could place their well-hoarded finances in long-term growth stocks and mutual funds. Instead, JT flipped them the figurative bird, went the blue-collar route, and played rough with the rabble.
JT said her grandfather was the only one—aside from her dead aunt—who seemed to be delighted with her career path. Sadly, his mental capacities had declined at an alarming rate in the last few years. Now, from what I could glean from JT, he was in a moderately severe stage of memory loss. JT didn’t talk much about it. I’d dropped her off at the nursing home before, but she never wanted me to go in with her. I respected that and found myself a joint close by called Izzy’s Ice Cream to hang at while they visited.
Maybe now was the time to introduce myself to JT’s grandfather. There was a chance the old man could give me some insight into the damaged, painful parts of JT’s psyche. What were the odds he knew what really happened? That he might know truths that were never put into the police reports or in the restraining order? It was worth a shot, and at this point I didn’t have many other options. Better than sitting around doing nothing.
That decided, I stood up straight and did a neck roll. My entire body felt stiff, most likely the result of the cops who’d piled on top of me yesterday at the Renaissance Fair. I was going to send them the bill for the chiropractor visit I was pretty sure was in my near future.
I headed into the house, passing by the still-gargantuan stack of phone books waiting to be delivered to disinterested homeowners. Who used phone books anymore anyway? Those boys better hope it didn’t rain, or that was going to be one huge pile of soggy newsprint.
The screen door squealed as I pulled it open and stepped inside, then banged against the door frame behind me. The kitchen was empty, but a steaming NYPD mug sat on the tabletop. I picked the mug up and brought it to my nose. The heavy, mouthwatering ar
oma of chocolate and booze tickled my nose. I took a careful sip and sighed as warmth spread down my sternum and fanned out into my chest. It was good stuff.
Another scent registered in my nose: cigar smoke. I followed the odiferous trail into the living room. Three Mad Knitters sat at a rickety card table in the middle of the room. I recognized two of them.
Noxious smoke curled from stogies clenched between two of
the Knitters’ dentures. Somewhere along the line Eddy had moved the group from playing their various games at the kitchen table to the card table in front of the TV so she could watch her crime shows. Crazy woman.
Eddy was just coming through one of the French doors that separated the Hole from her living room, and she kicked the door shut with her foot. She was carrying a to-go container with three hot beverages in one hand and a platter of coffee cake in another. She saw me and said, “There you are, child.”
“Here I am,” I faintly echoed as my nose wrinkled involuntarily at the pungent cigar smoke. Eddy liked teasing me that one day maybe the Knitters would score some pot and haul out the bong. I could just see them toking up like Dolly Parton and crew in 9 to 5. Hilarious.
“Hey ladies.” I gave them a wave that was more about clearing the air than saying hello. I nodded to Agnes, a string-bean-thin gal with bluish-white hair. She was the family friend involved in the New Orleans stuffed-snake incident.
“Hello, Shay,” Agnes said in a gravelly voice. “Have you met the newest member of our troupe?”
“Nope, I don’t think so.” I carefully took a sip of my hot chocolate.
Willie, one of the longest-standing members, said, “Whee! It’s wonderful to have fresh blood. Isn’t it, girls?” Willie was about two-foot-three and was as round as she was tall. Her enthusiasm for life was expressed by uttering “whee” at least once during each conversation. She should’ve been the one to do the voiceover for Maxwell the Geico pig in the insurance ads on TV. It wasn’t surprising she and Rocky got along really well.
Agnes pointed at the only person in the room I didn’t know, a petite woman with short, brown hair who was sitting quietly, observing. “Molly Panzer. Get it?” Agnes elbowed Molly, who grunted once.
Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder Page 7