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

by Jessie Chandler

  Coop held up the mug and studied it. There was a raised seal on one side, and it looked like it’d been thrown on a potter’s wheel. The vessels were hourglass shaped. He said, “These are great, Taffy. Are they from this year’s Renaissance?”

  “We go every year.”

  I snapped mental fingers. That’s where I’d seen the mugs. As JT and I threaded our way through what little we managed to see of the Festival before all hell broke loose, I’d seen a number of freestanding carts selling Ren Fest shirts and medieval-looking mugs in various shapes.

  Taffy settled back into her chair with a sigh. “Okay. I’m not going to go into too much detail, because half of this is JT’s story to tell. But maybe I can share enough to give you a sense of what drives her where Krasski is concerned.”

  I was pretty sure I was in the midst of having an out-of-body experience. The revelations about JT just kept rolling in, whether I wanted them to or not. I didn’t realize I’d begun to bounce my knee more and more frantically until Coop clamped a large hand on my leg to still it.

  Taffy said, “As kids, JT and I were close. Best friends, almost blood sisters if you count the bloody scrapes we pressed together. We lived two houses apart and went to the same school and St. Joe’s Catholic church.” The word church came out in a semi-snarl. “We were ornery little monsters. Got into plenty of dumb trouble. We pulled pranks, got ourselves into places and situations we shouldn’t have been in. Swiped dime-store stuff from Woolworth’s. That kind of thing.”

  Whoa. JT hardly ever talked about her past, and even more rarely about her childhood. The JT I knew was straight-laced. She tried to follow most of the rules most of the time. When she did let go, it was a real leap of faith on her part, and it didn’t happen often. It didn’t mean that JT was cold or distant, but she tended to carefully calculate the things she said and did. Doing something on a whim without a plan was a real challenge. It was hard to imagine my girlfriend being a normal, pain-in-the-ass kid.

  Taffy said, “One summer morning we were bored, hanging out up in our favorite climbing tree in JT’s backyard.” Taffy stared at the ceiling as she lost herself in memory. “I dared JT to sneak into the church vestry where the communion wine was stored and drink some. She refused unless I went along with her.” Taffy rolled her eyes. “As if I wouldn’t have. Anyway, the church was just a few blocks away. Evening mass wasn’t for hours. We hopped on our bikes and ditched them in the schoolyard next to the church. We made it in without anyone seeing. Man, to this day I still remember the stink of frankincense that filled that old building.” She shuddered.

  “So we made it into the vestry. JT had just pulled out an unopened bottle of wine from the wine rack when we realized we had no idea how to get the cork out. Before she could put it back, we heard Father Frank’s voice. We dove into a closet. If only we’d closed the door all the way.” Taffy shut her eyes, took a breath, and opened them again.

  “One of the choir boys was with Father Frank. We couldn’t hear exactly what he was saying, but he was scolding the poor kid. I remember JT grabbing the back of my shirt and pulling me away from the door so she could see better. I managed to press my face against the rough wood framing the door, right below hers. I wanted to see what was going on too.

  “So Father Frank was railing on the kid, and, well, one thing led to another, and this guy was just like the hordes of other priests who are finally being outed as sexual predators. JT burst out of that closet like a bee stung her in the ass. She had the bottle of wine in her hand and started bashing Father Frank with it. The kid took off. I remember her shouting at me to run.” Taffy put her hand on her chest. “I just stood there for a second and then bolted. I still feel guilty about that to this day.”

  I asked, my voice tinged with trepidation, “What happened to JT?”

  “Maybe five minutes later, she came streaking through the backyards and scampered up our tree.”

  Taffy paused and was silent so long I wondered if she were going to say any more. She heaved a heavy breath and continued. “JT swore me to secrecy about what we’d done and what we’d seen. She was absolutely terrified. She said Father Frank told her that if she breathed a word of any of it to anyone, hellfire and brimstone would be rained upon anyone and everyone she loved.” She scrubbed her face with her hands. “Who the hell tells a little kid something like that? I still get worked up when I think about it.”

  Coop asked, “Did he hurt JT?”

  Holy shit, I wanted to know that too. The Tenacious Protector stirred, and I bit the inside of my lip hard enough that I tasted blood. It was like waking up a sleeping beast. I managed to force the beast back in the bottle and concentrated on Taffy’s voice.

  “She never spoke about what exactly was said or what happened after I left. I’m pretty sure Father Frank threatened her, beyond the whole fire and brimstone thing. She never told me specifically what the bastard said except that he told her everyone that both she and I loved would go straight to hell if we so much as uttered a peep about what we saw that day.

  “At that age, after having the power of the church crammed down your throat for so long, you believe what they tell you. The incident changed us both. After that she became much more cautious. She refused to go back to church, no matter the punishment her parents inflicted. Believe me, they tried.”

  I said, “That sounds a whole lot more like the JT I know. The one who likes to plan everything, who has a tough time being spontaneous. I think it’s a control thing. She doesn’t want to break the rules, but she will if she thinks it’s for a greater good.”

  “Exactly.” Taffy slumped back. Retelling that story couldn’t have been easy. “She rallied for the underdog. For anyone she felt was being taken advantage of. I think that may be why she followed her grandfather into police work.”

  Coop slid me a sidelong glance. “Sounds a little like someone I know, minus the cop part.”

  Huh. I hadn’t ever thought in those terms about JT and me, but it was true.

  Taffy raised an eyebrow and then looked at Coop. “Another fighter for the good?”

  One corner of his mouth curled. “You could say that. So how did you handle what happened? Like JT?”

  “Heavens no. Pretty much the opposite. I acted out, rebelled. Flounced around in tube tops and mini skirts, even when my parents managed to drag me back to church. The term ‘wild child’ didn’t even begin to cover it. I started smoking pot, dropping acid, embraced my inner hippiness and took it to all new levels.” Her brow quirked. “But I guess the one good thing, if you can call it that, is that I wound up volunteering at CornerHouse. I’ve been there for the last fifteen years.”

  I asked, “What’s that?”

  “It’s a nonprofit started back in 1989 here in Minneapolis. Since then they’ve partnered with,” Taffy squinted her eyes in thought, “I’m pretty sure it’s four or five law enforcement agencies and a couple hospitals. Their vision is for all children to grow up in a world free from abuse. We’re pretty darn far away from that goal, but you can never, ever stop trying. In fact that’s where I met Sam, my main squeeze.”

  I smiled wryly. “At least something good came from the whole affair.”

  “Absolutely true.”

  Coop shifted and crossed his ankle over his knee. “So why did you wind up keeping this?” He pointed at the scrapbook.

  “JT and I kept in touch after high school. Our paths led different ways, but we’d meet for coffee or a movie every few months. When the Krasski thing went down, it brought so much back for me—for the both of us. I started keeping track of the newspaper coverage. Not sure why, exactly. JT was absolutely inconsolable after she lost it and ruined the case. But something struck me about that slimeball.”

  I said, “Must’ve been the class historian in you coming out.”

  Taffy glanced sharply at me. “How did you—”

  “Dimples r
emembers some stuff,” I said.

  “So,” Taffy said, “how about we all take a peek at this thing and see who might be a killing candidate?”

  For the next half-hour, we scanned clipped newsprint articles, website printouts, and notes that Taffy had made. I didn’t realize just how much press the fiasco and fallout had garnered. My stomach constricted as I read headlines like Minneapolis Cop Busts Up Own Bust. Poor JT.

  In the end I typed into my iPhone the names of four men who were linked to Krasski in various capacities. I wasn’t sure if any of the names had been on the list I’d photographed at the precinct, and I didn’t want to take time to check.

  We thanked Taffy for her time. As we climbed into the truck, Taffy’s husband, Sam, pulled up in the driveway in an ancient VW van. The rattletrap coughed up three kids, one of whom had a respectable Mohawk dyed bright orange. It reminded me of the red thing on top of Chelsea Chicken’s head. I wouldn’t put it past the Abernathys to encourage such individuality in their offspring. They were good people.

  nine

  Coop and I headed to JT’s place. Home. Damn, I really wanted to think of the place as ours, but it was hard. Maybe my issue was because I was such an independent person. Eddy and JT both would probably modify independent to stubborn or willful.

  Coop stayed outside on the porch for a smoke while I went in to grab chips, Top the Tater, and a couple of Cokes. Then I scooted up the stairs to my office to boot up my computer. Kate, Anna, and I had dubbed Coop “Blitz Man” one night not too long ago because of his uncanny ability to find information over the Internet, through both legit and questionable channels. If anyone outside the cop shop could find dirt on bad dudes, it would be Coop.

  As I neatened up the office space by removing paperwork and straightening file folders, I thought about what we learned from Taffy. If nothing else, that chat reinforced my gut feelings about JT. As unhappy as I might be with the fact that JT hadn’t confided in me about the Krasski thing or told me the asshole had taken a restraining order out on her, I got it. JT was a proud person. She didn’t want to show weakness. In her position, I understood that too. But the whole thing still stung.

  “Hey,” Coop called from downstairs, pulling me from my meandering musings. “You bring some grub?”

  “Chips and dip,” I yelled.

  A herd of elephants thundered up the steps, and Coop appeared in my doorway, slightly out of breath.

  “Dude, you really need to try and kick that habit again. Look at you, puffing from just a few stairs.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Out of my way, beyotch.” Coop snagged the bag of potato chips and stuffed his hand inside. He hip-checked me out of the way and dropped into my chair.

  “Wipe your fingers before you goo up my keyboard.” Sometimes Coop’s common sense switch needed a flip.

  “Hey,” Coop mumbled as he crunched a mouthful of chips. He swallowed and said more clearly, “Who’s the one who scored you this fab setup?”

  “Who’s the one who cost me three arms, two legs, and my right eye?”

  He grinned. “Why, that would be your best pal ever. Look at this sweet all-in-one computer with a bitchin’ twenty-two-inch screen. It’s a thing of beauty.”

  “Indeed.” I gave him a whack. “Get to work. With non-greasy fingers, please. We need to get my woman’s butt out of the clink. The sooner the better.”

  For the next hour and a half, Coop ran the names from the known associate’s list I had snapped at the cop shop as well as the ones we got from Taffy.

  Only a few names came back as still in circulation. Krasski definitely hung out with the wrong crowd. Of the eighteen or so mis-

  creants, two were dead, twelve were currently hanging out in jail or prison, and four were still on the streets.

  I hoped the logic that Eddy had come up with was solid—that it had to be someone who knew Krasski and harbored a grudge. For all we really knew, this search could be a wild goose chase that wouldn’t do one bit of good. But in the long run, what else could we do, aside from planning a jailbreak?

  “Okay,” Coop finally said, one bag of chips, three-quarters of a container of Top the Tater, and two Cokes later. “Here’s what we got.” He hit the print button.

  The printer creaked and groaned its way to life. While it warmed up, I asked, “So how’s Luz?”

  Coop lit up like a Christmas tree with LEDs. “She’s okay. I talked to her while I was in Duluth.”

  Luz Ortez had been the formidable ex-leader of what was probably the largest drug cartel in Mexico. We’d met her a few months back during the Baz the Spaz Incident. At the time, we were pretty sure she wanted us dead, and at one point I’d felt the cold steel of her gun pressed against my forehead.

  However, one thing led to another, and not only did she keep us much alive and kicking, she helped shut down one of the most notorious drug cartels in the world. She’d been involved in a long-running covert “black ops” operation that we were clueless about until everything was pretty much wrapped up. Which was probably a good thing, because if we’d had any idea what we were getting ourselves into, we’d have run home crying for mama.

  There’d been an instant attraction between Coop and Luz, and they’d managed to date, if you could call it that, in a long-distance sort of way. She’d flown Coop to Cabo for a weekend and to Puerto Vallarta for a few days too. I had no idea how it was going to work out for them, but Coop seemed happy enough at this point. Not that I wanted him to crash and burn, but the whole romance seemed way too far out of the realm of possibility. That kind of thing just didn’t happen. But then, a lot of odd things were happening around me lately that I couldn’t account for.

  “This is a bunch of scary-ass people. Here.” Coop handed me a sheaf of still-warm copy paper. He’d neatly synthesized and compiled a mug shot and the pertinent information for each potential suspect in plot points down the page. It couldn’t be argued, greasy fingers or not, that the man wasn’t efficient when he put his mind to it. If he weren’t so antiestablishment, he’d be in high demand by more than one law enforcement agency.

  I scanned the sheet on the top of the pile. “Hey, Coop, this bad boy looks like he eats skinny vegetarians for lunch.” Coop was a vegetarian, and he was plenty bony. Poor guy. One of these days he was going to kill me.

  “I’m happily ignoring you,” he said as he held up the now empty bag of chips. “This vegetarian is still hungry.”

  “Let’s take these downstairs. You can spread everything out on the dining room table and I’ll whip you up something.”

  “Yeah, another one of your fabulous peanut butter and Nutella sandwiches?” He smiled and batted his eyelashes.

  “Stop smirking, veggie boy. You know what they say about beggars.”

  We assembled in the dining room, and I laid out the papers across the oak surface.

  “Going out for a minute,” Coop called as he headed toward the patio door.

  The sliding door swooshed open and banged shut a second later.

  I turned my attention to the sheets on the tabletop and picked up the paper on top. The name in the header was Shawn Geller, and according to Coop’s research, he’d been incarcerated in the St. Cloud prison and then been transferred to Stillwater before he was released. He’d been convicted of varying drug-related charges, attempted human trafficking, and other equally sleazy infractions. His picture reflected a hulking man with thinning hair who looked like he was constipated or about to throw up. I assumed getting booked might do that to a person. Geller had been sprung not long ago, and the sheet listed his last known address as a motel in St. Paul.

  Possible suspect number two was a mean-looking guy named Mike Handler. He smiled at the camera in such a way that it looked like he wanted to burst off the paper and strangle someone. He’d been busted and incarcerated for sexual battery, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. What a disgusting p
iece of work. He’d been a known associate of both Geller and Krasski. He’d been out of the big house for the last six months and was reported to be living in a halfway house in Minneapolis.

  Carlos Montega was known as a cat burglar as well as a minor soldier in a lesser-known drug cartel based near Monterrey, Mexico. That was interesting. Maybe Luz would know something about that. He was tall and thin, with a wiry build similar to Coop’s. He was suspected of helping move Mexican kids across the border into the US for the purpose of human trafficking. However, no case strong enough to do any good had been made against him thus far. His last known location was an address in the suburb of Shoreview.

  The last possibility we had was a bald-headed Asian man of epic proportions staring at the camera so intently it felt like he was looking directly into my soul. With effort I pulled my eyes away and focused on the description of his bad deeds. His name was Jin Pho, and he was one mean SOB. From the age of sixteen he’d been in and out of the slammer on charges that started tame enough—grand theft auto—and had moved into more serious, harder core crimes. Drugs, assault both with and without weapons, attempted rape, and numerous other charges filled the page. The address Coop found for him was somewhere in Anoka.

  I dropped the sheet back on the table and headed into the kitchen to whip up some sandwiches. I’d just dipped the knife in the Skippy jar when my cell rang. The number was blocked. I didn’t usually bother answering those kinds of calls, but these were no ordinary circumstances. I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder and continued my slathering. “Hello?”

  “Shay, glad I caught you. You free?”

  Tyrell. My heart rate sped up. Good thing I answered. “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I pulled some strings. If you can hustle your butt down to the Scott County jail by six thirty, you can see JT. Can’t guarantee for how long, but you can at least verify that she’s in one piece.”