Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder (11 page)

I turned my head and kissed her palm, then met her eyes. They had dissolved from hardass granite into the pools of rich mocha that I loved. It was then my breath hitched and I caught her lips in a fast, searing kiss. It reaffirmed our reality, our love. Us. No more second-guessing my decisions.

Then I pulled away, locking my fingers at the nape of her neck. I inhaled in one big gulp. Fought for control. “Talk. We don’t have much time.”

“I know.” JT caught my gaze once again. “I did
not
kill Krasski.”

“I know you didn’t.” I did truly believe that. “But why—”

“Why did I not tell you about him?” JT finished for me and sighed.

I raised my eyebrows expectantly. “Well, yeah.”

JT’s arms dropped, and she hugged herself as she backed away. The loss of her physical presence was palpable. Bright orange was so not her color.

She stared first at the ceiling, then at the door, then finally back to me. “It’s a long story. I let my emotions get the better of me, and well, I don’t want to get into it here.”

“Babe.” I took a step toward her. “I know what happened with Taffy at that church when you were a kid. Well, I know Taffy’s version, anyway.”

JT visibly paled, and I quickly moved beside her in case she
decided to pitch headlong to the floor. I pulled her toward the table, turned her around, and urged her to slide onto the hard surface. She did so without argument. I stood between her knees, one hand on the side of her neck, the other resting on her shoulder. I had no idea what to do with my usually rugged, savvy, street smart cop.

“Hey,” I said softly, tugging her chin up. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I should’ve explained. Way back when, when I realized you had absolutely no idea about any of that mess, I just—I just couldn’t bear to see your inevitable disappointment.”

“I think if you see disappointment in anyone, it’s just a reflection of your perception.” I gave her a gentle shake. “I, for one, would’ve done the same damn thing.” I paused a beat. “And you know it.”

JT let out a ragged breath. “I do know,” she said wearily. “My head knows that, but apparently the Catholic guilt the nuns beat into us didn’t.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You’re sure you really didn’t off Krasski and shove my pickle down his throat, right?”

That finally garnered a ghost of a grin.

I said, “I have to ask. Why on earth did you have pickle chunks and pickle stains all over your shirt?” I leaned toward her and sniffed. “I could smell it.”

“Oh God,” JT barked a harsh laugh. “That’s Robert’s smoking gun. He’s so damn sure he has me dead to rights. Asshole. Anyway, I found a different pickle slinger, and he was busy doing a Gallagher with his pickles instead of with watermelons. With a big ass wood sledgehammer. I have to admit the pickles splattered quite impressively and I was standing a bit too close. I got sucked in watching his shtick and lost track of time.”

“So you managed to get me my ‘big, hard specimen’?”

“I did. Looked like a good one too, if you’re into that kind of thing.” Her mouth puckered in memory.

“What happened to it?”

“I lost it when I had to do hand-to-hand combat to get through those Ren Fest security people. They meant business.”

Time was ticking. As much as I just wanted to stand there holding JT, I needed to get us back on track. “Have you heard anything about a lawyer?”

Any humor in JT’s voice disappeared, her tone hardened. “No. I’ve got two problems. One, it’s the freaking weekend, and two, Clint Roberts. I swear that man—”

The door burst open, and in strode “that man” himself. “What the
hell
is going on in here?!” His face was beet red and his eyes were wild.

JT slid off the table and drew herself to full height. “Roberts, you really should properly meet my girl—”

“You. Are. A. Prisoner.” Roberts advanced on JT with every word. “What part of that don’t you understand?”

For a minute he looked like he might haul off and try to belt JT. I took a half step in front of her, not really sure what I was going to do if he made a move, but damn well ready to do something. In all reality, putting myself between two trained law enforcement officers wasn’t probably the smartest thing I’d ever done.

He ground out, “You are not hanging out at the local country club. Jesus. When I find out who allowed this, their ass is mine.” He turned his attention to me and shoved a finger none-too-gently into my shoulder. If it bruised, maybe I could sue. The veins in Robert’s forehead pulsated like little worms. “And you, you don’t even think about attacking me again, or you’ll wind up sitting in a cell next to her.”

Holy shit. I glared at Roberts. Poor Detective or Deputy or whatever-his-title-was Rasmussen. Then my big mouth got the better of me and ran away with itself. “What’s wrong with you? JT hasn’t done a thing. There’s a killer out there, you damned idio—”

Roberts grabbed JT by the arm and backed me against the wall, dragging JT along for the ride. He shoved his face into my space, no more than two inches from my own. “The only killer here is Bordeaux. She’s going down. You mark my words.” His lips actually trembled. Anger leached off of him in waves. He was the one who needed anger management classes.

The fury he was failing to suppress and the fact that he was whipping JT around like a rag doll, and moreover, that she was letting him, startled my already-on-edge Protector. My vision narrowed, my muscles tensed, and my body literally started to vibrate.

From somewhere far away, JT shouted. “Shay! Shay. It’s okay. I’m all right.” I blinked. Somehow she had managed to detach herself from the clamp of Robert’s hand and now stood in front of me, fear filling her eyes. I blinked again. Tracked for Roberts. Spotted him, bent over and gasping for breath. What just happened?

She shook my shoulders. “Shay.” I tore my gaze off the defective detective and focused on JT.

“Listen to me,” she said, urgency making her voice crack. “Tell Tyrell to track down Geller and Handy Randy. One of them—”

“That’s it. Bordeaux,” Roberts had recovered enough to lay his ugly paws on my girl again. “Come on, you bitch.” He hauled JT out the door, and I was surprised that she acquiesced. She stumbled as she tried to keep her feet under her.

Her snarl filtered into the room. “This isn’t the academy, dick-
head.”

I took a step, and then another, intending to go after them when I heard JT yell, “I love you, Shay. Tell Tyrell—” Her words were cut off amidst the sound of a painful grunt.

I stopped and sucked in two deep, calming breaths. Then I again headed for the door and stuck my head out. JT and Roberts were nowhere to be seen. I was alone in the bowels of hell.

ten

Twenty minutes later
, I
retrieved my license, reunited with Coop, and gunned the engine toward home. First I tried calling Tyrell but caught his voicemail. That wasn’t a surprise. I left a message for him to check into the two names JT had given me.

To Coop, I recounted what went down in a voice that slowly stopped shaking, and now we were mulling over Shawn Geller and Handy Randy.

Coop said, “We know about Geller. But who’s Randy and why is he handy? Does JT think they might have offed Krasski, or is there something else about them she wants Tyrell to know?

“I have absolutely no idea.”

We lapsed into silence.

Traffic was picking up on highway 169 as the Sunday cabin crowd trickled back to reality. The twentyish-mile long stretch of 169 between Shakopee and Maple Grove was one of the few expanses of freeway where the speed limit hadn’t yet been raised to at least sixty. It was a speed trap for those who weren’t paying attention, and I was sorry to count myself as one of those inattentive drivers. I’d been on the receiving end of those flashing lights more than once, so I tried to keep a careful eye on my speedometer.

A sign indicated my exit was a half-mile away. I prepared to put the signal light on and slow. “Why do you think Roberts is out to railroad JT?”

“Don’t know. How do they know each other?”

“That crack about the academy. Maybe they were there at the same time.”

“Could be.”

“Who was it that mentioned someone had gone to the Minneapolis police academy with JT?” I pressed one hand on my forehead, trying to squeeze out the memory. Then I had it. “Dimples. He called me Peaches, along with Taffy. I think I have split personalities.” I frowned. “Anyway, yeah. Peaches. Peaches Reker.”

Coop pulled out his cell. “Peaches? Really?”

I shrugged.

“So,” Coop said as he hunched over his phone. “Peaches Reker. Do you know when JT graduated from the academy?”

I did some quick math in my head. “She’s been a cop at least the last eight or ten years.”

Coop’s thumbs were a flurry over the tiny keyboard.

“How can you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Type so fast.”

“Practice.”

“You are really gonna hack the MPD? On your phone?”

Coop ignored me. Then, “Well, not exactly the MPD, just their server. Don’t see a computer in here, so I guess the phone will have to do.”

“Sarcasm really doesn’t flatter you.”

More ignoring. “There.”

A car paced us on the left, blocking me from passing a slow-moving Challenger that was directly in front of my fender. Those cars were supposed to go fast. It would fly if I were behind the wheel. I huffed in frustration. “There, what?”

“I’m in. Now to find Peaches. You don’t think she really went by Peaches, do you?”

“Good question. Wonder if Cream is her middle name.”

“Aren’t you the sly one. Peaches and Cream. Sick.” Coop messed around with the device for another couple minutes. “Okay. I’ve got two Rekers graduating at the same time that JT did. A Heidi and a Christina.”

“How’d you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Use your phone to hack a law enforcement agency.”

Coop laughed. “Ah, Grasshopper, that is for me to know, and for you to wallow in ignorance forever. Safer for you that way. Back to our Rekers. Twins?”

“Gee, thanks for your concern for my safety. And I have no idea. Could be twins. Twins do stuff together a lot I think. Could be that they both chose the copper route. Or maybe they’re not related at all. Anyway, where do they live?”

“Patience, Grasshopper.”

“Where is this Grasshopper crap coming from? Are you watching reruns of
Kung Fu
?”

“Now where ever would you get that idea?” Coop grinned.

“I’m going to start calling you Eddy.”

He ignored my comment. “I’ve got the addresses. Both are in Minneapolis. Christina’s is in the Stevens area, and Heidi’s is near Lake Calhoun.”

I cut off on Dunwoody and followed it to Hennepin. “Okay, where to for Christina?”

“Uh, drive like you’re going to Loring Park.”

I followed Coop’s directions as he read them off his map. We wound up and down one-way streets, finally ending up at a two-story brick apartment building. The postage stamp lawn in the front of the apartment was brown. I pulled to the curb and killed the engine.

“So how are we going to do this?” Coop asked.

“Let’s just go on in and tell her the truth.” I considered that. “Okay, maybe the abbreviated version of the truth would be better.”

“After we figure out if Christina is indeed Peaches.”

“Good point.”

We bailed from the truck and hiked into the building. In the tiny vestibule, formerly white one-inch tiles covered the floor. Cream-colored plaster on the walls had started to crack with age. Oak woodwork surrounded the entrance and the two secure doors leading to the interior. Six-foot-long panes of glass were mounted in each door. They sure didn’t make ’em that way anymore.

The faint aroma of fried hamburger and onions lingered in the lobby. Names that had been printed out on a curling sheet of paper were taped above a call box. I ran my finger along the list. Two-thirds of the way down, I found C. REKER—#23.

I pushed the pound sign and then the digits on the pay phone–like button pad. The vestibule echoed as a screechy sound blared out from a two-inch speaker below the keys. One, two, three, four rings. No answer.

“Maybe she’s working,” Coop said.

After another round of annoying rings, I disconnected. “Damn. I guess we go try Heidi.”

We piled back into the truck and headed for the second address.

Heidi Reker’s place was in a nicely kept, four-story brick apartment building. The lobby was spotless and smelled of cleaning stuff and carpet glue. A list of apartment dwellers was posted behind glass on the wall next to a call box. I buzzed the only Reker on that list. An annoying boinging sound as the thing attempted to connect echoed around the enclosed space. There was no response. Damn. I really didn’t want this to be an 0-for-2 blowout.

Disappointed, we headed out the foyer to the truck. I pressed the key fob to unlock the doors, and the headlights flashed on. They momentarily illuminated a shadowy figure that had just rounded the sidewalk at the end of the block. The person jogged toward us, the silhouette of a dog trotting at their side. When the jogger came into the glow cast by a nearby streetlamp, the shape coalesced into that of a woman dressed in a light-colored sweatshirt and tight running pants.

I was about to step off the curb and get in the truck when the gal turned off the sidewalk and headed for the door to the complex we’d just exited.

Coop saw her too. He called, “Heidi? Heidi Reker?” Fat chance it’d be her.

The woman turned around. Her dog remained glued to her side. Now that they were closer, I could see the pooch was a German shepherd.

“Yeah,” she said warily, “I’m Reker. Who’re you?” Her face was fine-boned, and her dark hair was tied back. Loose strands stuck to her damp skin and intelligent, curious eyes assessed us.

The dog sat on his haunches as soon as Ms. Reker stopped moving. He, or I guess it could be a she, waited quietly at her side.
The dog appeared keenly alert, ready to take action if needed. Heidi rested a calming hand on the pooch’s head.

Well, I’ll be switched. Something was actually going to go smoo-
ther than expected. I said, “I’m Shay O’Hanlon, and”—I poked my thumb at Coop—“that’s Nick Cooper, but he gets ornery if you call him Nick, so he goes by Coop.”

“What can I do for you?”

Oh man, where did we begin? I said, “Do you know JT Bor-
deaux?”

“JT Bordeaux? Yeah. Why?”

As soon as I uttered JT’s name, I could feel the woman’s walls slam up. It was probably best to simply lay the truth on her. “I’m JT’s girlfriend. She’s in serious trouble, and we need help.”

Heidi blinked. Her demeanor softened, although she remained cautious. “I heard JT had hooked up with someone. So you’re the lucky girl, huh?” She looked me up and down once, then returned her eyes to my face. “What kind of scrape did JT get herself into this time?”

I said, “It’s a long story. We need to ask you about—” I glanced at Coop, who gave me a blank look. Sometimes his brand of assistance didn’t match what I thought I needed. “About a sensitive situation that JT’s managed to get tangled up in. Can we come inside? I think it’d be better if we didn’t conduct this discussion out here.”

Heidi apparently decided we weren’t a threat. She said, “What do you think, Radar, should we let these two come in?”

Radar gave a low woof, eyes glued to us.

“Is he friendly?” I asked.

“If you’re a friend, he’s friendly. If not, he’ll kick your ass. And he’s got sharp teeth.”

I held out my hand. The dog sniffed my offering, his wet, quivering nose nudging my fingers. Then he gently touched the tip of his tongue to my skin. I tentatively passed muster.

Coop followed my lead. Radar pretty much bypassed the sniffing part and dove right into “oh please pet me” mode. Dogs could somehow tell Coop had a kind, gentle soul. He could probably be the next Dog Whisperer when Cesar Millan decided to retire.

Thus vetted, we followed Heidi and Radar through the front door and up well-worn stairs to the second floor. Hers was the second door on the left. She unlocked it and let us inside. We followed her through a short hall and made a right turn into a combined kitchen/dining/living room.

Immediately, one thing became very clear: Heidi Reker was a Smurfs freak. Posters starring the white-hatted, blue-bodied gnomeish beings lined her walls. Shelves were filled with Smurf figurines and plush Smurf toys. Even Gargamel was represented, both on a framed poster and as a stuffed toy. A throw populated with Smurfs was tossed over the back of her couch.

Coop’s eyes grew wide as he took it all in.

Heidi watched us look around. “I confess I’m a blue-blooded Smurfaholic. Have a seat and let me get out of these sweaty clothes. Radar, you stay and keep these nice folks company.” With that directive given, Heidi disappeared down the hallway. Radar strolled across the room and plodded directly to Coop, who lowered himself to the couch and gave the mutt some attention.

I remained standing and crossed my arms, watching them with amusement. “He knows who the pushover is.”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re just jealous because he can see my warm, tender heart.”

There wasn’t much to come back to that with. Coop was absolutely right.

A freestanding shelving unit divided the kitchen from the living room. One single shelf was devoid of anything Smurf-related. Instead, framed photos were lined up with military precision. One of the pictures was a group shot of maybe twenty people, all wearing the blue and black uniform of a Minneapolis police academy recruit. JT was standing next to Heidi, who actually looked the same as she did now. Her arm was draped over Heidi’s shoulder in a friendly fashion, and the entire squad beamed for the camera.

One recruit in particular wasn’t smiling, and in fact didn’t look pleased at all. The glare on his face sent a shiver down my spine. I realized I’d seen that same face and same scowl earlier today. It was Clint Roberts. I wondered what had happened to him to make him such a hard ass jerk.

Heidi reentered the living room and pulled me out of my rumination on the mysteries of Roberts’s psyche. She’d changed into a pair of sweats and what else but a Smurfs T-shirt. I barely restrained myself from rolling my eyes. Heidi was probably thrilled to pieces when they released that new Smurfs movie awhile back.

She asked, “Can I get either of you something to drink?”

Both Coop and I politely declined, and I moved to sit on the couch next to Coop.

Heidi settled on the edge of a recliner. Radar bailed on Coop, padded over, and settled down at Heidi’s side. She reached over the arm of the chair and absently rubbed the top of the dog’s head. “So what is this about?”

I wasn’t sure exactly where to start. If Heidi were in the same position that Tyrell had been, she would have absolutely no idea that JT was in custody on suspicion of murder, or homicide, or whatever the authorities called it. I really didn’t want to repeat any of this stupid tale again. In fact, I just wanted to snuggle into bed with JT and gleefully stick my cold feet on her warm legs. I wanted to wake up to a new day with none of this hovering over our heads
.

Unfortunately life wasn’t that cooperative. I heaved a resigned sigh, then recounted for Heidi the events of the craziest Saturday I may have ever had. She listened with rapt attention. When I related the details about JT’s arrest and told her the name of the ar
resting officer, she literally hissed air in between her teeth.

“That bastard. I can’t believe he still has it out for JT after all this time.” Heidi stared blankly into space, apparently ruminating over the bad history JT shared with Clint Roberts. After a couple of seconds, she zeroed back into the present. “What happened after Roberts took her away?”

Coop and I recounted the zigzagging path we’d followed throughout the day. When I got to the part about JT’s grandfather confusing me with someone named Peaches, a woman JT had apparently attended the academy with, she laughed. “I can’t believe he remembers that after all this time.”

Ah ha. We really did find Peaches.

I couldn’t help but ask, “Was your nickname Peaches, or was it just a nickname he used?”

“Nickname. I’ve had it since I was a kid. Everyone in my family, even to this day, calls me Peaches, and my twin sister, Christina, Cream.” She rolled her eyes. “Peaches and Cream. Sad, isn’t it? No amount of threatening anyone made a damn bit of difference. At least Peaches is way better than being called Cream. My poor sister.”

Poor sister indeed. I was sort of right about Peaches and Cream, and I’d been joking.