Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder (16 page)

A sturdy, dark-wood front door loomed intimidatingly over a raised stoop. I lifted a hand to pound on the door when I spied a doorbell off to one side, imbedded in the mouth of a three-inch stone dragon mounted on the edge of the door casing. I did a double take. If I hadn’t been in the frame of mind that included murderous intent, I would’ve taken a moment to admire it.

My finger made quick work of the unique doorbell. The resounding clang chimed deeply in numerous tones, and faded away. I was about to attack the bell again when the door swung open.

“Can I help you?”

Holy crap on a cracker.

A woman, whose friendly smile lit up an open, intelligent face, stood before me. She held a squirming, towheaded toddler propped on her hip. A glob of something whose origin I had no desire to find out was slowly dripping down the front of the woman’s Hello Kitty nightshirt. Her bottom half was clad in matching sleep pants, and her feet were bare. If JT was planning on trading me—trading us—in for
this,
I simply had no comeback. If this poor woman was Maria, I was going to pass out cold right here on the doorstep.

I closed my mouth so hard my teeth clacked.

Home-Wrecker frowned at me in concern. “Are you okay?” she asked. Behind her I heard the unmistakable chatter of more than one child.

“I, uh …”

She shifted from concern to wariness. “Are you all right?”

Speak, Shay. Jeez.

I swallowed. Swallowed again. “Is—are you Maria?”

Home-Wrecker’s eyes shifted from wary to guarded in an instant. “No, I’m not Maria.”

Oh Jesus. What was I doing? “Does”—I looked down at the envelope still clutched between my fingers—“Maria Delgado live here?”

A black-haired girl of maybe ten or twelve, who’d apparently been standing behind Maybe-Not-A-Home-Wrecker, peered shyly at me around the obviously confused woman’s shoulder.

What was the saying? In for a penny, in for a pound. Of course, now it’d be “in for a dollar, in for a Euro,” or something like that. I tried valiantly to vocalize one more time. “Do you know JT Bordeaux?”

At the mention of JT’s name, the girl gasped out “JT!” and slid past the woman and darted out the door. I half-spun as she passed by and watched her run across the grass toward my truck. “What—”

“Maria!” the woman yelled. She brushed roughly by me to stand on the edge of the concrete walkway, still holding the toddler. “JT’s not here, honey,” she called.

Well, knock me over with a cream puff. Preferably one right to the kisser. I was an idiot.

JT’s Maria was a little girl.

fifteen

Ten minutes later, I
was seated in Michelle Osterhus’s toy-strewn, chaotic, cheerful living room. Three kids, all knee-high, played in the corner with oversized Lincoln Logs, periodically clobbering each other with the pieces.

Michelle sent Maria to her room with a treat and had given me a glass of milk and a handful of Oreos, an instant remedy in every mother’s repertoire. She finished feeding Gomer, which was the really,
really
unfortunate name of the kid who’d been on her hip when she answered the door.

She set him on the floor and gave his diaper-covered butt an affectionate pat. He scuttled, crablike, over to play with the other three kids.

I’d already downed three Oreos and now sipped at the cold milk, slowly feeling my rational brain kick back in as I watched this scene of domesticity.

Michelle rubbed at the smear on the front of her pajama top with a damp cloth. “Mashed banana and oatmeal,” she explained as she scrubbed. After a moment she gave up and threw the rag on a side table with a resigned sigh. “You want kids,” she said, “you might as well learn to live in harmony with a mess. So tell me, why are you looking for Maria?”

I sunk deeper in the chair. I was embarrassed and, yes, ashamed. Yeah. I was terribly ashamed of myself for jumping to conclusions. This wasn’t going to be an easy conversation.

“I’m—well, actually—” I looked at her, my mouth open again without any sound coming out. Words stuck like glue in the back of my throat. I cleared it and tried again. “I … I’m with JT.”

A facial chorus played out before my eyes. Blankness melted into puzzlement, which morphed into understanding. Michelle said, “Are you Shay?”

Holy shit. “How do you know my name?”

“Hasn’t JT mentioned either Maria or me to you?”

“This is all I know.” I handed her the crumpled envelope.

Michelle took it and turned it over in her hands. She slid out the note and read it, then carefully folded it and tucked away. “I can see why you might have questions.” Finally Michelle looked up and met my eyes. “I helped Maria write this.” Any trace of humor had faded and was replaced with concerned empathy. “This is going to call for more Oreos.”

Uh oh.

Michelle disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared with the entire container of Oreos and more milk for the both of us. As the kids played (blessedly quietly) with their Lincoln Logs, Michelle told me a story.

She asked, “Are you familiar with Russell Krasski?” Sharp eyes watched my face, gauging my reaction.

Cripes. Did everyone but me know the man? “As of Saturday, yes.”

“So you know about his and JT’s background—about what happ-
ened?”

“I do now. It’s been quite a learning curve I’ve navigated in the last couple days.”

Michelle looked sympathetically at me as she took an Oreo. “Help yourself. That’s quite a bit to take in on short notice. You ready for more?”

I followed her advice and helped myself. “Bring it on.” I nibbled at the top of the cookie and wished life was as simple as licking the white crème insides out and dunking the rest of the cookie in my glass of milk.

“Okay.” Michelle chewed thoughtfully. “I’m not sure where to start. The night that the cops arrested Russell Krasski, Krasski and his cohorts were in the midst of moving the kids somewhere. They’d gotten a delivery of kidnapped children from a supplier”— she waved half a cookie at me—“can you believe they call those abominations suppliers? Anyway, these kids were in the house where the bust went down.” Michelle swallowed, took a shot of milk, and grabbed another cookie. “All the attention was on poor JT and the failure of the Minneapolis Police Department in the takedown of that ring. The real story, the reason for the arrests, was the kids.”

It was obvious Michelle loved children. The affection in her voice affirmed that truth.

She continued, “That night, after JT went to town on Krasski, before she was put on leave, she managed to get the kids who’d been in the house into protective custody. We—my husband and I—have three of our own,” she nodded to the crew playing in the corner. “We foster kids as well. Gomer, as well as Maria, are staying with us until someone adopts Gomer and one of Maria’s family members can come and escort her back to Mexico.”

I helped myself to another Oreo. “It’s been almost two years since this happened. You’ve had Maria that long?”

“No. The system is slow and sometimes doesn’t move forward at all. Maria came to stay with us after a string of foster homes didn’t work out for her for one reason or another. She’s a bit of a handful. But she’s going to be okay.

“Anyway, from the start, Maria got under JT’s skin. JT kept an eye on her through every home Maria’s been to. After the last go-round, JT recommended us. Maria’s been here ever since.”

“Since when?”

“The last year or so. JT’s not been able to get up here too often, but she emails with Maria and still manages to visit maybe once a month. Sometimes she’ll take Maria on an outing, on some exciting overnight adventures.”

Things were becoming clearer. “Like the one last week Monday?”

“Exactly. Maria was so excited to go to The Depot in Minneapolis. She loves trains, planes, semis—anything big that moves.”

That, as they say, explained that. I was a complete and total ass. There goes Shay again, jumping the gun, diving in without thinking, without knowing the entire story.

Michelle continued, “In fact, I believe JT’s worked on each child’s case, helping locate relatives. Maria is the last one of the bunch. Finding her family has been next to impossible, but JT pulled off another miracle, and we’re this close”—Michelle held up two fingers a hair apart—“to sending Maria home.”

Hesitation shadowed her voice.

“But?” I prompted.

“JT managed to get a hold of an uncle—Hector Delgado, who actually drove up here from Mexico. He arrived last Thursday. The social worker who’s assigned to Maria’s case brought him up to see her Thursday night.” Michelle smiled in memory. “You should’ve seen Maria’s face light up when she saw Hector. I didn’t think we were going to be able to pry her away from him. She wanted to go home with him right then and there. Hector had to start the paperwork process Friday and came back here for a few hours after a meeting at Child Protective Services. He’s a really nice guy, if a little hard to understand. But we’ve been boning up on our Spanish since Maria’s been with us.”

“So Maria will be going home soon, then.”

“Once the paperwork is all filed and whatever else has to happen, yes. But,” Michelle looked around, then leaned toward me and whispered, “Hector—he was supposed to come and take Maria out Saturday night. But he never showed up. Then he was going to come to church with us Sunday and spend the day here. And …”

“He never showed up for that either,” I finished.

“Nope.” Michelle gazed at the kids, two of whom were playing around the third, who’d fallen asleep with a log clutched tight in his chubby fist. “I could see he adores that girl. I don’t get why he didn’t come back. Poor Maria’s heartbroken.”

I could just imagine. Maria must’ve been ecstatic to see a member of her family, and then for him not to come when he said he would had to have been unbelievably hard.

A number of reasons why Hector didn’t show popped into my mind. Illegal entry into the States made the top of my short list. If Immigration and Customs Enforcement nabbed Hector and was holding him, it might be a good long time before they released him. And then it would most likely be on Mexican soil. Without Maria.

The Protector unfurled its tail again and stretched, extending claws and kneading my innards. That poor little girl. To have already gone through so much only to be left high and dry again?

No.

I asked, “Did you try to call Hector?”

“I did. He left two numbers, one for the Starlite Motel in Blaine, or was it Spring Lake Park? Or Vadnais Heights maybe? Room two two four, I think he said. I can’t remember for sure. He also left one for a cell phone. I tried both numbers, left messages. He still hasn’t returned my calls.”

“If you can give me the contact numbers he gave you, I have a friend who’s pretty good at tracking down that kind of stuff.”

“That would be great.” Michelle hurried off to jot down the information. I took the opportunity to sneak another Oreo.

She returned after a couple of minutes with two phone numbers scrawled on a blue Post-It. “Here you go. I hope you have better luck than I did. My husband’s gone all weekend attending a sci-fi convention in Chicago, so I haven’t been able to get out with the troops in tow or I’d have checked on him myself.”

“I totally understand.” I stood up, and so did Michelle. “Thank you so much for telling me this. It shines a whole new light on a side of JT that I never knew existed.”

With a promise to keep Michelle updated, I left. Shame haunted each step I took back to the truck.

The ride home was a blur. The events of the last two days had rattled my brain so hard I was pretty damn sure I had an emotional concussion. My head spun as if I just stepped off my fourth ride in a row on the Corkscrew at Valleyfair—I knew my feet were on the ground, but everything was still twirling.

What I thought I knew about JT was being rearranged and put into new compartments so rapidly I could barely keep up. No, frankly, I wasn’t keeping up at all.

Now that I knew something about the abuse she witnessed in the past—and I prayed witnessing was the extent of it—and how that experience colored her actions and decisions, it made me love her all the more. She’d always been a champion of the less fortunate, the downtrodden, of those in need. It was almost a cliché, but it was real. But this … this entire thing went well beyond that. As I learned more about what really made JT tick, my appreciation of the person she was grew exponentially. As did my missing-her quotient.

Without conscious thought, I’d pulled up and parked at the curb next to the Rabbit Hole. I pulled myself out of my own head and focused on the present. At a few minutes after ten, the morning mob had thinned and the lunch crowd had yet to arrive.

I wondered if Coop had any luck finding any more on Mike Handler.

Holy shit.

Coop.

I forgot Coop at my house! Hopefully he was still snoozing. Some friend I was. A new wave of guilt flared and crept up my spine, overshadowing my earlier mortification. I tamped the guilt back down with the thought that there was a good chance, if I got a move on, I’d make it home and Coop would be oblivious to the fact I’d even left.
In fact
, I told myself,
you might as well get a caffeine infusion since you’re here.

I dove for the bait and shut off the truck.

The chimes jangled softly as I opened the front door of the Hole. A couple customers were seated at the tables with mugs at their elbows. One guy was reading a tattered, lime-green paperback whose cover featured a drooling dog. The other sat poring over the news-
paper.

Coop was seated in one of the easy chairs, which he’d moved to the edge of the stone hearth in front of the fire. His crossed feet were propped up in front of the spark screen, yellow-red flames popping merrily behind it. A laptop was balanced on his thighs. A coffee mug sat within easy reach, and white headphone cords wound up to his ears. He didn’t look up at my entrance, and his fingers didn’t pause their tapping on the keys.

Great. He’d most likely walked from JT’s. Not that it was all that far, but jeez. At least it wasn’t freezing outside yet.

Metallic clanging echoed from the kitchen, where someone was working on the morning dishes.

Eddy was behind the counter, wearing her favorite, hand-made blue apron with the Rabbit Hole logo embroidered on the front.

As soon as her eyes settled on me, Eddy’s forehead crinkled in a particularly unhappy fashion. I closed in on the counter, but before I could utter a word she growled, “Where have you been, child?”

By this time, Coop spotted me. He heaved himself from his chair and tramped over to the counter. “Where’d you go?”

I looked from Eddy’s mask of angry concern to Coop’s face, which reflected more curiosity than anything else. He always gave me a bye for stuff he probably shouldn’t.

“Coop, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to just bail without leaving a note or something—”

He waved my apology off. “Tell the tale.”

I wasn’t sure where to even begin to sort out the previous couple of hours. Or if I even wanted to. I sucked in a breath and slowly expelled it. “I talked to Tyrell yesterday. He said the gun used to shoot Krasski was found, and—”

“Where?” Eddy asked.

“You don’t want to know. Trust me. Anyway—”

“I’ll bet it was in a pickle barrel. What do you think, Nicholas?”

“Could be. Or maybe it was—”

“Hey,” I held up a hand. “I’m trying to tell a story here.” I shot both of them a look, and they rewarded me with wide-eyed silence. For about a half second.

Eddy said, “Well, child, spit it out. Where was the gun?”

She wouldn’t stop until she had an answer. I said, “In the Porta Potty.”

“In—by that horrible stinky urinal they have in there?”

“No.
In,
as in down the pooper.”

Eddy half-squealed, half-gagged. Coop just groaned.

“Anyway, as I was trying to tell you, Tyrell said he heard the weapon was similar to one JT carries.”

Coop said, “Yikes. That doesn’t sound good.”

“I know. So I thought if I took a look to see if JT’s gun was there, maybe it could help. Well, to make a short story long, I couldn’t get in the gun safe. It was locked and I don’t know the combo. So I started poking around JT’s desk, hoping she had it written somewhere.”