Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder (18 page)

seventeen

Bad Carol doctored both
Coop and me as best she could until the cops—and then an ambulance—showed up at the liquor store. Hector sat on the floor with his head in his hands, not trying to run or fight, mumbling to himself. Dammit Jayne kept a wary eye on Hector, ready to crack him another one if the need arose. When the police showed, they unpacked Hector from his Effen pile and loaded him into a squad.

Tow trucks appeared and sorted out the mess of twisted metal that had been my pickup and Hector’s van. I didn’t hold out much hope either was going to be repairable.

Coop and I got what I was sure was going to be a not-so-free ride in an ambulance to the emergency room. I tried to con the driver into putting the lights and sirens on, but she was having none of it, and the paramedic attending to my face wasn’t happy with my squirming around.

The ER intake folks processed us right away, and I was amazed to be shuffled into one of the tiny, curtain-walled “rooms” almost immediately. We must have lucked out and hit the Monday afternoon lull.

Coop was tucked into a space somewhere nearby. The curtained walls blocked visuals but didn’t impair hearing, and I could hear his voice. A baby screamed bloody murder, and with any luck I wouldn’t do the same thing. I sure hoped that whatever brought the tyke in was something that could be fixed fast; that noise was murder on my skull. Poor thing.

I sat on the edge of the hospital bed/gurney and dangled my legs impatiently. My head pounded in time to the beat of my heart, and everything hurt. I so wished I could wake up and start the entire weekend all over again.

Earlier at the liquor store, two detectives—replicas of Starsky and Hutch—told Coop and me they’d meet us at the hospital to take statements. As the minutes ticked by without the appearance of either a doctor or Starsky or Hutch, it occurred to me that maybe I should try to get a hold of both Tyrell and Eddy.

To my surprise, Tyrell picked up on the third ring. He listened in silence as I related the trials and tribulations of the last couple of hours, and he only asked clarifying questions. When I was finished, he offered to come and pick us up when we were cleared to leave, but I told him I’d call Eddy for that duty if he’d do whatever he could to get the ball rolling with JT’s release.

Tyrell and I had barely disconnected when a nurse poked her head in to make sure I hadn’t collapsed. I assured her I was still mostly alert and somewhat coherent. She hustled off to her next patient, and I dialed Eddy. That conversation wasn’t one I looked forward to having, especially when she heard about the cracked-up truck and crazed man chasing us with a gun. She finally calmed down, and, as I expected, offered to come get our sorry butts. She hung up, and I let out a deep sigh. I didn’t envy the unfortunate souls who would be on the road at the same time as her when she stormed over here.

Finally a harried ER doctor showed up. He was short and a bit stout, with a friendly round face and a perpetual smile. After introducing himself as Dr. Singh, he started in on removing the bandage from my face, tsk’ing a few times as he concentrated on his work. I was afraid he was going to take some skin off along with the blood-matted gauze. However, he accomplished the removal of the goopy dressing with gentle hands and lots of warm water. He critically assessed the gash after he gently cleaned it. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the fact that another quarter inch and I could’ve kissed my eye goodbye. Nice.

And another fun fact: stitches were in my very near future.

Dr. Singh evaluated the airbag burn that started on my chin and continued down the side of my neck. Airbags were amazing things, but holy cow, did they pack a wallop. The whole area stung every time I turned or bent my head, making me grumpier than the cut on my face did. All things considered, though, I was damn lucky.

When I was in the middle of the chaos, I’d been simply doing and not thinking. Adrenaline and a desire to stay in the land of the living overrode any fear I may have had, so I just reacted. Now that I looked back on what had happened—and what could have happened—I was freaked out big time. My hands were actually trembling. Kind of how I felt after a Tenacious Protector moment. Rubbery and jittery.

My shoulder hurt like a bitch where the seatbelt had locked up and dug in, and the ribs on my left side ached. The doc performed a number of pain application techniques that he claimed were simple physical assessments, mumbling under his breath as he did. Luckily, he didn’t find anything more serious than multiple strains and bruises.

In
the midst of the torture, one of the detectives showed up. He waited patiently at my side until the doc finished poking and prodding. While he was Hutch in my book, he told me his last name was Caribou. I wondered if he frequented Caribou Coffee. With his five o’clock shadow and tired eyes, he sure looked like he could use a jolt. He took my statement while Doc Singh stitched me back together.

The doctor raised his eyebrow but continued his slow, steady sewing when I told the detective about the dead man with a pickle in his mouth in the privy. Once I finished the entire sordid tale, I tried to impress on the good detective the importance of speaking with Tyrell about the history behind this mess. The way agencies didn’t play nicely in the same sandbox scared the crap out of me. JT could be in the clink for a long time before everything got straightened out, and that was the last thing either one of us needed. What I really wanted was her solid strength right here next to me.

The doc finished up, and while I waited forever to be discharged, I called Tyrell back. I gave him the contact info for the detective I’d talked to, and he promised to do what he could.

Coop and I were finally kicked loose nearly an hour later, and Eddy escorted us out of the building. After she reassured herself that we were generally in one piece, she gleefully listened as we rehashed our visit to the Starlight Motel and Dammit Jayne Liquors. Her only regret, aside from her mortification that she had been the one to suggest we check up on a killer, was that she’d missed out on all of the action.

Eddy actually drove like a sane woman on the way home, perhaps in deference to our all-too-recent experiment in demolition. That was a good thing because I wasn’t sure my heart could take much more. She dropped Coop off at his apartment and came inside with me when we arrived at JT’s place. She wanted to help get me out of my bloody clothes and clean me up, but I told her I wasn’t incapacitated, just sore.

After reassuring Eddy I was going to be fine, she fussed over me a little more and finally took off for home.

The quiet of the house settled around me, making my antsy again. My muscles were already stiffening up, and I wondered how much worse it would be in the morning. I hobbled upstairs to my office and lowered myself gingerly into a chair. I sat still while the events and calamities of the last few hours replayed in my brain. What was I supposed to do now? I hated waiting around and feeling like everything was completely out of my control. I wanted JT home, safe and sound. I wanted this nightmare over and done.

My gaze settled on the wax rose from the Renaissance Festival. I recalled the look on JT’s face as she’d given it to me. Sure, I’d seen love and affection. But there was something more in her eyes, a look of unadulterated devotion. How did I wind up with someone who felt that way about me?

My world shifted these days when I
really
thought about what JT meant to me. When I learned what she’d been through, the horrors I hadn’t even been aware of, I was shaken just that much more. Despite all that had happened, she survived, whole and strong, much like that resilient Renaissance rose. Its stem had been battered and broken, but the heart and the beauty of the flower remained complete and true. And so it was with JT.

Action is better than contemplation.
Thank you for that mantra, Eddy.
I stood with a pained groan and carefully wrapped the rose in Kleenex and stuck it in my jacket pocket. JT kept a spare set of car keys on a hook by the back door, and I grabbed them and let myself out. It was time to bring my woman home, one way or another.

The closer I got to my destination, the stronger my resolve became. JT was coming home tonight, period. If I had to bust her butt out of the joint, I was going to do it. Of course, I hadn’t thought too deeply about how I might actually accomplish that little feat, but hey, give me an A for effort. If I got pitched in the hoosegow for my actions, it damn well better be directly into JT’s cell.

Tyrell called as I pulled into the jail’s parking lot. He said he talked to Detective Caribou, and things were actually rolling along nicely. Right off the bat, Hector confessed to popping a cap in Russell Krasski and wanted a deal. Apparently Maria’s uncle had some unsavory contacts, and it was via that route he’d somehow managed to locate the slimeball.

Hector’s intent had been to avenge his niece. Tyrell said the guy had originally meant to mess up Krasski enough that he would never again be able to do what he had done to another child. The “lesson,” as Hector called it, involved a sharp knife and Krasski’s family jewels. Hector had managed to get Krasski into the handicapped Porta Potty at knifepoint, and they’d somehow wound up fighting. Krasski had been packing a gun, and in the end, instead of turning him into a eunuch, Hector got a hold of the weapon and shot Krasski instead.

In a blind rage, Hector stuffed Krasski’s pickle down the dead man’s throat and left him propped on the seat in the privy. Then he’d run like hell. Apparently the fatal gunshot had indeed occurred at almost the same time the Tortuga Twins ended their show. The crowd had gone ballistic, and that was why the explosive sound hadn’t drawn any attention.

Detective Caribou told Tyrell he contacted Scott County immediately after his interview with Hector and tried to speak to Detective Roberts. Roberts wasn’t taking calls, but Caribou eventually managed to reach Roberts’s supervising officer, a captain who happened to be an old acquaintance of his.

Sometimes it seemed that everyone knew each other in the law enforcement realm. It was a smaller world within an already small world.

Roberts’s captain hadn’t heard that another cop was being held for the Ren Fest murder and was none-too-pleased that Roberts had not shared that information with him. He was furious that Roberts was working a secret agenda that really had little to do with catching a killer and instead continued a beef he had with JT. As I said all along, Roberts had skipped his due diligence and hadn’t looked at all the angles before throwing the metaphorical book at JT.

I was also delighted to learn from Tyrell that Roberts was already on thin ice with his department over a few bad decisions. He also had an unusually high number of use-of-force complaints.

I hoped they’d can Roberts’s judgmental, vindictive ass. I was more than willing to lodge an unlawful arrest charge or some such other fancy term against him if it would help speed that outcome along.

Tyrell told me the upshot was that JT would be processed out and should be released soon. I thanked him and tucked my phone away. Good thing I’d listened to my instincts and headed to the jail.

The place was quiet as I explained my situation to a surprisingly affable deputy—no more than a kid, really—who manned the front desk. He picked up a clipboard from a hook on the wall and studied it. Then he nodded. “JT Bordeaux?”

“Yes.”

“She should be out shortly. You can wait over there.” He pointed to the bench along the wall where Coop had waited for me yesterday. God, was that really only yesterday?

I lowered my aching body to the seat and waited as minutes ticked by like sands through an overly narrow hourglass. I shifted uncomfortably on the cold metal. Padding on the narrow expanse would be a big improvement, even for those whose bodies weren’t banged up. My butt was falling asleep, and the position made my ribs ache. Maybe standing was a better idea.

With an impatient breath, I looked at my watch for probably the forty-fifth time. It was well after midnight.
Come on already, JT. Where are you, babe?
I was about to get up and check with the deputy again when a door opened, and JT emerged into the lobby at long last. She looked rumpled and more than a little crabby, but otherwise unharmed. But as soon as she caught sight of me, her entire demeanor brightened.

I eased myself to my feet, watching her move across the floor with graceful, determined strides. She was dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing Saturday, although they were now looking decidedly worse for wear. Her glittering brown eyes bore into mine, and then flicked across my face as she catalogued my beleaguered appearance. I shivered at their intensity and opened my arms. JT walked right into them.

Her breath tickled my ear. “Oh my god, Shay—what the hell happened to you?” I returned her embrace with cautious enthusiasm, trying not to gasp as she squeezed me. She felt solid and warm.

“Come on,” I said, “let’s get you out of here and I’ll tell all.” I swung her toward the front door. Once we stepped out into the starlit night, I stopped and pulled her to me again. She was real. This nightmare was finally over.

JT’s hands came up and cupped my cheeks, her thumb gently tracing the gash and its accompanying seven stitches. She carefully tilted my head back and looked under my chin at the missing layer of skin. I wasn’t sure how much she could make out in the dimness, but her resulting soft gasp told me she managed to see more than enough. I dipped my chin back down and peered into her beautiful, troubled eyes. “I’m okay.”

“Jesus, Shay, you look like a tank ran you over. Are you hurt anywhere else?”