Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (11 page)

I threw my head back and closed my eyes. “Maybe he was well on his way off the wagon.”

“Now, Shay, I didn’t say that.” Roy tapped a finger against his chin and gazed into the distance. “Come to think of it, Pete and Mick seemed a bit at odds.”

Lisa said, “What do you mean?”

“They were polite, but it felt like they were tip-toeing around each other. The underlying tension between them never really went away all night long.”

A loud commotion in the hallway interrupted Roy. A panicked voice shouted, “Heeeere kitties! Heeere Purrby, heeeere Zamboni!”

Alarmed, Roy pushed his chair back and stood. Lisa and I followed his lead. Before any of us could make another move, two felines charged into the room. They zoomed around the perimeter once. One of the crazed cats made a frenzied leap and proceeded to scale Mount Roy. Those claws had to hurt.

Before we could react, the cat launched himself off Roy’s shoulder. The second cat leaped onto the table and was scampering around in drunken circles when the other one joined him.

Vi burst into the room. Upon seeing the cats, she shouted, “In here!” She flung herself across the table, attempting to grab one of the furry beasts. A high heel went sailing though the air. Both cats nimbly hopped over her flailing arms. One cat landed on her ass, and from there made a mad leap toward Lisa. From Vi’s screech, her butt must have taken the brunt of the claw-footed jump.

The other cat bounded to the floor and dodged out the door as Jack Hanna-ette dashed into the room.

“Oh my god. Purrby!” she yelled at the cat Lisa was attempting to wrangle. “Hang on to him. Where’d Zamboni go?”

I pointed.

She spun and raced out of the room.

Vi was still sprawled across the table, one shoe on and one shoe off. Her once-neat hair was in wild disarray. She was holding onto one butt cheek and howling.

Roy had two long scratches down the side of his face oozing blood, and he looked shell-shocked.

Lisa gripped the cat in a football hold against her side, and after a few moments of struggle, it gave up and started to purr. From the volume of the little guy, it was obvious why his name was Purrby.

At the moment, there was no way we were going to be able to have a heart-to-heart with Roy. I’d have to try again when things weren’t quite so chaotic.

Lisa and I bowed out, leaving Roy and the rest of his crew to try to salvage their kitty litter shoot. Once we had settled in the Escape, the quietness stole over me like a blanket. I didn’t usually mind chaos, but lately I was increasingly appreciative of the more silent moments in my life.

“Wow,” Lisa said as she clicked her seatbelt buckle. “That was exciting.”

“Excitem
ent in excrement.”

“You’re a regular comedian, aren’t you?”

“Not usually. You’re getting me at growing desperation.” I slumped back in my seat. “Roy didn’t have much more to share beyond the fact my father was well on his way to a huge sousing.” I pulled my silenced phone from my pocket to see if I’d missed anything. There were three calls and one message from Eddy not ten minutes ago.

“Where to next?” Lisa asked.

“
Hang on a sec.” I pulled up the message and listened to it.

“
Shay
,” Eddy’s voice came through loud and clear. “
I need you to call me when you get this. And I mean right now
.” She had disconnected with an audible thump.

I frowned. “That’s weird.”

“What?” Lisa looked over at me, a bottle of root beer halfway to her mouth.

“Eddy wants me to call her.” I hit redial. On the second ring, she picked up, her voice breathy and tight.

I said, “Hey it’s me—”

“Oh, thank you, Lord Jesus. Shay, I spoke with your father.”

Relief, concern, and a new blaze of fury flushed through my veins. The hand holding my phone shook. “And?”

Lisa sat up straight and looked at me expectantly.

“You stop right there and get a grip, child.” It must have been clear my emotions had gone from calm to infuriated in half a blink. Eddy continued, “Are you driving? You better pull over. We know how you get—”

“Eddy!”

“Well, you do.”

I loved the woman, but some days what I’d give to reach through the phone. “I’ll be right back,” I told Lisa. I stepped outside and shut the door behind me. If I was about to learn my father was a killer, it was probably a good thing to get the news without an audience. “What exactly did he have to say for himself?”

“You stopped the car?”

Oh. My. God. “Yes, Eddy. I’m parked. At a meter that’s about to expire. I’m standing on solid ground. Now tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Easy girl. No need to get so testy.”

Long pause.

“What?”

“He said he woke up in some ramshackle cabin somewhere. Wasn’t sure what day it was.”

“Figures. Where?”

“I’m getting to that. Hold your horses.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Oh, the sarcasm was building.

“Are you giving me lip, child?”

“Would I do that?”

“Yes, you would. Now hush. As I was saying, he said he woke up sick as a dog.”

“Serves him right.”

“Maybe so. Anyway. He can’t remember anything. After he came to, he said he passed out again. Came back around maybe twelve hours ago. He’s still not clear on where he is. Or maybe he’s not telling me.”

Even for my father, days—
plural
—was a long time for a hangover. Of course, he absolutely knew how to do it up right, so that wouldn’t necessarily be out of the realm of possibility. “Why didn’t he call me?”

“You know how your father is. He can’t remember much these days, much less telephone numbers. Said it took him a whole mess of tries to get my number right, and he’s known it for a long, long time.”

That totally illustrated why everyone should have a cell phone. “Is he getting his ass back here or what?”

There was a silence on the other end. I wondered if we’d gotten disconnected. “Eddy?”

“I’m here. He told me when he woke up his clothes were covered in blood. Way more blood than he could’ve bled. Then he made it out to his car and there was blood all over the interior of that too.”

“What?”

“He can’t remember a thing, Shay. He doesn’t know whose blood it is, aside from some from his own nose. He thinks it’s broken.”

This time I was the reason for the pregnant pause. Holy fricking moly. No wonder the cops wanted to talk to him.

Eddy continued, “I told him the police have been around asking for him and that damn six-shooter of his.”

Had my father literally iced the dead guy? Had they gotten into a fistfight? Fear and dread bubbled, searing deep in my gut. “Where exactly is he?”

“I told you. He doesn’t know.”

Now I was moving from frozen stiff shock to fidgety impatience. I inadvertently rubbed my sore knee a little too hard and yanked my hand away. “Well, shit. What are we supposed to do now?”

“I don’t know. Can’t exactly go to the police and tell them we heard from your father. This is one of the first times my faith has ever wavered in the guilt and innocence of those I love.”

I knew exactly what she meant. If my dad was pushed far enough, and if I was completely honest with myself, I did believe he could kill someone in a moment of rage. Eddy knew it too. Especially if he’d been wanking the bottle. Oh fricking frankenfuck.

I said, “Okay. Let’s think this through, step by step. The cops could come knocking anytime. Well, they already did on New Year’s Eve … ” My voice faded. My mind leaped from one conclusion to the next. Impossibly damn fast.

Lisa had shown up at the Lep looking for my father after he’d gone missing.

Lisa had insinuated herself into my world by lending a desperately needed hand.

Lisa hadn’t given a straight answer about why she wanted to talk to my dad until she came up with some weird BS about her mom on her deathbed, telling her to seek out Pete O’Hanlon to give him a nickel. A nickel? Riiight.

Lisa was a cop.

And we bought her story. Lock, stock, and rain barrel. She agreed to accompany me, a near stranger, as I went door to door looking for my old man. A man who may well have offed someone. Nothing like handing him right over to the long, lying arm of the law.

“Shay?”
Eddy said.

“Hang on.” My hammering heart was making it difficult to breathe. I stumbled around to the back of the SUV and leaned against the back hatch. Then I ducked my head around the corner to see if Lisa was going to get out and follow me.

I hissed into the phone, “She’s a cop. She’s got to be an effing police officer.”

“Who does?”

“Lisa. She must be a goddamned cop!”

“Watch your language, little lady.”

“Sorry.” I darted another gander around the SUV. Lisa’s door was still closed. “Oh Jesus. I can’t believe we let her con her way into our inner circle. We must rate as some of the easiest marks ever. Weasel your way into the clan and then you’re in the front seat on the crazy coaster while they cough up the suspect you’re looking for. She’s got to be with St. Paul.”

“Now you cool it a second, child. Why St. Paul? Has JT met her?”

“On New Year’s Eve. She didn’t recognize Lisa. A St. Paul cop came by wanting to talk to Dad. Asked about his gun. Didn’t I tell you that?” I honestly couldn’t remember who I told what anymore. “It makes sense Lisa would be with SPPD, too.”

There was an irritating buzz, and I pulled the phone from my ear. JT was beeping in. “Hey, I need to figure out what to do. JT’s on the other line. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Okay.”

I swapped the line.

“Hey,” I said.

“Found out some interesting info,” JT said without preamble.

I was having a hard time keeping up as subjects changed like diapers on a newborn. “What?”

“St. Paul ID’ed Ice Cube Man. His real name is Eugene Charles Shoemaker. Goes by a number of aliases—including Gene Shoemaker, Gene Schuler, Chuck Shoemaker, Chuck Schuler. He’s got a rap sheet three pages long. He’s a two-bit con artist who’s had numerous run-ins with law enforcement. Was last incarcerated in Stillwater for twelve months on probation violations. Currently is affiliated with Subsidy Renovations.”

This conversation was so not going where I wanted it to go. JT said gravely, “Babe, you’re not going to want to hear this.”

My vocal cords took a time out. I may have moaned.

“Your dad is officially wanted in connection with the death of Shoemaker.”

My stomach bottomed out. I jammed my hand in my pocket and pulled out some folded bills, a few crumpled receipts, and the purloined Intent to Purchase contract.

JT said something, but the roar in my ears drowned her out.

My hands shook as I unfolded the crumpled contract. The business card was still stapled to the upper left hand corner of the sheet. It fairly glowed in my grasp, like it was radioactive.

Chuck Schuler, Mgr.
Subsidy Renovations
Minneapolis, MN
Cell: 612-888-7767

My mind looped, replaying the same thought. Chuck Schuler was Ice Cube Man. Chuck Schuler had been shot dead. My father’s gun was found with Schuler’s body. There was literally blood on my father’s hands, in his car. There was motive galore, if you made the not very large leap that Schuler was indeed the one pushing my father to sell and my father ran out of patience and pushed back.

Holy fuck-a-duck.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the contract even though I was no longer able to focus on the actual words.

A link (was it the link?) between my father and the dead man rested in my hands. Was this particular piece of paper the only one in existence? How likely was that? There was probably another copy wherever Schuler worked. But there was always the chance there wasn’t. The very fact that I could be holding my dad’s ticket to life in prison shook me to the very core.

One thing was certain. I wasn’t going to do a thing with the damning piece of paper until I knew for sure what in the hell had happened.

Six

I don’t know how
I finished the conversation with JT. It was like my fight-or-flight response had kicked into caveman survival mode. My rational mind bid me “see you later, sucker.” I was functioning on autopilot. I didn’t dare tell JT about my father and his bloody duds. Or that Lisa Vecoli was a real-life Olivia Benson.

I have no idea how I managed to find some lame excuse to drop Lisa off—in one piece and without booting her out of my vehicle at sixty on the freeway. Nor do I know how I deflected the questions she kept lobbing at me all the way back. I must have come off suspiciously or maybe plain nuts, but I did what I had to do to get rid of her.

I still couldn’t believe we’d all been blindsided. Bamboozled by the offer of help from a cute chick and she turns out to be a cop out to get my own flesh and blood. That shit was so not going to fly. At this point I didn’t care if Coop was done with his contract work or not. We had an emergency of epic proportions.

Coop had recently moved into one side of an old duplex on Garfield between 22nd and 24th streets. I pulled to a stop in front of his place and took the porch steps two at a time. The ancient doorbell had stopped working sometime back in the Fifties probably, so I banged on his front door with a bit more force than necessary. I hadn’t called ahead because I didn’t trust myself behind the wheel while talking on the phone. Fury and confusion were distraction enough. Score probably the only point today for Shay thinking rationally.

I pounded on the door again. Finally I heard some scuffling. The door swung open.

Coop looked like he had just crawled out of bed. He was wearing a wrinkled
Vegan or Bust
T-shirt, and his pasty, hairy legs stuck out of a pair of navy blue boxers. However, I knew the more likely scenario was that he hadn’t been to bed yet at all. His shaggy, ash-blond hair was standing up at various angles and the bags under his eyes were colossal.

“Dude,” I said, my voice constricting, “I need help.”

The threat of tears was enough to propel my usually deliberate, slow-moving friend into action.

In seconds, I was settled in the living room in Coop’s favorite recliner with my feet up, waiting for him to reappear after taking a lightning-quick shower and exchanging his up-all-night duds for some up-all-day ones. Ten minutes later, he bounded down the stairs barefoot, wearing a Rabbit Hole sweatshirt and faded jeans that hung low on his skinny hips. His hair was still standing on end, but it was clean. He plopped himself on the couch to my right and bent to the task of dragging socks over his long feet.

With a dramatic flourish he flung himself against the back of the couch. “Now tell me what’s going on.”

“I think Lisa’s a cop who’s after my dad because he killed some-
one.”

Coop blinked at me a couple of times, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Okay. Let’s take this from the top. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“This morning, Lisa and I were making the rounds talking to Dad’s friends, like we’d talked about at the Lep last night. We started with Brian Eckhart at Sexworld.”

Coop gave me a facetiously long face. “Too bad I had to miss that trip.”

I might have believed him if I didn’t know Coop was somewhat OCD about cleanliness. The thought of stepping foot in Sexworld was about as appealing as hopping into a dumpster.

I said, “The only thing we got out of Brian was half a name. Then we headed to St. Paul to chat with Mick Simon.” I was proud of myself for following the timeline instead of babbling mindlessly that my father was a cold-blooded killer. Well, considering the circumstances, he’d probably be considered a hot-blooded killer.

Coop said, “Ah yes, the Vulc. How was he?”

“No idea. He wasn’t at the Krewe warehouse. Was going to try him later on.” I looked at my watch. It felt like it should be about six in the evening when it actually was only about half past one in the afternoon.

“Anyway, from there we went to see Roy Larson.”

Coop leaned back again and crossed his ankles. “Oh, Roy Boy. What’s the old Litter Liege up to these days?”

“Coconut-scented stuff.”

“You’re kidding.”

“They were doing the ad shoot when Lisa and I got there. It included a couple cats who were none-too-happy to be starring in a Larson’s Hawaiian Super Clump Flush-Away Cat Litter commercial.

“Anyway, Roy didn’t have much to say except that Dad was well on his way to a day-early New Year’s Eve celebration of his own. Oh, and that he and Mick seemed to be butting heads for some reason. But you know with Dad … he can be weird for no reason. Then we left and Eddy called, and the fireworks really started.”

I dropped the chair into a sitting position and put both feet on the ground.

Coop waited quietly.

I rubbed a hand over my eyes, which felt as gritty as Coop’s had to after a sleepless, computer screen–filled night. “Dad called Eddy.”

“That’s great.” Coop brightened and sat up straighter himself. “Where is he?”

“Don’t know.” I filled him in on the facts as Eddy conveyed them. I said, “It gets worse. Dad’s gun was found frozen in the ice with Ice Cube Man.”

Coop’s widened eyes met mine. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” It felt that with every sentence I pounded one more nail into my father’s coffin. I fished around in my pocket for the Intent to Purchase letter and handed it to Coop. He unfolded and read it once, then twice. Scanned the attached business card, and slowly raised his head and met my eyes. He said, “Chuck Schuler. You think he’s Ice Cube Man?”

“I just talked to JT. She said St. Paul ID’ed Ice Cube Man. It’s a guy by the name of Eugene Charles Shoemaker. Also known as Chuck Schuler.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“Tell me about it. Coop, I’ve always said my father wouldn’t ever really hurt anyone, but when he’s in one of his alcoholic fugue states, I honestly don’t know what he might be capable of.”

Coop sat still, absorbing all of this. Finally he slapped his knees and stood. “Come on. Let’s see what we can dig up on Schuler and Subsidy Renovations.”

He put his hand out and hauled me to my feet. “Step into the Den of Illicit Knowledge and I’ll put Bogey Too to work.” Coop recently created this thing he called a bot that could travel through cyberspace, sneak into places it wasn’t supposed to go, capture whatever information he told it to, and return with the cyber goods. Since it was almost always good at sniffing out whatever Coop was searching for, he named it Bogey Too, after my canine Bogey, the flunky bloodhound. I think Bogey Too’s success rate was a fair amount better than its flesh-and-blood namesake. Coop’s ability to hack just about anything without being caught was legendary in certain circles. If he and his abilities got into the wrong hands, boy, would trouble abound.

The Den of Illicit Knowledge was actually an ex-dining room that ran almost half the length of the house. Years ago there must have been some memorable parties in the old joint.

Room-darkening blinds filtered outside light. Two eight-foot tables pushed side-by-side lengthwise were littered with a vast array of electronic equipment, including hard drives, miles of wire, and three monitors. From this setup Coop worked his magic for his not-so-
legitimate fun and for more orthodox and legal profit.

An old metal and laminate dining room table with an extra leaf in the center sat in one corner of the room. This was where Coop and his fellow role-playing geeks amused themselves with Dungeons and Dragons when they weren’t all knee-deep in tournament play in Minnetonka’s Hands On Toy Company and Game Room. Coop’s newest addition to his role-playing repertoire was an online game called Runes of Magic. I’ve tried but failed to grasp the allure. But Coop enjoyed the complexity of those games, and I respected that.

Coop plopped down in a rolling chair in front of the middle monitor and fired it up. “This guy’s name was Chuck Shultz, right?”

“No. That’s the Peanuts guy, dope-on-a-rope. It’s Schuler.”

“You passed the test. Thought we needed a little levity.”

I dragged a chair over. I usually had no idea what Coop was doing, but it was fun to watch his fingers fly over the keyboard.

He pulled up one of his custom search engines and typed the name into the query box and hit enter. Almost faster than Google returns came back, a substantial list of Chuck Schulers popped up. Coop added Minneapolis to the search string. Still way too many responses.

“What did you say he was doing for a job?”

“Real estate.”

“Okay, let me try that.”

This time we got a much smaller sample. An entry for “Chuck Schuler Services LLC” listed a business office in New Brighton, a metro suburb. I looked again at the Intent to Purchase and Schuler’s attached business card. The card listed Minneapolis but gave no street address. Coop jotted down the New Brighton address and went back to surfing.

He moved the mouse pointer here and there. Between that and the left clicking, my brain started to gnaw on thoughts about my dad. Where was he? Was he truly hurt? What was he doing? What had he done?

My instinct when a loved one was in trouble was to react. Often without rational, conscious thought and without the benefit of common sense. It wasn’t a good combination. When people who get really pissed say they see red, believe them; they do. This feeling, this thing that seemed to come over me when I saw my own personal shade of red had a name, thanks to some friends from a very long time ago. The Tenacious Protector.

Initially, when this fiasco started with my dad on New Year’s Eve, I’d been furious. I’d gone through far too many of these episodes with him to cut him any slack. Add in the time of year and his monetary needs, and I was livid. Now, in light of these recent turns of events, the fury was slowly ebbing and the Protector in me was stirring, pushing against my carefully constructed façade.

“Shay!”

I jumped, jerked back to Coop’s Den of Illicit Knowledge. My pal was staring at me as if I’d grown two additional heads and was drooling.

“Sorry,” I said. “What?”

Coop’s expression reflected both fondness and exasperation. “I told you it looks like Chuckie baby started freelancing his talents, and has seriously flawed workplace ethics.”

“What do you mean?”

“He worked for one company that fired him for selling proprietary information to the highest bidder. He was busted because he made the mistake of trying to resell the stuff to the his own company’s ex-CEO. Another place kicked him to the proverbial curb because he had employed some outside help to achieve sales goals through intimidation that involved violence against animals and kids.”

“Big winner there.” I rubbed my eyes. “Let’s go see what kind of office a dead man keeps.”

I merged onto 35W as Coop said, “So who else do you think might want to see the last of Chilly Chuck?”

“Good question,” I said. “You know those questionable workplace ethics?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe someone he screwed over might be pissed off, maybe enough to do him. Or maybe a jilted ex-lover?”

Coop cleared his throat. “I hate to bring this up, but I’m not sure why a jilted ex-lover would have your dad’s handgun and freeze it with a dead guy.”

That did make most of my percolating theories shut down fast. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“How would your dad have managed to turn him into a human ice cube, anyway?”

Good question. Realistically? “Whether my dad’s drunk or not, we both know he’s very strong. All the years working on the river … Moving a dead body?” I thought about that. “Yeah, he could do it. But turning dead body into an ice cube, that’s the real question.”

“Yeah. Let’s assume he had to have help. More to the point, who would help your dad freeze-dry Chuck?”

I didn’t answer as we exited off the freeway onto County Road D and made a left at the top of the ramp. A strip mall sat off on the left. On the other side of the road were a number of single-story office buildings. I found the right place without too much fuss.

The walls of the building were mirrored glass so shiny that they reflected the image of the Escape. I killed the engine. “Mick Simon coordinates ice blocks for the winter carnival. He’d be a natural choice. And Limpy Dick is eccentric enough to be a willing participant.”

Coop asked, “Do Mick and Limpy Dick know each other?”

“Probably. They were both playing poker Friday night. But wait.” I thought about it some more. “Neither of them would incriminate my dad by leaving his gun with the body. I’m sure of that. And why would they take Dad to some cabin and dump him like that?”

“Maybe no one helped your dad get there. Maybe he drove himself.”

I groaned. “Why the hell can’t he remember?”

“I don’t know,” Coop said softly. “Let’s go inside and see if we can find out anything that’ll help.”

I followed Coop through a glass door labeled
C.S. Services LLC
in white vinyl letters. The lobby was tiny. A lone desk stood beside an open door, presumably Schuler’s office. There wasn’t a chair to be had, nor a coat rack, or even a potted plant. The place was about as clean as a freshly bathed baby’s bottom.

Behind the desk, a mostly unremarkable middle-aged woman sat filing her nails. The glaring exception to her unremarkability hovered at chest level. Extending straight out from her body was a humongous pair of knockers that appeared to float without restraint beneath her paisley sweater. Dolly Parton would be proud.

She glanced up with a suspicious expression at our entrance, but her hand continued to slide the file rhythmically back and forth, not missing a beat. “Help you?”

The woman was either ready to be done with her job or she didn’t care that her boss was toes up in the morgue downtown.

I said, “We’re wondering if you could tell us a little about Chuck Schuler.”

The sawing continued unabated. Before I could come up with something to startle her out of her strangely compelling task, she said in a sing-song voice, “Poor, poor Mr. Schuler.” Her tone was much more venomous than the words themselves would indicate, and she ground her file against her nails a little harder. Apparently she did have some emotion over the demise of her boss after all.