Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (13 page)

JT stood a second longer, battling between listening to me or going all stubborn on my ass. Finally she slid into the booth and I sat across from her.

She planted both hands on the table and leaned forward, hurt palpably radiating. “I thought we covered the lies and secrets thing awhile ago, Shay. What the hell is going on?”

The rock in my gut dropped lower. I was a complete nincompoop. I said, “Dad called Eddy earlier this afternoon.”

JT’s eyes widened. “What? Why didn’t you—”

“Because,” I cut her off, “I didn’t want to put you in a bad position.”

“Bad position? What do you mean?”

“Dad’s the one with blood on his hands, JT.”

“Are you speaking euphemistically or literally?”

I chewed on my lip and stared into space over her shoulder for a moment. Whatever I said next I would not be able to take back. But then wasn’t there something about spouses not having to rat out the other in a court of law or something? Oh, but wait. We weren’t spouses. However, if things went the way we hoped, Minnesota might join the ranks of the states that allowed same-sex marriage, and we could be. After tonight, though, I was fairly sure potential “I do’s” would be closer to “I don’ts.”

To hell with it. I’d lay it all down and let the pieces fall. “I’m not completely clear on what happened, but this is what Eddy told me earlier. She said Dad called her, wouldn’t tell her where he was. He was working off one of the worst hangovers of his life, from the sound of it. Had no memory how he got there or what happened before that. And … ” I trailed off, afraid to commit to the unretractable. I searched her face, looking for some degree of understanding.

Her expression had softened a bit. It didn’t look like I was next on her who-needs-to-be-throttled list anymore. She said, her voice impressively even, “Tell me. I think I vaguely see where this is going.”

Did she know something I didn’t?
Stop analyzing and get on with it, O’Hanlon
. “He said when he woke up, his clothes were soaked in blood.” My throat tightened. “The blood wasn’t his. Most of it anyway. And … ” I dropped my eyes to the worn wood surface of the tabletop and slowly ran my fingertips over the uneven, grooved surface. “I guess there was blood all over the interior of his car, too.”

I heard a loud exhalation. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, that was kind of my assessment of the situation too.” I searched JT’s face. “This is why I didn’t want to put you in a compromising position. With your job. You’re a homicide investigator, for god’s sake.”

For a couple of long beats, the low voices of Coop, Eddy, and Johnny, and the intermittent creaking of the old building were the only sounds that filtered into my consciousness.

JT stilled the restless movement of my hands with her own. “Okay. I can see why you were afraid to tell me about this. But you need to understand something before we go any further, or there isn’t going to be any further going for us.”

Oh, no. I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. My carefully crafted self-defenses started rumbling up like a castle’s drawbridge, slow and creaky but with one inevitable outcome. I was crazy to believe I could ever make a relationship work long term with anyone, much less someone who was an officer of the law. What was I thinking? I never thought my life was complicated until JT came along. I could probably get my stuff moved out of her place in—

“Shay!”

My head jerked up at JT’s sharp tone, and she held my hands tight. Her intense gaze locked on mine. “Stop it. Stop overthinking, baby. Listen to me.”

I glared at her. I hated it when someone called me on my own emotions, even if they were right. Add my inner turmoil to a situation and yeah, I could have one hell of an attitude. Then it hit me like a club:
You’re a moron, Shay. Knock the shit off. JT has never done a thing except try to help you, even when you’ve been too stubborn to help yourself.

JT had managed to curb the flight part of my psyche, and it was my turn to gain control of the fight response of my sometimes-volatile nature.

I tried to rearrange my face into something a little less antagonistic, and forced myself to concentrate on the words JT was saying.

“—trying to tell you. I’m back on vacation, and besides, I work for Minneapolis, not St. Paul PD. I don’t have a professional stake in this, Shay. We don’t know anything for certain, so there’s nothing I can act on, and Jesus, you’re my partner. You’re my heart. You think I’d throw you or your father to the wolves?” She shook her head. “That was cliché, but you know what I mean.”

Everything came back into focus. JT’s pale, drawn features, the dark hair that had worked loose from her ponytail and floated gently around her face. Her eyes, eyes that conveyed concern, frustration, and yes, love.

I heaved a huge breath. I was still confused, but not about the love part.

“How many times,” JT gently said, “am I going to have to defend my intentions to you?”

What the hell was I supposed to say to that? “I don’t know. Integrity and honor and thirst for justice are what makes you, you. It’s what makes you such a good cop. It’s what scares me. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret in the name of love or loyalty or misguided—”

“Why can’t you see? That’s why I love you, you hard-headed conundrum. You have the same goddamn traits I do. You just wind up expressing them in a different way. You want to do what’s best in a given situation. You want to take care of those you love.”

She was right. Why was all of this so damn hard for me?

“Shay, we don’t know what’s going on with your dad. You have some facts and a lot of supposition. St. Paul is poking around, yes.” She pointedly looked at me with a raised brow. “Playing the devil’s advocate, here. What would you do if you found out your dad was guilty? If you found out he did kill this guy?”

I slid my hand into my pocket and withdrew the Intent to Purchase letter with Chuck Schuler’s damning business card stapled to the corner. I handed it over. I wasn’t sure we were playing devil’s advocate anymore.

JT scanned the document and looked quizzically at me. “You told me about this.”

I tapped the business card and watched her read the tiny words. She closed her eyes for a moment, probably regretting everything she’d said. “Okay. So this doesn’t look very good. But it still doesn’t mean much except there’s a connection between the two of them.”

“What about the blood?”

“That makes things appear a bit worse.” That was a polite understatement. “I wish I could talk to Pete.”

“You and me both.” I leaned against the booth. My back ached. My head ached. My heart ached.

“Are you ready to tell me about this cop you’ve been hanging around? The one who isn’t me?”

Oh. That little matter. “Remember Lisa Vecoli was coming with me this morning to talk to Dad’s poker buddies?”

“Yeah.”

I went on to explain that when Eddy called to tell me about my dad, I realized that things fell too perfectly into place when it came to Lisa and how she kept hanging around. That I figured she had to be a cop, or maybe was with the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. What a better way to keep your targets close than to buddy up and pretend to care? Ugh. The thought of her deceit caused my blood to boil again.

Disgust colored my words. “She’s got to be undercover. Think, JT. Have you heard of her? Seen her before?”

“I don’t recognize the name, and she’s not someone I can recall seeing before. She could be new, I guess. I certainly don’t know every cop in the state. Suppose I can discreetly ask around and see if anyone has heard of her.”

I shook my head. “At this point maybe it’s better if we lay low.”

“That’s fair enough. For now.”

It was time to be completely honest with both myself and JT. I could only pretend I knew what I was doing for so long. I glanced over at Coop and Johnny, who were doing a fine job of distracting Eddy. I was still shocked she had gotten herself so wound up. Eddy cared about my dad, apparently more than I realized, even if she was furious with him more often than not. I refocused on JT and said quietly, “I don’t know what to do next. And I still feel so guilty involving you.”

“Knock it off, okay?” JT reached over and ruffled my hair with a look filled with consternation and fondness. “All right. So, here’s what we
do
know … ”

For the next fifteen minutes we separated fact from fiction and threw ideas around. JT agreed to come with Coop and me to pay an evening visit to Mick Simon’s place and see if he was still up. I knew Limpy Dick was a night owl who spent long hours on the porch of his shack contemplating the darkness and drinking homemade hooch, so we’d swing by his place too.

In the long run, I wasn’t sure what good it was going to do to check in with Mick or Limpy; if they were involved with whatever my old man was into, we’d get shit out of them. But as JT told me at least five times while we brainstormed, it never hurt to cover your bases. I’d already started on the Poker Buddy list, might as well finish. Maybe my dad had confided in one of them. Or maybe Friday night they’d picked up on my father’s potential murderous intention.

In the morning, we decided, we’d take whatever information Coop could dig up on Norman Howard and head to Subsidy Renovations and see what good old Normie had to say for himself.

Then we’d swing by Benjamin’s Drugstore and talk to Poker Buddy 5: Hemorrhoid Harvey. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see what a man named after serious trouble in one’s nether regions was like.

EIGHT

After my confession to
JT, I scored Johnny a good wad of cash to cover the bar the rest of the week, plus a little extra for having to put up with the potential danger from quarters unknown. My dad wasn’t going appreciate my generosity, but that was too bad.

Johnny stepped up to the challenge. He called a couple of massive, probably-football-playing pals to hang out and work security in exchange for free booze. Johnny, at six-two, wasn’t someone to be taken lightly either, so between the three of them I felt reasonably sure the Leprechaun would be a safe place for the patrons. I kind of hoped the nameless thugs who’d attacked Lisa and me in the parking lot the night before would show up again and go a couple rounds with the boys. I knew who would be on the winning end of that fight.

The exchange of money for services reminded me that, cop or not, I needed to compensate Lisa Vecoli for the help she’d given me. The thought of her deception made my blood roil. That I was beholden to someone who’d lied and manipulated me really pissed me off. My propensity to hold a grudge was stuff of legend, even if it was somewhat tempered with the knowledge that the lying skank had been a huge help when I needed it the most.

Eddy was over her unexpected histrionics and was back to being the solid, dependable, sometimes scathing but always loving woman I knew. After a couple more shots of the sauce, she decided she wanted to come with Coop, JT, and me on our late-night information-gathering foray.

The air was frigid. I shivered violently as we exited the warmth of the Lep. We’d agreed my Escape warmed up the fastest, and it had the benefit of heated seats in the front. Didn’t help the rear-ends of the back seat passengers, but some was better than none.

When we were done playing our own version of cops, killers, crooks, and possible kidnappers, we’d return the next day for JT’s Durango and Eddy’s old pickup, which were parked in the Lep lot next to Johnny’s new orange Challenger. We crunched across the snow-covered lot and I eyed Johnny’s ride. Rear wheel drive and that huge engine would be a bitch in the winter, but man, the damage I could do with one of those bad boys. Maybe Johnny would let me take a spin sometime.

“Shotgun,” Eddy called out as I beeped the Escape open. “I’m the oldest and coldest.”

“You like my heated seats now, don’t you?” Initially Eddy hated the heat on her butt, said it made her feel like she wet her pants. After she plunked her ass in the warmed-up seat on a bitterly cold winter morning not long ago, she’d changed her tune.

Coop and JT slid into the back without argument.

I started the engine and buckled up. The digital clock on the radio read 9:04. “Eddy, do you know where Mick Simon lives?”

“Mick, the Vulc?”

“Yup,” I said. “Him.”

“No problem.”

Exactly how Eddy knew where he lived was something she didn’t divulge, but she proceeded to direct me out of Minneapolis, through the capital city, and down into South St. Paul. Before long, somewhere off of Concord and Grand, in a confusing mix of avenues and streets, Eddy said, “Second house from the end of the block on the right there.”

I pulled over to the curb. The house was a white stucco story-and-a-half. It was adorned with what looked like a zillion multi-colored holiday lights. Inflatable Christmas decorations dotted the roof and the fenced-in yard. A Santa popped in and out of an inflatable red brick chimney that was secured to the roof. The array was so bright it made me squint.

JT said, “Amazing.”

“I want to do that.” Coop’s tone was wistful. I bet he’d figure out a way to connect the whole shebang to his computer system and make things rock.

An enormous inflatable white polar bear crouched on the ground with his rear in the air, and two delighted penguins decked out in Santa hats and little blue and red scarves used his back for a sledding hill.

The centerpiece of the electric, inflated menagerie was another Santa wearing a pair of black goggles sitting in a fire-engine sleigh that was pulled by eight reindeer. All of them sported their own special goggles and goofy, black grease-paint moustaches and pointy beards. It was weird, but I didn’t expect less from Mick. Once a Vulc, always a Vulc.

“What are you kids waiting for? Come on!” Eddy bounded from the Escape like a jackrabbit and headed for the front gate. Apparently her earlier emotional trauma had left her no worse for wear.

“Come on,” I repeated. We piled out, following Eddy’s trail over the bumpy sidewalk. The roar of the motors running to keep the displays alive was almost deafening. I wondered what the neighbors thought.

Eddy flipped the latch on the gate and was on the stoop before the rest of us even entered the yard. She pulled off a fur-lined mitten and poked the doorbell. The resulting, muffled
ding-dong
reverberated inside.

A light glowed from a side window of the house, but the windows facing the front were dark. Eddy pushed the doorbell again.

Coop said, “I don’t think—”

“Hush, child,” Eddy told him. The door rattled, accompanied by a couple of thunks that sounded like deadbolts retracting. The door creaked open and a wrinkled face peeked out from beneath a chain. “Who’s—Eddy!” a gravely voice yelped.

The woman sprung the chain and flung the door open. Coop, JT, and I stepped back in alarm. A rotund, white-haired woman in a flowery housedress charged across the threshold. She screeched to a halt in front of Eddy, who was grinning widely. They exchanged an enthusiastic, complex handshake/knuckle-bump/hand slap.

I should have guessed: Mrs. Mick Simon was a Mad Knitter.

In a flash, we were invited inside. The front room was dark, Mrs. Mick explained, so no stray lights tainted the “holiday experience” outside.

Before I knew what was happening, we were lined up on benches around a large kitchen table. The room smelled faintly of burnt cookies and lemon cleaner.

As Mrs. Mick hustled around making hot chocolate, Eddy briefly introduced us and proceeded to pepper the woman with questions
about why she hadn’t been to any Knitter meetings recently.
Apparently Mrs. Mick’s youngest daughter had recently had a kid. After the requisite oohing and ahhing at pictures in a baby book, and listening to a rapid rundown of the status of each of the four Simon kids, Eddy asked, “Where’s Mick?”

Mrs. Mick said, “I haven’t seen much of him for the last two days. He’s probably at the Vulcan warehouse in St. Paul working on something for the carnival. He gets a bit over-focused this time of year.”

Mrs. Mick plunked a mug with steaming, frothy liquid in front of JT, who said, “Thank you, Mrs. Simon—”

“Please, it’s Leona.”

“Leona,” JT began again, “have you seen or spoken with Pete recently?” JT pointed at me. “Shay’s dad?”

“Petey? Oh.” Leona’s features rearranged themselves into a thoughtful expression. “No, I can’t say that I have. Why?” She finished doling out the drinks and settled herself into an armchair at one end of the table. If she thought it odd we were paying her a visit this late, she didn’t show it. However, I felt a little like we were in the middle of some crazy
Twilight Zone
episode.

I said, “My dad is having some … ” I searched for the right word. “Problems. I was hoping he might have said something to Mick about what the trouble was.”

Leona noisily slurped her beverage and plucked a napkin from a holder in the middle of the table to dab at the corners of her mouth. “Mick hasn’t mentioned anything to me.” Leona’s brows drew together, and the tip of her tongue poked out the side of her mouth. She said, “Come to think of it, a couple of months ago, Mick did tell me that Pete was having some issues at the bar.” She squinched an eye shut and tapped her fingers on the tabletop. “What was it he said? Something about Petey and money. Repairs Petey needed to do at the bar, I think.”

Coop said, “Did he say what the repairs were?”

Leona shook her head. “No, he didn’t specify. Mick told me he offered to float Petey a loan, but the ‘goddamned drunk’ turned him down flat.” Her words slammed to a screeching halt and her hands fluttered like out of control fireflies. She gave me a wide-eyed look of alarm. “Sorry, Shay, dear—that’s just what Mick said. You know how those boys can be.”

“No offense taken,” I mumbled.

“In fact,” she said, “I think they argued about it. Mick felt whatever had to be repaired—I do admit I wasn’t exactly paying attention when he got going—was serious, and Petey’s pride got in the way. My Mick was pretty riled up after that conversation.”

Yup, that sounded like my father. I wondered, too, exactly how mad Mick had been. I couldn’t see him hurting anyone, but you never knew what could happen when you added booze, gambling, stress, and testosterone.

“That Peter,” Eddy said. “He’s a hard-headed man. You think you could have Mick call Shay when he gets a chance?”

Good thinking, Eddy. One more stop and we could call it a night.

“Why, sure I can have Mick call you.” Leona patted my hand and rocked herself to gather momentum. After three back-and-forths, she made it to her feet and shuffled over to the counter for a pad of paper and a pencil, which she set in front of me. I swallowed the last of my hot chocolate and jotted down my number.

After a long Minnesota farewell that involved hugs, a couple of bathroom breaks, chatting, more hugs, more chatting, another bathroom break by someone else, and a final round of hugs, we trudged back to the Escape and huddled inside as I fired up the engine.

My entire body shook from the cold. Though we’d been inside talking to Leona, the chill had still managed to seep under my skin. When I hit the frigid air outside, my back muscles tensed, practically spasming. They went into lockdown until the seat warmer kicked in and they started to thaw out. The older I got, the more I realized I was growing tired of the long Minnesota winters, even with the distraction broomball provided. Sad.

On to Poker Buddy 4: Limpy Dick’s shack. Then home to bed.

After a fill-the-gas-tank pit stop, which included a fast smoke break for Coop, we were back on the road. I caught 94 and headed toward the border between Minnesota and Wisconsin. From there we headed north, paralleling the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River. Before long, we cruised through Stillwater, a scenic river town that clung to its main-street, hometown appeal. The artsy antiquing community drew huge crowds, especially in the summer.

Limpy Dick lived in a cabin on Highway 95 south of Marine on St. Croix. His given name was Richard Zaros, a second-generation Greek who loved his homemade ouzo and his privacy. He worked many years with my father, and they’d remained buddies after they both retired.

I vividly remembered Dick coming into the Leprechaun when I was a kid. He had a booming voice and a gentle disposition. One time I asked him if he was ever going to get married, and he said the river was his bride and that was all the partnership he needed. He was a little odd, and sometimes I wondered if he was that way before or only after he lost his various appendages.

After the accident that claimed his leg, Dick called it quits with a sizeable settlement from the barge company and moved into the house on the St. Croix River that for years he’d used as a fishing shack.

For reasons I could never discern, rumors clung to Limpy Dick like seaweed on a crusty anchor. The most notorious backyard gossip was that he’d buried the settlement money in the basement of his shack. The man did have a quirky habit of staying up very late at night, sitting on his porch in a creaky old rocking chair, a loaded shotgun within easy reach.

I knew that was true because I occasionally stayed with Limpy Dick when my father was away doing god only knew what. Probably falling gracelessly off the wagon. Anyway, we’d sit on the porch under an inky, star-filled sky, and I’d listen, riveted, as he spun crazy river tales.

Then when he was busy sleeping the morning away, I’d quietly get up and chow on stale Rice Krispies he’d leave out for my breakfast and wonder why he didn’t worry that someone might try to come in and swipe his fortune in the daylight. Maybe he felt that the dark of night called the thieves but the light of day kept them away? Come to think of it, that’s the way it usually worked.

We were close to the half-mile drive leading to Dick’s shack. It snaked through the woods on the east side of the road. The need to pay close attention snapped me out of my reverie. The dirt, snow-covered driveway wasn’t marked well, and even in the day it was a challenge to find. In the darkness, it was going to be a bitch.

After two U-turns, I spotted the narrow opening in the trees. The forest rode close enough to the Escape that I felt claustrophobic. We bumped over the rutted, snow-packed lane, and I said, “I think it might be a good idea for me to go in first. I don’t want to startle Limpy Dick.”

“It is late, almost quarter to eleven,” JT said. “Probably a good idea.”

“That’s not what Shay’s worried about, child,” Eddy said.

“What do you mean?”

“Uh, yeah.” I bit my lip, heaved a whoosh of air. “He kind of has a tendency to meet visitors with double barrels.”

“What—oh.” I could imagine her dark brows drawing together. “Really?”

Coop said, “I haven’t met him either, but from the stories Shay and Eddy tell, it’s probably a good thing if Shay goes on ahead.”

“Why don’t we call him and let him know we’re here?” I could hear the frown in JT’s voice.

Eddy said, “’Cause that old fool doesn’t have a phone.”

I pulled over to one side of the narrow trail a couple hundred yards from Limpy Dick’s shack and jammed the engine in park. Here the pines were so dense not a lick of light showed from the road, and we were still out of sight of the shack.

JT asked, “Why don’t you at least pull up to the house? Never mind. I don’t want to know, do I?”

I left the engine running and opened the door, letting a blast of frigid air invade the warm interior. “He doesn’t take too kindly to visitors. He’s got a tendency to shoot first and ask questions later.” I didn’t think JT was going to take that admission very well.