Last Shot (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator, Book 6) (8 page)

We were sipping coffee i
n the office the following morning. Louie was checking his watch every other minute because he had another DUI court date at eleven. The courthouse was only a five-minute drive away.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums
up the place. Last time I was there the beer was warm and the employees were cold.”

“Pain in the ass is what they were,” I said.

“No argument, just think how it would be to work in that joint. So what’s your next stop?”

“Next stop
? I’ll check with her former neighbors, maybe go up to that office suite in the Bremer Tower. I don’t know.”

“You going to talk to
that Driscoll guy?”

“I don’t see any point, at least not until I can get a little more background information. As it stands now
, what can I say to him? A woman you fired over the phone for being unprofessional stole files from your firm. She’s dead now, but before she died she told me she was in a relationship with you eight years ago and that you have a tattoo. Not exactly earth shattering and let me just make a wild guess that old Gas wouldn’t talk to me anyway. She did steal files, he does have a tattoo. So what? As much as I may believe what she told me, there is nothing in Desi’s version of the story that I can prove.”

“Doesn’t sound too promising,” Louie said.

“You think?”

Louie headed off to the courthouse a ha
lf hour later. I decided to dial the number for Touchier and Touchier, only because I couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“Gaston Enterprises,” a perky voice answered.

I was caught off guard.

“Oh
, I’m sorry, I must have misdialed.”

“We
re you attempting to reach Touchier and Touchier architectural firm?’

“Yes, I was.”

“Our name was changed a few months ago. The name change still confuses a few people,” she said.

‘Still confused’
seemed to cover me on just about any morning.

“How may I help you
, Sir?”

“I’m trying to reach Helen Olsen, in you
r HR department.”

“Helen Olsen?”

“Yeah, in HR. Well at least she was in HR a few years back. Maybe she’s moved to a different area.”

“I’m sorry
, Sir. I’m not aware of anyone by that name in our organization. What was this in relation to?”

I didn’t think ‘murder’ was a suitable response.
“Maybe if I could speak to someone in your HR department?”

“Certainly…
connecting you now, Sir. Enjoy your day.” Click.

Whoever the
polite, perky receptionist was, she wouldn’t have fit in at Nasty’s. My transferred call was picked up on the third ring.

“
H.R. this is Dawn Miller.”

“Hello Dawn, my name is Dev
lin Haskell. I was attempting to reach a woman, who at one time, worked in your HR department. I’m wondering if perhaps she moved to another area or possibly married and changed her name.”

“Who were you trying to reach
, Sir?”

“Her name is or was
Helen Olsen.”

It was
suddenly a repeat of the previous night. I could feel the freeze coming through the phone. “There is no one by that name in our organization.”

“M
aybe she changed her name and…”

“If she had
. I would certainly be aware of that, Sir. No one by that name is employed by this organization.”

“Was she at one time? If there was a way I could get hold of her I…”

“I wouldn’t have that information, Sir. And even if I did, our privacy policy would prohibit me from providing that information to you.”

“But she did work there, at one time, in your Human Resources department?”

“Your name again, Sir?”

I couldn’t see any benefit to alerting this woman, Gaston Driscoll or anyone else for that matter to who I was.

“Thank you,” I said and hung up.

I took a wi
ld shot and Googled Helen Olsen. The first hit I got was a women living in the United Kingdom. I stopped searching after seven pages and hadn’t even scratched the surface. I’d have to refine my search.

I left the office and drove over to
Fairmont Avenue. Desi’s former home was in a trendy area of town loosely referred to as Crocus Hill. I knocked on eight doors and got three answers. The first woman had moved in two years earlier and knew nothing. The second woman had lived there for fifty-six years and knew even less.

The third woman
was attractive, looked to be in her mid-fifties and appeared to have all the time in the world to talk. She introduced herself as Libby. She thought a moment then said, “She was the one who got into all that trouble, right?”

We were
standing on her front porch, a wood floored thing which ran across the entire front of the house with a white porch swing hanging at the far end. The house was three stories tall, cream-colored with green trim and a flowered-patterned stain glass window above the large front picture window. Her front door was actually a pair of heavy, dark-stained oak doors with a glossy finish and shinny brass door knobs. She was leaning against the door that was still closed.

“She was involved with the removal of
some documents from her place of business,” I said. “The documents were never recovered. There was a question regarding proper access to the documents.” I thought it a good idea to skip over some of the more negative aspects of Desi’s situation.

“Well
, you left out the little fact of a bank robbery. The Federal Reserve no less. Then there was that bizarre situation where they found that little character on the steps of the Cathedral. If I recall, the money, millions, were never recovered. If it wasn’t the largest robbery in the state’s history it certainly ranks in the top two or three.”

“That’s
probably correct.”

“Sad…
we were all quite surprised. She was quiet and kept to herself. An architect, right?”

I nodded.

“If architecture is anything like the legal profession, she worked long hours. My husband is a lawyer. He used to come home and work some more, collapse, then right off to work again. It’s no wonder we never saw the poor thing. Are you representing her?”

“Sort of.”

“Please give her my best. The whole situation seemed rather strange. I still have a difficult time believing she was involved.” She looked across the street and up two doors to the house where Desi used to live.

“Can you give me any idea of what she was like? You know, when she was living across the street from you.”

“Actually no, I can’t. We waved at one another, but I really only saw her maybe a couple times a month. I can’t recall ever having a conversation. She always looked like she was either going to or coming home from work. We maybe chatted about something at a neighborhood Christmas party for a brief moment, nothing memorable. You know how it is.”

“Did she ever have any
visitors?”

“Visitors?” she asked and sort of gave me a look out of the corner of her eye.

“Boyfriends, girlfriends, did she throw parties?”

“No
, nothing of that sort. At least that I’m aware of. Like I said, she was very quiet and kept to herself. Then one day there was a For Sale sign out front and she was off to Federal prison. Honest to God, St. Paul, I’ll tell you,” she said, shaking her head.

I thanked her for talking with me
, gave her my card and drove down to the Bremer Tower. It was a sign of the times in downtown St. Paul that I was able to get a parking space right across the street from the building.

Back in the sevent
ies, the city, in its wisdom, connected most of the downtown buildings with a series of second-story pedestrian walkways known as the Downtown Skyway System. The idea was to provide a way to walk around downtown without having to deal with the climate extremes of Minnesota.

This helped to accomplish
two things. In maybe eighteen months it killed off most of the street-level retail businesses. Then it dawned on people that a good portion of the office workers lived in the suburbs. In the morning, they drove into work. At the end of the day they quickly fled the scene and in the process it killed most of the retail business on the skyway level. Now, other than the occasional insurance or state office, the only things left were luncheon food courts and white-washed windows hiding empty retail space.

I rode the elevator alone
up to the twenty-fourth floor of the Bremer Tower. Suite 2405 was a short walk down a very quiet hall. The suite was empty and the door was locked. There was a window of reinforced glass along the left hand side of the door. A sign with rental contact information was taped to the inside of the glass.

The suite
seemed to consist of a small central reception room with entrances to maybe three offices. Beige carpet, lighter beige walls and dust along the window frame gave the place a sort of blank canvas look. It appeared to have been empty for quite some time and wasn’t the only empty unit on the floor. I counted four on my return trip to the elevator.

I was back in the office
, thinking about my wasted day and wondering if it was too early to head over to The Spot when the phone rang.

“Haskell Investigations,
” I said, then waited a long moment. “Hello?”

“M
ay I speak to Devlin, please?” a woman asked.

“You got him.”

“Are you the guy who was kicked out of Nasty’s last night?”

“I’m not sure I was kicked
out, maybe just nicely asked to leave. It was a misunderstanding. Who’s this?”

“Devlin, my name is
Marsha Norling. I got your card from Evelyn, the bartender on duty last night.”

“Oh
, yeah, the always charming Evelyn.”

“Usually not how she’s described. Anyway, s
he said you had some questions about Desi. Maybe I can help you.”

“
Marsha, I’d love to talk with you. Could I meet you somewhere? Tonight or maybe sometime tomorrow?”

“I could do t
his afternoon. I’m dancing eight to close this week.”

“You tell me when and where.”

“You know Dunn Brothers Coffee?” she said.

“There’s a couple of them
. Which one were you thinking?”

“
Grand Ave?”

“You
name the time, Marsha and I’ll be there.”

Chapter Fifteen

I was waiting for
Marsha in the Grand Avenue coffee shop. The place sat within sight of Macalester College. A school full of accomplished academics I maybe could have gotten into, but if I had I would’ve just flunked out.

The inside
of the coffee shop was crowded with people who seemed to have nothing to do and all day to do it. Every other table had someone on a laptop scanning Facebook or playing a phone app. The people talking were waxing eloquent with big impressive words, in voices just a little too loud and devoid of any hint of a Midwest accent. Marsha said she’d be wearing white shorts and a red top. I didn’t see anyone like that when I entered, so I got a cup of coffee and grabbed a table toward the back of the place that allowed me to watch both doors.

I recognized her the moment she
strutted in. Okay, she was the only woman with white shorts, tight white shorts and a red top from which her figure was fighting to burst free. Remove the perfect makeup, give her an oversized ratty knit bag large enough to hide a Volkswagen in and she could be a college student. She was missing her cowboy hat and boots, not to mention the hobby horse. Last night, when I’d seen her prancing around on stage at Nasty’s she was using the name Brandi.

She
placed an order at the counter and then looked around while she was waiting for her coffee. I gave her a wave and she nodded in my direction.

“
Mr. Haskell?” she said a moment later, setting what looked like a latte on the table and extending her hand.

“Please, cal
l me Dev. Thank you for getting in touch with me earlier.”

I noticed a couple of overly educa
ted patrons appraising her white shorts from the rear. One very slight woman with a not-so-slight mustache shook her head as if she found attractive young women with drop dead figures offensive.

“Have you had much luck?” she asked
, sitting down across from me.

“Depends on what you call luck. I’ve eliminated a number of questions and people to talk to
, but there hasn’t been that lightening bolt from the blue that suddenly provides you with all the answers. Then again, in my line of work there rarely is.”

She s
miled and nodded. “Private Investigator, it just sounds so cool, so exciting, so very dangerous.”