Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (15 page)

The ride home was a somber affair. Eddy kept coming up with outrageous reasons why my father may have been doused in blood. She went from a mid-winter pig slaughter to a massive bloody nose to an almost plausible bar fight. I could hear JT’s eyes rolling from the back seat. Periodically she jabbed me in the shoulder in response to something Eddy dreamed up.

Coop studiously ignored us and kept his head down, dinking around on his phone. He was probably playing a game. I admired his ability to zone out into some mindless quest that wasn’t anything like real life.

I was drained and felt like a walking zombie. If I were pulled over, I’d probably fail the touch-the-nose-and-walk-the-white-line test from exhaustion alone.

We neared Uptown and Eddy’s chatter ceased as she nodded off. Thankfully JT quit conveying her discontent with her pointer finger.

“Hey!” Coop yelped suddenly and sat up straight.

I jumped, and Eddy jerked awake.

I figured Coop was going to tell me to get a move on so he could get home and smoke, but instead he said, “Bogey Too just popped up. He’s back from getting his sniff on Norman Howard.”

JT said, “Maybe we’ll get some real information.”

I glanced at Coop’s reflection in the rearview mirror. I couldn’t see much in the dim light except his face painted ghostly pale from the glow of his phone screen, and his silhouette,
which faded in and out as we passed beneath streetlights.

“Ah,” he said. “Interesting.”

“What?”

There was another fifteen seconds of interminable nothing until Coop muttered, “Looks like Howard went to the U of M.” He paused again and my mind drifted as I waited for the rest of the rundown. Didn’t half the Twin Cities college set go to the U?

“There we go.” The satisfied tone of Coop’s voice gave me a momentary jolt of hopefulness. “I’ve got an address registered to Howard and Subsidy Renovations. Home address too, if we need it.”

JT asked, “Where?”

“Subsidy’s on West Broadway, in North, I think.”

North Minneapolis was a perpetual hotspot of ups and downs. Once a Russian-Jewish destination for immigration, the neighborhood had fallen into disrepair and disregard, with major social and economic problems that had insidiously crept in and taken stubborn hold. In recent years the area had garnered attention for drive-by shootings that had accidentally wounded and killed innocent little kids and a major tornado that had torn a three-mile path of devastation through the area, killing two and leaving the poorest residents of the city with damaged homes and a serious lack of resources.

Coop startled me out of my distracted thoughts. “We can make a call on Mr. Howard bright and early.”

“Not without me, you don’t,” JT grumbled.

We passed under a streetlight, and in the reflection of the rearview, I caught a glimpse of JT sitting back with her arms crossed, lips pressed in a straight line. She was not happy.

“Okay,” I agreed. Having someone tag along who packed a gun sounded like a very good plan.

“Hey, don’t forget me,” Eddy said. “Someone’s gotta boss you kids around. I’ll bring my Whacker. We’ll be fine.” She tried to twist in her seat to look in the back. “Coop, use your fancy gadget and find me the phone numbers to both Benjamin’s Drug and this Subsidiary place. I’ll call in the morning and find out when they open.”

Oh boy. The last time Eddy brought her Whacker, which was a mini Minnesota Twins bat, trouble with a capitol T ensued. “Subsidy,” I said. “Not Subsidiary.”

“Whatever.”

We dropped off Eddy with the phone numbers she wanted in hand, and promised to meet up with her at the Rabbit Hole at seven thirty the next morning.

When we let Coop off at his place, JT moved up to the passenger seat. We made the final jaunt home in silence, with JT’s warm fingers threaded through mine.

Troubled thoughts flitted through my mind like mosquitoes searching for their next blood meal on a hot summer night. None of this was adding up. Well, technically things were adding up, just in a way I totally didn’t want them to.

Blood on my father’s hands. A dead man killed by my dad’s own gun. Family friends not giving me straight answers. Lisa and her Pandora’s box of complicated bullshit that smelled like a cop on the hunt. My ears started to burn as I thought again about Lisa and her manipulations. I sighed loudly, and JT squeezed my hand in silent comfort.

Tomorrow wasn’t going to come soon enough.

NINE

The clock on the
wall of the Rabbit Hole read 7:34 as I followed JT into the café the next morning. Exhaustion pulled at my core, making my head feel thick. Sleep had eluded me until about an hour before the alarm went off, by which time I felt terrible. Lack-of-sleep hangovers suck.

Anna, Kate’s sister, stood at the counter chatting with Eddy. Anna was a student at the University of Minnesota and worked at the Hole part-time. A gifted athlete with a gifted brain, she was a good kid and a great worker.

Both Anna and Eddy looked up when the sound of the chimes above the door announced our entrance. One of Anna’s eyebrows spiked when she took in my sorry appearance. She spun on her heel and made for the espresso machine.

One side of my mouth quirked in a weak smile. The girl knew when I needed a caffeine infusion. Eddy looked on without a word, an amused expression on her face.

Anna was back in a blink and set two espresso cups down, one for JT and one for me. From the amount of dark liquid, they were both double shots.

“Thanks,” I mumbled. I grabbed the cup, and tossed the contents down the old hatch in one large gulp. I swore I could hear the lining of my throat sizzle, but I didn’t care. These were desperate times.

JT was more refined. She took a polite sip before saying, “Anna, you should take up reading minds.”

Anna scooped up my tiny cup for a refill.

Eddy said, “She don’t need to read minds. One look at you two dragging your pitiful carcasses in here looking like death just about steamed over took care of that.”

I cleared my throat, and said hoarsely, “How do you manage to go to bed late and get up this early looking fresh as a frickin’ daisy?”

“Language, child.” The sparkle in Eddy’s eye belied her gruff tone.

Anna handed me my refilled cup.

“Thanks,” I said.

The front door jangled. Coop shuffled across the threshold with black circles under his eyes and bed-head hair.

“Oh boy,” Anna said as she hit the espresso machine one more time. “That doesn’t look good. No luck finding Shay’s dad, I take it?”

Eddy answered before I could. “Not yet. But mark my words, we will. I already called Benjamin’s Drugstore. A recording says they open at seven. I guess that’s ’cause they know geezers like us are too old to sleep in. Nobody picked up at that Renovation place. No answering machine, either. Figured we could hit Benjamin’s, then see ’bout Renovating.”

The woman was very good at creative renaming.

Coop swallowed the last of the espresso Anna had hooked him with and said, “Need more. Much more.”

JT elbowed him in the ribs. “You get any sleep?”

“Hell no. Stayed up working. Good news is I’m caught up for a while. Bad news is I feel like shit. Getting too old for two all-nighters in a row.”

It was a scary thought when my thirty-something, video-and-role-playing-game-loving pal said he was getting too old for anything.

We vamoosed a few minutes later with steaming to-go cups in hand and crowded once again into my Escape. I pointed the nose of the SUV toward Richfield and the last Poker Buddy, and we were off.

The overcast sky looked like it was thinking about dumping more snow on our heads when we hit Benjamin’s. The parking lot was packed. Eddy had been right on when she said the early opening of the drugstore was exactly what folks of a certain age wanted. I wasn’t sure if we were going to find what we wanted from Hemorrhoid Harvey, but anything would be better than nothing.

The front doors rolled open automatically. Eddy took the lead and blew right in, with the rest of us trailing obediently along after her like a tail on a kite. We came to a stop inside the doorway.

If I didn’t have a lost father who was a potential murderer hanging over my head, I would have seen the ironic humor that was playing out within Benjamin’s walls. The place was filled with shoppers, most looking like they were into advanced AARP range. It was a little like watching a snail race, with the occasional turtle thrown in for good measure.

Some customers casually strolled through the maze of not-over-chest-high shelving filled with drugstore doodads that made up the numerous aisles of the establishment. Other customers shuffled along with the aid of simple walkers or those fancier rolling versions with cool hand brakes. Yet others cruised the traffic lanes with dangerous abandon on electric scooters.

On one hand you had to be careful not to accidentally bulldoze someone if you weren’t paying attention. On the other you had to be on your toes or you’d wind up the victim of a hit-and-run.

Before I could formulate our next move, Eddy said, “He’s over there,” and made a beeline for a massive man with a massive beer belly. He was dressed in a badly cut suit and a fat 1970s-era puce tie. The thick white thatch gracing the top of his skull reminded me of Beethoven on a particularly challenging hair day. The man either had very good genes or was sporting one hell of a toupee. He was engaged in conversation with a couple who looked like Auntie Em and Uncle Henry from
The Wizard of Oz
.

In Harvey’s hand was a distinctive yellow box with blue letters that could only spell out Preparation H or its generic cousin. In fact, the entire shelving unit behind Harvey was filled with various formations of the itch and burn relief aids.

Eddy arrived before the rest of us, breezing past even the speediest of the slow-moving crowd. I was alarmed to see she had her Whacker in hand as she babbled something to Auntie Em. With her free hand she reached out and snatched the box of whatever from Harvey’s grasp and shoved it into Auntie Em’s hands. Then she hooked her arm in Hemorrhoid Harvey’s and dragged him away from the rather bewildered-looking couple to a quiet corner of the store. Coop, JT, and I trailed warily along after her, not sure what she’d try next or what Harvey’s reaction would be.

By the time we caught up to Hurricane Eddy, Harvey’s eyes were wide and locked on the Whacker Eddy waggled as she addressed him.

“—so you need to tell us everything you know.” She tapped him on the chest with the bat to punctuate her request.

“Hey,” I said. I attempted disarm Eddy. “Hi, Harvey. Sorry for the interruption. My name is Shay O’Hanlon, and—Eddy!” I snapped as she tried her damnedest to twist the wooden weapon from my grasp. She’d taken on the pinched look of someone who’d swallowed something very sour, and I was worried we might have another Whacker-thumping incident on our hands.

I tried to arrange my face in an apologetic expression while we tussled for the Whacker. “You played poker the night before New—” I broke off as Eddy bent me sideways. With a heave, I won the wrestling contest and stood straight, Whacker firmly in my grip. Coop grabbed Eddy and dragged her back while I regained my composure and attempted to retain what little dignity I had left.

JT held out her hand. I slapped the bat into it and continued, “Sorry about that. I believe you played poker at the Leprechaun the evening before New Year’s Eve with my father, Pete.”

Harvey’s expression morphed from mild alarm to potential amusement now that the threat had been contained. His head bounced up and down like a bobblehead’s. “Night before New Year’s, sure did.”

I said, “Did you notice if my father was troubled? Did he talk about any problems he’d been having recently?”

Considering the question, Harvey crossed his arms and rested them on his generous paunch. “For months he’s been going on and on about the problem in the basement. You know what I’m talking about?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Anything else?”

“Oh, he was caught up, with New Year’s and the bar and whatnot.” Harvey lifted his shoulders. “Otherwise it was a regular game, like always. Why do you ask?”

I gave Harvey a very vague explanation of my missing parental unit, backed away, and thanked him. We turned toward the front door.

“Say, Shay,” Harvey called after I’d taken a few steps.

I stopped.

He said, “I was the last to leave that night. Pete mentioned he wasn’t feeling quite right. I asked him if he needed anything, and he said no, so I left. Don’t know if that helps, but I hope he’s okay. Let me know. He still owes me twenty bucks.” Harvey winked.

I nodded, and we carefully made our way to the front and exited without further incident. My dad wasn’t feeling quite right, huh? Too much booze? Or was something else going on that I was missing? Was Dad sick? Frustration filled me up, made my stomach churn. I wanted to be in Duluth with JT, not here trying to unravel this god-awful mess. Nothing was working out the way I wanted it to.

Our trip to North Minneapolis was short-lived; a note taped to the front door said Subsidy Renovations had relocated to White Bear Lake. An address was listed, but no phone number. White Bear Lake was a bedroom community a short distance north and a little northeast of the Twin Cities. On the ride there, we tossed around what we wanted to get out of the visit. Number one on my list was to ask why the hell Subsidy was being so persistent in trying to get my dad to sell the bar. Number two, I wanted to know if this Norman Howard was the one who was responsible for the ongoing threats, vandalism, and violence. With any luck, this visit would shed a little light on something. At this point, anything would be good with me.

I fought the last dregs of rush hour and at about nine thirty we pulled up in front of a sizeable two-story clapboard house that had been renovated and rezoned for business. The four of us entered the foyer en masse, this time without Eddy’s Whacker. I don’t know where JT had hidden it, but I was grateful for its absence.

The house smelled of age and dust. Cream-colored plaster walls needed a coat of fresh paint and some substantial patching. Worn plank floors would probably come back to life if they were sanded and sealed. They creaked under our feet. This place sure didn’t scream
renovation
to me. Doors, some with business names stenciled on the outside and brass numbers attached at eye level, lined a long hall. A surprisingly elegant stairway toward the rear led to the second floor, testament to what had once been an enormous, stately home.

A well-used two-by-three-foot blackboard with tenant names hung on the wall next to the entrance showing a number of blank spots, probably office spaces available for rent.

Coop walked over and ran a finger down the list. “Here. No Subsidy Renovations, but Norman Howard is written on a piece of masking tape. Number 203.”

“Classy,” Eddy said.

We hit the stairs. Each step protested loudly, and I wondered if the racket interrupted business being conducted behind closed doors.

Office space 203 was two doors down on the right, past Stellar Photography and Ernest Bail Bonds. 203’s door was void of the business name.

I raised a hand to knock, but Eddy darted under my arm and turned the doorknob. It was unlocked and she pushed the door inward. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t what I saw. The office was maybe ten-by-eight, probably at one time a bedroom. Water-stained, dark wood panel walls were bare, although nails protruded here and there, evidence of long-gone decorations.

The only furniture in the room was a beat-up desk that looked like a reject from a crappy surplus store. There were no filing cabinets, not even a phone. It would be kind of hard to conduct business without a telephone. Well, maybe Howard was a cell phone only kind of guy.

Apparently customers were expected to stand, since the only chair was situated behind the desk. It was currently occupied by a thin man with limp, greasy hair that was long enough to tickle his nape. He was leaning over the desktop, a rolled bill at his nose, loudly snorting a line of white powder from the glass of an 5-by-7 frame that didn’t seem to have a picture in it.

At our unexpected entrance, Snuffy practically tipped over backward in his haste to straighten up. He growled, “What the fuck?”

Before I could draw my eyes away from the drug paraphernalia on the table, JT stepped forward, badge in hand. Damn, she was quick.

She asked, “Are you Norman Howard?”

The man’s hollow-cheeked, pockmarked face paled at the sight of the badge. “Could be,” he said slowly. “What’s it to ya?”

JT tucked her badge away. “Subsidy Renovations ring a bell?”

Howard narrowed his eyes. “I conduct a lot of business here, lady.”

Yup, it sure looked like he conducted a lot of
business
.

JT moved forward, towering over the seated Howard. She braced her arms on the edge of the desk and leaned into his space. Howard tried to roll backward, but his chair hit the wall. The whites of his eyes showed as he peered up fearfully at JT. Well, to be fair, if she did the same thing to me under the right circumstances, the whites of my eyes would probably show too. Actually they had, once upon a time. More than once.

“Now,” she said, her voice low and deadly. “I’ll ask again. Subsidy Renovations. Tell me all about it.” She glanced down and made it very obvious that she was taking in the hastily dropped rolled bill and remnants of coke or crank or whatever one snorted these days. She said slowly, “Be straight with me and maybe,” she looked back at Howard’s face and nodded at the desktop without breaking eye contact, “just maybe, I’ll let this go. If you don’t spill your guts in approximately fifteen seconds, well, I’ve got nothing better to do than spend some quality time at the Ramsey County jail booking your ass on drug possession and whatever else I can find to nail you on.”

Holy shit.

The alarmed look on Howard’s face would have been comical under different circumstances. “Hang on, hold on,” he muttered. He was probably trying to get his drug-addled neurons to fire.

“I haven’t got all day.” JT reached behind her back and pulled out a pair of cuffs. I didn’t even know she was packing them today. If it was me in that seat, I’d be spilling my guts about everything I’d done wrong since I was a snot-nose toddler.

“Okay! Take it easy. Sheesh,” Howard practically squealed and he held his hands out defensively. And they call cops pigs. “Whattya wanna know?”