Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder (17 page)

“How’d you get there, Rocky?” I asked.

“Ms. Agnes’s nephew, Basil Lazowski, better known to you as Baz the Spaz, gave us a ride here in his very scary 1993 Chevrolet Corsica that used to be midnight blue. Now it has more rust than paint. He was going to bring us home, but then he saw a kiosk for the Grand Casino and he left for Hinckley, Minnesota. But it is okay. It was not pleasant to see the pavement through the holes in the floorboard of his vehicle. And it was very cold. I am trying very hard to like him, but it is difficult.”

I think I heard Eddy actually cuss, albeit under her breath. It sounded a lot like
son of a bitch
, but I couldn’t swear on it. She did grumble somewhat louder, “That no good, Basil. I’m going to have to have a talk with that little conniver. Don’t you worry, Rocky. I’ll come and get you two. Where should I pick you up?”

“Come to the east ramp. That’s the ramp that faces Wisconsin. Not the one that faces South Dakota. Go to the New York level. We will be right by the pedestrian bridge that allows us to cross from the parking lot to the mall in comfort and safety, so we don’t get run over.”

“Gotcha,” Eddy said. “I’ll see you two in a half hour, maybe forty-five minutes.”

“Thank you, Eddy Quartermaine. Did you know that seven Yankee stadiums can fit inside the mall? And it’s seventy degrees inside year-round.” There was a click and then dead air.

We all stared at Coop’s phone for a beat before he picked it up and tucked it away. “Guess he was done.”

Eddy pulled some bills from her wallet and tossed them on the table. “Happy New Year. Lunch is on me.”

We dropped a chorus of thank-yous. Eddy waved her hand at our appreciation. “Drop me off to get my car at the Lep, and you kids go put the squeeze on that Hasford guy.”

“Hanssen,” I said.

“Whatever,” Eddy said. “Go squash something useful out of the man.”

ELEVEN

After dropping Eddy off,
we headed for Vadnais Heights, a northern suburb of St. Paul. Along the way we discussed our interview strategy. We decided JT’d take the lead, since that had worked so well with Norman Howard.

The office was in a neat, single-level complex that looked like it had recently been rehabbed. Half of the six storefronts were empty,
For Rent
signs in the windows. A guy by the name of Myron Erle, Certified Accountant, occupied one of the spaces. Another was filled by a tiny—and I mean
tiny
—Hmong grocery. Looked like it would be a challenge to turn around once you set foot inside. However, from the number of people entering and leaving, they were doing a brisk business, even in the early afternoon.

Apex PAC took up the end space.

A huge pile of snow sat in the far corner of the lot, occupying at least eight parking spots. It was the perfect snow mountain. I flashed back to winters as a kid where I’d spend most of my playtime outside, making tunnels and forts under the white stuff. It would be nice to be able to hold onto that winter wonderland feeling instead of dreading it.

I wedged the Escape between a newer Honda Accord and a tricked-out 1980s Caprice Classic with pimp-mobile tires and fuzzy pink dice hanging from the rearview mirror.

JT said, “Let’s go.” She got out of the Escape and headed for the door and pulled it open.

As we stepped inside, it felt like we walked into a sauna. They must have had the heat cranked up to eighty. If we stayed here for any length of time, I might actually thaw out.

The office space was at least twice the size of the grocery. The area was divided by gray-colored partitions into a number of separate cubicles on one side and a large open space on the other. The low tones of numerous voices hummed in the background. I imagined volunteers on the phones trying to talk their marks into whatever objectives this particular organization had.

The open side of the office had an eight-foot table by the wall along with five filing cabinets next to it lined up like metal soldiers. The table was covered with stacks of papers, boxes of envelopes, three telephones, a couple staplers, tape, paper clips, and other miscellaneous office supplies.

Along the back were two closed doors, probably to additional office space or restrooms.

A tubby man with a pockmarked face and a graying goatee sat at one end of the table, an envelope in one hand and a tri-folded sheet in the other. I blinked twice at the black polka-dot bowtie and black suspenders he wore over a crisply starched pastel green shirt.

He looked up at our entrance. “That was quick. I didn’t realize the agency sent out help this fast.”

JT stepped up to the man, flashed her badge, and slipped it back in her pocket. “We aren’t from an agency. And you are?”

I had to admit it was a hell of a rush to watch my girl in action.

“I—uh, you’re not—oh.” The man stuttered a moment and then fixed his eyes below JT’s neck, where her unzipped leather jacket gaped open at her throat. He said, “I’m Tab Tindale. What can I do for you?”

JT leveled her cop “don’t even think about lying to me” look on him. On his forehead, actually. She said, “We’d like to speak to Phil Hanssen.”

“Phil? He’s out back having a break.” Mr. Tindale hadn’t managed to peel his eyes away from JT’s chest. It wasn’t like she was all that well endowed, and most of her was covered up, but apparently that didn’t matter.

I might have felt insulted on JT’s part if I didn’t think it was pretty funny. I hadn’t seen anyone so blatantly mesmerized by a pair of knockers since we had to ask a customer to leave the Rabbit Hole and not come back because he couldn’t carry on a conversation with any female over the age of three. He’d literally forget what he’d be saying as his eyes wandered where they didn’t belong. Eddy finally couldn’t take it any longer. She threatened him with her Whacker and booted his ass out. The man probably would have died if he’d gotten a glimpse of Ms. Mad Nail Filer’s boobs at Schuler’s office.

“Mr. Tindale!” JT barked and snapped her fingers next to his head.

“Oh!” Tab Tindale’s head bobbed up and he peered at JT’s face. “What was that?”

“Can. You. Please. Get. Him?” JT said softly, carefully enunciating each word.

Tindale fluttered the envelope in his hand toward the far wall. “Through that door on the right. Down the hall and out the back door.”

I wondered if JT ever wanted to pull her gun on guys like this.

“Thank you.” She took off in the direction Tindale indicated. I could tell by the tone of JT’s voice that her patience with idiots was being sorely tested.

Coop and I followed JT down a short hall and through the back door. The resulting blast of cold air stiffened my back and my body involuntarily shuddered. I tried to force my shoulders to relax.

T
here was a narrow alleyway between the building and a seven-foot tan fence that ran the length of the property. A green dumpster sat at one end of the alley, and it was overflowing with garbage bags and other trash. Someone had apparently forgotten to pay the garbage guys lately.

A six-foot-tall man stood facing the dumpster, speaking in angry tones into an old-style flip cell phone. He had a rangy build and salt-and-pepper hair. A khaki-colored topcoat billowed around his knees in the breeze. He stopped talking long enough to take a deep drag off a cigarette he held cupped in one hand, then resumed whatever tirade he was in the midst of.

JT locked on our prey like a guided missile. She marched right over and tapped him on the shoulder.

The man glanced back at JT, then slowly turned around. From the sour expression on his face, he wasn’t too happy at the interruption. “Whaddya want?”

JT did her super-fast flash-the-badge thing again and said, “Phil Hanssen?”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“Sir,” JT said politely now that she had his attention, “we have some questions for you.”

The man narrowed his eyes and into the phone muttered, “Let me call you back.” He snapped the phone shut and focused on JT. “What’s this about? Can’t you see I have a business to run here?”

Yup, it sure looked like he was conducting complicated business transactions by the dumpster. He sounded a little like Coke Up the Nose Normie.

JT said, “We have some questions regarding the nature of your association with Norman Howard.”

“My association with Norman—my brother-in-law? What do you want with that joker?” Hanssen took one last puff from his smoke and flicked it into the dumpster. I wondered if it would ignite the multitude of cardboard stuffed inside the bin. What a jerk-o-saurus. And someone needed to implement a recycling program here, pronto.

JT said, “Does the name Charles Schuler ring any bells?”

The man blinked a couple of times, probably trying to keep up with the subject change. “Charles Schuler? No. I don’t know any Charles Schuler.”

The man’s voice rose, and I noticed his face had turned redder than it had been seconds ago. Or maybe it was naturally ruddy and I missed it on the once-over. Hard to tell in these temps.

My own level of adrenaline was rapidly increasing as I watched the interview play out. My hands trembled, but not because I was still feeling the cold. I flexed them and tried to relax. It wouldn’t be a good thing to lose my temper now, especially since we hadn’t yet gotten anywhere with this dude. But between two dead bodies and a missing father who may or may not have committed homicide, the impotent anger and confusion that I’d stuffed away from the very beginning began to rear its ugly little head.

JT propped her hands on her hips. “Why did you hire your brother-in-law to pressure Pete O’Hanlon into selling his bar?”

“What?” Hanssen spluttered. “I did no such thing.”

JT took a step toward him. He took a step back. I drifted along beside her, and Coop was right behind us. My heart began to pound harder, and air became thick.

“I beg to differ, Mr. Hanssen.” JT’s voice took on a flat cadence, something I had never heard before. “You told Norman Howard you’d pay him good money to rattle O’Hanlon and convince him to sell his bar.” She moved right into his face and said in a low, venomous voice, “Why?”

Hanssen’s back was now pressed against the dumpster. Between the three of us, he was penned in. He held up a hand. “I don’t know this O’Handle, and I did not try to convince anyone to sell some dive.”

The O’Handle crack did it, but the
dive
part probably helped too. The tenuous rein I’d had on my temper since the initial phone call from Whale asking where my father was snapped. I hip-checked JT out of the way, grabbed the lapels of Hanssen’s overcoat, and yanked the man toward me.

“Listen, asshole! The name is O’Hanlon, you lying sack of shit. We know you hired Norman Howard to harass my father into signing over his business. Now we want to know why.” I gave him a good shake.

Hanssen’s hands came up and he grabbed my wrists, his eyes wide.

I said, “That bar is his goddamn livelihood. Why?” Nothing like a little bellowing to get someone’s attention. I waited a couple of breaths, but no answer was forthcoming. I hauled Hanssen forward, then stiff-armed him against the dumpster a couple of times. None too delicately, either.

Rational Shay was fading fast. My field of vision narrowed to encompass only Hanssen. “Tell me what you did to my father, you stupid son of a—”

Suddenly I was jerked backward and nearly lost my footing. My hands were still fisted into Hanssen’s coat, and he came right along with me.

I heard shouting, but I couldn’t make out the words over the roaring in my head.

The tunnel vision vanished, and I was back in the frigid alley. Coop stood behind me, his arms wrapped tight around my shoulders, my back pressed against his bony chest. JT was yelling my name, her body half-wedged between Hanssen and me.

With a strangled oath, I shoved Hanssen away from me and let his jacket go. He crashed into the dumpster and lost his balance, arms flailing as his hard-soled shoes slipped and slid on the ice. He’d have gone down if JT hadn’t grabbed him.

JT leaned into my face, her eyes locked on mine. “Easy, Shay.”

“I’m fine,” I sucked in a breath of chilly air. “I’m just fucking fine.”

She glanced over my shoulder at Coop. “Don’t let her go.” She turned and dragged Hanssen toward her with one hand. He reminded me of a rag doll Dawg and Bogey had gotten a hold of once. They ripped it to pieces. I held back an insane bubble of laughter at the thought that JT might do some dumpster thumping herself.

Hanssen’s complexion had gone from flushed to ashen, and his eyes practically popped out of his head as they bounced back and forth between JT and me.

“Look at you,” I jeered. I struggled for a moment against Coop, more for effect than anything else. “You’re nothing but a creampuff crybaby.”

JT spun on me, her dark eyes flashing in warning. I did not want to get on the wrong side of
that
look. I held my hands up, palms out. “Sorry.”

She returned her attention to Hanssen and released her grip on him. She drew herself up and crossed her arms, command presence rolling off her. Even with his height advantage, JT was downright intimidating. She said in a low voice, “You better tell us—right now—what’s going on. Or I’m not going to stop her next time. She gets very violent when she’s upset. And she’s really upset.”

I wriggled hard against Coop again. It was gratifying to watch Hanssen flinch. He indignantly whipped both hands down the front of his coat in an effort to smooth the creases. “Whatever. Just keep that crazy bitch away from me.”

“Let’s try this one more time,” JT said. “Tell me why you were pushing Pete O’Hanlon to sell the Leprechaun.”

“Jesus Christ.” His face scrunched up, and it looked like he was either waging an internal debate or was having a bad gastrointestinal moment. “If I could get
O’Hanlon
,” he snarled at me, “to sign on the dotted line, it was worth a lot of dough, okay?”

“Let go,” I whispered to Coop, and slid out of his grasp. I stepped even with JT and said, “All of this is about money? What in the hell could my father’s bar be worth to you?”

Hanssen tilted his neck to one side and the other before he said, “A half mil.”

I almost snorted. Someone was fronting five hundred grand to force my father to sell out? That was insane. I said, “Why?” at almost the same time JT said, “Who?”

For a moment Hanssen’s gaze flicked between JT and me as if he were trying to figure out which lunatic he should answer first. “Look. I don’t ask questions. That leads to problems. I don’t know why, okay?”

JT said, “How about the who?”

Hanssen rolled his eyes.

JT unzipped her jacket and pushed it back far enough to let Hanssen get a gander at the gun on her right hip. That kind of encouragement would’ve worked on me.

And it worked on Hanssen. He said, “Oh for god’s sake. Easy with the hardware. Limburger Larson, all right?”

“Who?” I asked. “I don’t know of any Larson who goes by the name Limburger.” I glanced pointedly at JT. “Do you?”

“Nope,” she said. “How about it, Coop?”

Coop shrugged. “Guess I missed out on that Larson somewhere along the line.”

“You three are regular wise guys, ain’tcha? Roy Larson hired me to … well, to encourage O’Hanlon to sign the bar over. Okay? Jesus.”

I was pretty sure I did not hear that right. For a long moment no one said anything.

Coop said derisively, “Kitty Litter Roy Larson? He hired you to strong-arm Pete into selling the Lep?”

My brain was trying hard to link the King of Feline Elimination to the violence that had been heaped on my dad, and incidentally on me and Lisa, but I couldn’t make the leap.

I said, “That’s bullshit. My dad and Roy Larson go back years. There’s no reason Roy would want the Lep. My dad bought it
from
him. That makes no sense.”

“Listen lady,” Hanssen whined, “I never said anything was gonna make any goddamn sense. It is what it is.”