My legs went weak. “Did you see her? Talk to her?”
“No and no. I’m still working, but doing what I can from this end. You need to go in the main entrance and ask for Jake Rasmussen.”
“Ty, thank you so much—”
“Don’t thank me till you’ve seen her with your own eyes. Get going. Leave a message on my cell after you’re done. I want to know how she is too.”
“You got it.”
We disconnected, and I hurriedly finished smearing the peanut butter and slapped the tops of the bread on the two sandwiches. No Nutella this time.
I wrapped the sandwiches in a paper towel and stuffed Coop’s reports in his backpack. I slung the pack over my shoulder as I made a beeline for the porch, hollering his name at the top of my lungs.
The clock on the dash read 6:19 as we pulled into the Scott County jail parking lot in downtown Shakopee. Thanks to Coop’s fast use of the mobile map on his phone, we made it in record time.
We bailed out of the truck and hustled to the front entrance. I still wasn’t used to it growing dark before eight or nine, and it was plain depressing.
The jail was a newer, two-plus-story, beige stone and metal-paneled building. It housed almost three hundred inmates and was connected to the courthouse via an underground tunnel. Coop had recited these facts to me through sticky bites of his PB but not J sandwich.
The doors opened to a rotunda. I approached the buzz-cut, blond-haired deputy on duty.
“Hi,” I said.
The deputy’s name badge read Thurston. My mind flashed back to Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island, but the beefy cop in front of me didn’t look at all like the stranded millionaire.
He said, “What can I help you with?”
I chanted the name over and over again on the way here. Now I let it rip. “Can we please see Jake Rasmussen?”
“I can let him know you’re here. Who are you?”
Coop and I handed over our identification, and he picked up a phone and dialed a number.
“Rasmussen, hey. I have a”—he paused to peer at our licenses—“Shay O’Hanlon and Nicholas Cooper here for you.”
He listened a moment, frowned at whatever was said and responded with a reluctant, “Okay.” Then he hung up.
“You,” Thurston said to Coop as he handed his license back, “need to wait here. Benches are over there.” He pointed to a couple of unadorned wood benches against a wall.
Then he addressed me. “Wait over there by that door.” He indicated one of a number of doors leading only God knew where. Nowhere, I was sure, that I really wanted to find out about.
Coop met my eyes and gave an encouraging nod. My stomach quivered and I regretted eating the peanut butter sandwich that was now a big lump in my innards.
I refocused on Thurston. Everything in my periphery felt a bit out of whack. “Do I get my license back?” I asked.
“When you come back, I’ll return it. Regulations,” he said with a shrug.
Coop headed for a bench while I crossed the polished floor and waited by the door the deputy indicated. It wasn’t more than two or three minutes before it swung open, and a tall, slender man with short, walnut-colored hair stepped out. He was wearing a short-sleeved, button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans with polished-to-a-sheen black boots. His entire bearing screamed military.
“You Shay?” His voice was deep, his speech measured.
“Yes.”
He stuck a hand out. “Detective Rasmussen. You must have some pull with Tyrell. He’s been saving this marker for a long time.”
I wondered what Tyrell had to work with to make this happen. “He’s a good friend.”
“That he is. Well, come on back. I’m sure you understand this visit needs to be kept quiet.”
“Yeah, I got that.”
I followed Rasmussen into the depths of the jail. I was usually pretty good at directions, but if he ditched me, I wasn’t sure I could find my way back out of this maze of identical hallways.
We finally stopped at an unmarked door. He produced a key, unlocked it, and waved me inside. There, sitting at a metal table in the tiny room, arms crossed, eyes granite and glaring, was JT. She was dressed in an orange shirt. I couldn’t tell for sure what she was wearing on the bottom half. Her hair was up in a messy ponytail, and her normally dusky skin appeared pale. There were dark smudges under her eyes. She was exhausted.
The moment she saw me, she stood.
“You’ve got ten minutes, Bordeaux.” Rasmussen stepped from the room and pulled the door shut behind him.
I stood frozen. Seeing JT in county lockup duds would’ve been laughable before this moment.
JT broke the spell first, moving around the table toward me. I met her halfway and wrapped my arms around her, holding on tight. I buried my face in her neck.
“Jesus, JT, what the fuck is going on?” I whispered.
“Oh god, baby.” She pulled slightly away, sliding her hands up and framing my face, her thumbs caressing my skin. “Hey, look at me.”
I turned my head and kissed her palm, then met her eyes. They had dissolved from hardass granite into the pools of rich mocha that I loved. It was then my breath hitched and I caught her lips in a fast, searing kiss. It reaffirmed our reality, our love. Us. No more second-guessing my decisions.
Then I pulled away, locking my fingers at the nape of her neck. I inhaled in one big gulp. Fought for control. “Talk. We don’t have much time.”
“I know.” JT caught my gaze once again. “I did not kill Krasski.”
“I know you didn’t.” I did truly believe that. “But why—”
“Why did I not tell you about him?” JT finished for me and sighed.
I raised my eyebrows expectantly. “Well, yeah.”
JT’s arms dropped, and she hugged herself as she backed away. The loss of her physical presence was palpable. Bright orange was so not her color.
She stared first at the ceiling, then at the door, then finally back to me. “It’s a long story. I let my emotions get the better of me, and well, I don’t want to get into it here.”
“Babe.” I took a step toward her. “I know what happened with Taffy at that church when you were a kid. Well, I know Taffy’s version, anyway.”
JT visibly paled, and I quickly moved beside her in case she
decided to pitch headlong to the floor. I pulled her toward the table, turned her around, and urged her to slide onto the hard surface. She did so without argument. I stood between her knees, one hand on the side of her neck, the other resting on her shoulder. I had no idea what to do with my usually rugged, savvy, street smart cop.
“Hey,” I said softly, tugging her chin up. “It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I should’ve explained. Way back when, when I realized you had absolutely no idea about any of that mess, I just—I just couldn’t bear to see your inevitable disappointment.”
“I think if you see disappointment in anyone, it’s just a reflection of your perception.” I gave her a gentle shake. “I, for one, would’ve done the same damn thing.” I paused a beat. “And you know it.”
JT let out a ragged breath. “I do know,” she said wearily. “My head knows that, but apparently the Catholic guilt the nuns beat into us didn’t.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You’re sure you really didn’t off Krasski and shove my pickle down his throat, right?”
That finally garnered a ghost of a grin.
I said, “I have to ask. Why on earth did you have pickle chunks and pickle stains all over your shirt?” I leaned toward her and sniffed. “I could smell it.”
“Oh God,” JT barked a harsh laugh. “That’s Robert’s smoking gun. He’s so damn sure he has me dead to rights. Asshole. Anyway, I found a different pickle slinger, and he was busy doing a Gallagher with
his pickles instead of with watermelons. With a big ass wood sledgehammer. I have to admit the pickles splattered quite impressively and I was standing a bit too close. I got sucked in watching his shtick and lost track of time.”
“So you managed to get me my ‘big, hard specimen’?”
“I did. Looked like a good one too, if you’re into that kind of thing.” Her mouth puckered in memory.
“What happened to it?”
“I lost it when I had to do hand-to-hand combat to get through those Ren Fest security people. They meant business.”
Time was ticking. As much as I just wanted to stand there holding JT, I needed to get us back on track. “Have you heard anything about a lawyer?”
Any humor in JT’s voice disappeared, her tone hardened. “No. I’ve got two problems. One, it’s the freaking weekend, and two, Clint Roberts. I swear that man—”
The door burst open, and in strode “that man” himself. “What the hell is going on in here?!” His face was beet red and his eyes were wild.
JT slid off the table and drew herself to full height. “Roberts, you really should properly meet my girl—”
“You. Are. A. Prisoner.” Roberts advanced on JT with every word. “What part of that don’t you understand?”
For a minute he looked like he might haul off and try to belt JT. I took a half step in front of her, not really sure what I was going to do if he made a move, but damn well ready to do something. In all reality, putting myself between two trained law enforcement officers wasn’t probably the smartest thing I’d ever done.
He ground out, “You are not hanging out at the local country club. Jesus. When I find out who allowed this, their ass is mine.” He turned his attention to me and shoved a finger none-too-gently into my shoulder. If it bruised, maybe I could sue. The veins in Robert’s forehead pulsated like little worms. “And you, you don’t even think about attacking me again, or you’ll wind up sitting in a cell next to her.”
Holy shit. I glared at Roberts. Poor Detective or Deputy or whatever-his-title-was Rasmussen. Then my big mouth got the better of me and ran away with itself. “What’s wrong with you? JT hasn’t done a thing. There’s a killer out there, you damned idio—”
Roberts grabbed JT by the arm and backed me against the wall, dragging JT along for the ride. He shoved his face into my space, no more than two inches from my own. “The only killer here is Bordeaux. She’s going down. You mark my words.” His lips actually trembled. Anger leached off of him in waves. He was the one who needed anger management classes.
The fury he was failing to suppress and the fact that he was whipping JT around like a rag doll, and moreover, that she was letting him, startled my already-on-edge Protector. My vision narrowed, my muscles tensed, and my body literally started to vibrate.
From somewhere far away, JT shouted. “Shay! Shay. It’s okay. I’m all right.” I blinked. Somehow she had managed to detach herself from the clamp of Robert’s hand and now stood in front of me, fear filling her eyes. I blinked again. Tracked for Roberts. Spotted him, bent over and gasping for breath. What just happened?
She shook my shoulders. “Shay.” I tore my gaze off the defective detective and focused on JT.
“Listen to me,” she said, urgency making her voice crack. “Tell Tyrell to track down Geller and Handy Randy. One of them—”
“That’s it. Bordeaux,” Roberts had recovered enough to lay his ugly paws on my girl again. “Come on, you bitch.” He hauled JT out the door, and I was surprised that she acquiesced. She stumbled as she tried to keep her feet under her.
Her snarl filtered into the room. “This isn’t the academy, dick-
head.”
I took a step, and then another, intending to go after them when I heard JT yell, “I love you, Shay. Tell Tyrell—” Her words were cut off amidst the sound of a painful grunt.
I stopped and sucked in two deep, calming breaths. Then I again headed for the door and stuck my head out. JT and Roberts were nowhere to be seen. I was alone in the bowels of hell.
ten
Twenty minutes later, I retrieved my license, reunited with Coop, and gunned the engine toward home. First I tried calling Tyrell but caught his voicemail. That wasn’t a surprise. I left a message for him to check into the two names JT had given me.
To Coop, I recounted what went down in a voice that slowly stopped shaking, and now we were mulling over Shawn Geller and Handy Randy.
Coop said, “We know about Geller. But who’s Randy and why is he handy? Does JT think they might have offed Krasski, or is there something else about them she wants Tyrell to know?
“I have absolutely no idea.”
We lapsed into silence.
Traffic was picking up on highway 169 as the Sunday cabin crowd trickled back to reality. The twentyish-mile long stretch of 169 between Shakopee and Maple Grove was one of the few expanses of freeway where the speed limit hadn’t yet been raised to at least sixty. It was a speed trap for those who weren’t paying attention, and I was sorry to count myself as one of those inattentive drivers. I’d been on the receiving end of those flashing lights more than once, so I tried to keep a careful eye on my speedometer.
A sign indicated my exit was a half-mile away. I prepared to put the signal light on and slow. “Why do you think Roberts is out to railroad JT?”
“Don’t know. How do they know each other?”
“That crack about the academy. Maybe they were there at the same time.”
“Could be.”
“Who was it that mentioned someone had gone to the Minneapolis police academy with JT?” I pressed one hand on my forehead, trying to squeeze out the memory. Then I had it. “Dimples. He called me Peaches, along with Taffy. I think I have split personalities.” I frowned. “Anyway, yeah. Peaches. Peaches Reker.”
Coop pulled out his cell. “Peaches? Really?”
I shrugged.
“So,” Coop said as he hunched over his phone. “Peaches Reker. Do you know when JT graduated from the academy?”
I did some quick math in my head. “She’s been a cop at least the last eight or ten years.”
Coop’s thumbs were a flurry over the tiny keyboard.
“How can you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Type so fast.”
“Practice.”
“You are really gonna hack the MPD? On your phone?”
Coop ignored me. Then, “Well, not exactly the MPD, just their server. Don’t see a computer in here, so I guess the phone will have to do.”
“Sarcasm really doesn’t flatter you.”
More ignoring. “There.”
A car paced us on the left, blocking me from passing a slow-moving Challenger that was directly in front of my fender. Those cars were supposed to go fast. It would fly if I were behind the wheel. I huffed in frustration. “There, what?”
“I’m in. Now to find Peaches. You don’t think she really went by Peaches, do you?”
“Good question. Wonder if Cream is her middle name.”
“Aren’t you the sly one. Peaches and Cream. Sick.” Coop messed around with the device for another couple minutes. “Okay. I’ve got two Rekers graduating at the same time that JT did. A Heidi and a Christina.”
“How’d you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Use your phone to hack a law enforcement agency.”
Coop laughed. “Ah, Grasshopper, that is for me to know, and for you to wallow in ignorance forever. Safer for you that way. Back to our Rekers. Twins?”
“Gee, thanks for your concern for my safety. And I have no idea. Could be twins. Twins do stuff together a lot I think. Could be that they both chose the copper route. Or maybe they’re not related at all. Anyway, where do they live?”
“Patience, Grasshopper.”
“Where is this
Grasshopper crap coming from? Are you watching reruns of Kung Fu?”
“Now where ever would you get that idea?” Coop grinned.
“I’m going to start calling you Eddy.”
He ignored my comment. “I’ve got the addresses. Both are in Minneapolis. Christina’s is in the Stevens area, and Heidi’s is near Lake Calhoun.”
I cut off on Dunwoody and followed it to Hennepin. “Okay, where to for Christina?”
“Uh, drive like you’re going to Loring Park.”
I followed Coop’s directions as he read them off his map. We wound up and down one-way streets, finally ending up at a two-story brick apartment building. The postage stamp lawn in the front of the apartment was brown. I pulled to the curb and killed the engine.
“So how are we going to do this?” Coop asked.
“Let’s just go on in and tell her the truth.” I considered that. “Okay, maybe the abbreviated version of the truth would be better.”
“After we figure out if Christina is indeed Peaches.”
“Good point.”
We bailed from the truck and hiked into the building. In the tiny vestibule, formerly white one-inch tiles covered the floor. Cream-colored plaster on the walls had started to crack with age. Oak woodwork surrounded the entrance and the two secure doors leading to the interior. Six-foot-long panes of glass were mounted in each door. They sure didn’t make ’em that way anymore.
The faint aroma of fried hamburger and onions lingered in the lobby. Names that had been printed out on a curling sheet of paper were taped above a call box. I ran my finger along the list. Two-thirds of the way down, I found C. REKER—#23.
I pushed the pound sign and then the digits on the pay phone–like button pad. The vestibule echoed as a screechy sound blared out from a two-inch speaker below the keys. One, two, three, four rings. No answer.
“Maybe she’s working,” Coop said.
After another round of annoying rings, I disconnected. “Damn. I guess we go try Heidi.”
Shay O'Hanlon Caper 03 - Pickle in the Middle Murder Page 12
