Mystery
Privy to Murder Shay O’Hanlon never knew the Minnesota Renaissance Festival was such a strange and bawdy event until JT Bordeaux —her badge-wearing, medieval-loving girlfriend—drags her along for a visit. The sixteenth-century faire is full of thrilling jousts, feisty wenches, and pickle vendors showing off their tasty tonsil ticklers, but Shay is distracted by the call of her full bladder. While trying to rein in her newest dog’s overactive nose, she finds a dead body with a pickle stuffed in his mouth. A real dead body. In the privy. And before Shay can shout “Huzzah!” JT is arrested for being the porta-potty body’s murderer. Together with her quirky crew of caper-solving pals, Shay must scramble for clues to free JT from the clink . . . and her troubled past.
Praise for Hide and Snake Murder : “The entourage of loveable and multigenerational characters is just right for those looking for a madcap romp.” —Library Journal
“A rip-roaring sequel. Fans of comic cozies are in for a wild, enjoyable ride.” —Publishers Weekly “Fast paced and witty. It is peopled with wonderfully colorful characters, making it a strong second novel.” –Lambda Literary
“Chandler follows up her Bingo Barge Murder with another tricky plot fully worthy of your suspension of disbelief.” –Lavender Magazine $14.99 US / $17.50 CAN ISBN 978-0-7387-2598-7
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Praise for Bingo Barge Murder “Chandler launches her first Shay O’Hanlon caper with panache. Coffee, romance, murder, and a dog all make for Minnesota nicenice.” —Lavender “Bingo Barge Murder is a solid first entry in the Shay O’Hanlon mystery series. Chandler writes with a wonderful sense of place, plenty of humor, and a crisp pace. This is a great read from the very first page!” —Ellen Hart, author of the Jane Lawless series “Chandler’s debut is fast and funny … crammed with memorably quirky Minnesota characters.” —Brian Freeman, bestselling author of Immoral “Jessie Chandler delivers a fresh murder motive in this engaging debut mystery.” —Julie Kramer, author of Stalking Susan “What do you get if you line up Shay O’Hanlon, owner of a café called the Rabbit Hole, a scrumptious police detective named JT Bordeaux, a computer genius drama queen, and a murder at the Pig’s Eye Bingo Barge? If you said a rollicking, fast-paced blackout game of mystery and suspense, I’d have to yell—BINGO!” —Mary Logue, Author of Frozen Stiff “If anything happens to me, I want Shay O’Hanlon on my side! Bingo Barge Murder is a fun read with an emotional depth that sneaks up on you. The characters are interesting and quirky and the location is unique and well-developed. I hope this is just the first of many adventures for this ‘Tenacious Protector’ and her pals.” —Neil Plakcy, author of the Mahu series of mysteries
Praise for Hide and Snake Murder “Chandler follows up her Bingo Barge Murder with another tricky —Lavender plot fully worthy of your suspension of disbelief.” “Fast paced and witty. It is peppered with wonderfully colorful characters, making it a strong second novel in the Shay O’Hanlon Caper series.” —Lambda Literary “After reading her novels, I have come to believe Jessie Chandler is the illegitimate child of Raymond Chandler and Dorothy L. Sayers. She’s funny—and she’s good!”—Lori L. Lake, author of the Gun series and the Public Eye series “Wild and wacky Hide and Snake Murder will keep readers guessing all the way to a slam bang finale.”—Carolyn Hart, New York Times bestselling author of the Death on Demand series “Hide and Snake Murder takes us to the beginning and end of the Mississippi, New Orleans and Minneapolis, capturing the quirky charm of both cities. It’s a rollicking read with an entertaining cast of funny and fascinating characters. You won’t be able to turn the pages fast enough.”—J.M. Redmann, author of the Goldie award winning novel Water Mark: A Micky Knight Mystery “Jessie Chandler makes me laugh. A talented storyteller with a deft hand at pacing, she writes rollicking, raucous adventures that are sure to entertain.” —Julie Hyzy, bestselling author of the Manor House Mysteries and White House Chef Mystery series “Hide and Snake Murder is a unique story of zany friendship, tentative romance, and the deadly face of today’s underworld.”
—Elizabeth Sims, author of the Rita Farmer mysteries and the Lillian Byrd crime series
To the staff of Borders 531. We came, we saw, we conquered, and we cried. Never fear, Barney’s Brain Train lives on, for you are within the pages of this book.
the shay o’hanlon series Bingo Barge Murder (2011) Hide and Snake Murder (2012)
Jessie Chandler A Shay O'Hanlon Caper
Midnight Ink
woodbury, minnesota
Pickle in the Middle Murder: A Shay O’Hanlon Caper © 2013 by Jessie Chandler. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. First Edition First Printing, 2013 Book format by Bob Gaul Cover design by Lisa Novak Cover illustration © Gary Hanna Editing by Nicole Nugent Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Chandler, Jessie. Pickle in the middle murder: a Shay O’Hanlon caper/Jessie Chandler.—First edition. pages cm.—(A Shay O’Hanlon Caper; #3) ISBN 978-0-7387-2598-7 1. Lesbians—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 3. Minneapolis (Minn.)—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Title. PS3603.H3568P53 2013 813'.6—dc23 2013001266 Midnight Ink Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd. 2143 Wooddale Drive Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 www.midnightinkbooks.com Printed in the United States of America
acknowledgments First and foremost I’d like to thank the staff of Midnight Ink and Llewellyn Worldwide. Terri Bischoff, Nicole Nugent, Courtney Colton, and the rest of the hardworking staff who make books happen—thank you from the bottom of my heart. My apologies to the MPD and Scott County, for taking creative liberties with the titles and duties of their ranks. Acknowledgements are hard. I know I’m going to leave out someone, or in this case, a number of someones, purely because my memory sucks. Please know how appreciated you are. Really. Alyssa, thank you for telling me you wanted to see a dead body in an outhouse in my next book. Huzzah, the Minnesota Renaissance Festival! Without the Fest, I wouldn’t have found the privy, and without the privy, we’d be back to a boring old outhouse. Rose the Candlemaker, thank you for making beautiful wax roses and Smelly Bears, and for allowing me to drop you into my story. Jill Glover, thanks for the rooster-in-the-city idea. I took it and ran! DJ, it was an excellent roller coaster NaNoWriMoing with you at the Andover Caribou. Get that kick a** manuscript out there! And to the ’Bou Crew, thank you for keeping the Cinnamon Spice tea, turkey sandwiches, and dark chocolate hot chocolate with extra whipped cream flowing. You all do a darn good job, as do all of the Twin Cities Caribou and Starbucks in which I hunker down to write. Thank you for letting me take up space and bandwidth. Pat and Gary of Once Upon a Crime Mystery Bookstore in Minneapolis, thank you so much for having such a great venue for mysteries and crime fiction, for sharing new favorites, and for anticipating vii
the next release of our favorite authors. Remember, one more book won’t hurt! To my great team of readers and revisionists, including but not limited to Judy Kerr, Mary Beth Panichi, Patricia Lopez, Lori L. Lake, Sharon Carlson, Pat Cronin, Angel Hight, DJ Schuette, Liz Gibson, Brian Landon, my writing group (the Hartless Murderers), the BABAs, and many others who I know I am forgetting— thanks from the bottom of my heart. Betty Ann, thank you for your continuing support, in so very many ways. I absolutely could not do this without you. And I forgive you for the dogs. To all the booksellers out there who sell books because they love books: you are the ones who make things happen. Last, but never, ever least, I send out a heartfelt thanks to my readers. If there were no readers, there would be no books, and that would be very depressing. Please keep reading, and don’t forget to support your local, independent bookstores.
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ON E
Nobody ever told me that a Renaissance faire would be a strange and surprisingly bawdy event. My girlfriend, JT, finally decided it was high time to introduce me to Elizabethan culture, twenty-firstcentury style. So on a glorious day in early October, she dragged me through a portal consisting of weathered, arched entry doors situated beneath a replica medieval castle gatehouse and keep. It looked good from the outside, but inside, unfamiliar sights and sounds pummeled my senses. I heard Old English accents, smelled wood smoke, and saw that more than half the people in the courtyard were dressed like they’d just time-traveled from King Arthur’s court. With roasted turkey legs. But the strangest sight was a man squirming around on his back on the hard-packed dirt next to a giant pickle barrel. A ragged vest barely covered his naked chest, and dusty brown pants were tucked into knee-high leather boots.
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He raised an enormous pickle in the air, looked me right in the eye, and shouted, “Come over here, miladies, and check out me huge, tasty tonsil tickler! It’ll fill you right up!” He waggled his brows and eyed me as through I were the last woman on earth. With a leer, he thrust his pelvis into the air. I backed away in a hurry and turned to JT. “Tonsil tickler? I hope he’s kidding. I had absolutely no idea the Renaissance Festival was so, so … ” I frowned as I searched for the right word. “Risqué?” JT cocked an eyebrow at me in amusement. A man on stilts and dressed like a king’s jester nearly knocked me down as he hurried toward the entrance. “Not just risqué. I mean, it’s strangely charming in its own sort of cheesy way.” As we listened to the pickle man’s lewd patter, I wondered how long he planned to writhe around on the ground bragging about his huge pickle. Considering the number of briny cukes floating in the gigantic metal-banded wooden barrel, he was going to be in the dirt for a while. Yet delighted fest-goers figuratively and literally ate up the pickle dude’s antics, and I decided it was a good thing he had a helper taking dollars and doling out the cukes. In all my thirty-two years, I had never had the time or inclination to attend the annual Renaissance Festival held in Shakopee, Minnesota. I was too busy with life in general and with the Rabbit Hole in particular—the coffee café I co-owned with my good friend Kate McKenzie—to take time out for Ren Fest, as the devotees call it. I thought it would be a goofy feudal fantasy world, perfect for Dungeons & Dragons types, but not for me. JT gave me a nudge, affection radiating from her warm brown eyes. “Does this shock your proper Midwestern sensibilities?” 2
“Nope. But I swear I learn something new about my straightlaced, gun-toting cop girlfriend every day.” My tone was teasing, but it was essentially the truth. Most of the time JT carefully toed the line. I truly had no idea she would be entertained by raunchy pickle peddlers, half-dressed wenches, jousting knights, and honeywine mead. Her enthusiasm was completely out of character, and although it surprised me, I loved it. The sight of her happy, relaxed smile warmed my heart. She needed this. As a homicide detective with the Minneapolis Police Department, JT worked far too many hours, stressed too much, and didn’t chill out enough. It was really hard for her to cut loose. The sun glinted off JT’s shoulder-length chestnut locks, which she’d worn loose instead of in her business-as-usual ponytail. She was easy on the eyes, but with her hair framing her high cheekbones and square, determined chin, she was breathtaking. She wore faded blue jeans and a soft, blue-and-black checked flannel shirt with rolled sleeves over a black T-shirt. Yup, definitely sizzling with a capital S. Sometimes I looked at her and couldn’t believe someone like her would still be with someone like me after nearly a year. The length of our relationship was a record on my end. My MO was usually love ’em well and leave ’em fast, but there was something about JT that turned me upside down and inside out. I thanked my lucky stars for that every day. At our feet, Dawg, my tank-sized boxer, leaned against my leg. His upper lip, as usual, was hung up on a lower tooth. He sat with his head cocked in curiosity as he watched the pickle man’s shenanigans. JT’s recent canine addition, Bogey the bloodhound, energetically snuffled the ground nearby. He was a reddish-black police school dropout, a sweet dog with a nose addiction. After Bogey’s previous owner, a rookie Immigration and Customs Enforcement agent, had 3
been murdered last spring, JT’d volunteered to take him in. We hadn’t realized the mutt’s sniffing problems went beyond simple doggy ADD. Bogey’s nasal drug of choice wasn’t cadavers, drugs, or criminals in hiding; it wasn’t missing children or hikers lost in the woods; it wasn’t cheeseburgers or even bacon. What made Bogey happier than anything else were crotches. Anyone’s. Criminal or non-criminal. Man or woman. Child or baby. His only requirement was the more aromatic, the better. The hound was a work in progress, but he was learning to control himself. The deep voice of the well-muscled pickle-hawker brought me back. “Come now, travelers. Eat me pickle. You know you want me pickle. It’s juicy and very firm and only costs a dollar.” The man tilted his head back and looked upside down at JT and me. “You know your mouth is watering to taste me big, hard, salty specimen.” “You want to taste his ‘big, hard, salty specimen’?” JT asked me. “No thanks. Maybe later. Why don’t you go ahead and enjoy all that goodness?” I cut her a smirking, sideways glance as I shifted my backpack into a more comfortable position. After living with JT for the better part of four months, I knew she was not in the least tempted by anything soaked in vinegar. “Ignore that rascal wallowing in the dirt like a beast! Come peruse the King’s Nuts!” I turned to see a nearby woman bellowing under the shade of a large tattered umbrella that sported uneven yellow stitching reading King’s Nuts. “They are shapely and crunchy. Much tastier than yon smelly gherkin.” The umbrella was attached to a faded-to-gray wooden cart loaded with nut rolls of various kinds. More bystanders stopped their window-shopping and gathered around to observe the slinging of food- and genitalia-inspired insults.
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The purveyor of the King’s Nuts wore layered skirts and a teal bodice that barely covered her chest. The constricting corset shoved her goods up so far she was close to having a wardrobe malfunction. I was afraid her boobs would explode out right into some potentially delighted but unsuspecting patron’s face. I tugged JT from the fray and we continued our ambling stroll through the sixteenth century. The sights and sounds were overwhelming already, and we’d hardly gotten past the front gate. It was odd seeing men and women playing dress-up and talking in the Shakespearean English. I wanted to find it juvenile, but deep down, I had to admit this whole medieval thing had an addictively ludicrous, over-the-top appeal. Even the shop buildings that lined the rolling edges of the treefilled grounds appeared authentic to the period. Huts with tall, gabled roofs stood proudly beside stumpy thatch cottages. The cement-like dirt ended where stones and rough wood planks had been laid as flooring within the shops. The sheer number of merchants and their varied goods sent my brain reeling. Even the store names were suggestive, like Cock ’n Dragon, which sold totally awesome rooster and fire-breathing reptilian artwork. JT elbowed me as we wandered slowly along. “Come here,” she said. She dragged me and the dogs up to a shop called Wax Werks by Rose the Candlemaker. A crowd was gathered by the front entrance. “Check it out, Shay,” JT said. I pulled my eyes from the doodads for purchase and moved over to where JT had entrenched herself in the throng. I craned my head to catch a peep of what everyone was looking at. The shopkeeper, dressed in appropriate period regalia, slowly and methodically dipped a rose in wax, in water, and then in more 5
wax of various colors. All the while, she chatted with her audience, answering questions and explaining how the whole process worked. “Want one?” JT asked. Before I could answer, the rose dipper glanced at us with a friendly smile. She looked from JT to me. “Oh, I think that is a grand idea, me dears. What is milady’s favorite color?” She looked at JT, waiting for an answer. It appeared as if I was about to have a hand-dipped rose whether I wanted one or not. “Purple,” I answered before JT had a chance to run my colorful likes and dislikes through her brain. The woman gave us a satisfied grin and went to town. As was JT’s style—and as was reinforced by her profession—she tossed casual questions at our flower creator as she worked. Before I knew it, JT had coughed up either “Master” Card or “Lady” Visa to pay for my stiff new flower. After an exchange of thanks, JT tucked the rose in the pack on my back. If you can’t beat ’em, it was sometimes best to simply go along for the ride. We followed the uneven, hilly pathway that wound through the Fest site. The sound of roaring cheers and laughter made it hard for me to hear JT attempting to explain the finer points of Renaissance fanaticism. Finally I gave up and said, “What the hell is going on over there?” “I don’t know. Let’s find out.” JT led me toward the source of the chaos. We rounded a two-story shoppe made of wooden shakes and smooth, worm-eaten logs and came upon a line of wagons ringing a baseball diamond–sized space. Between two of the wagons, a handpainted sign tacked crookedly on a post proclaimed this area the Gypsy Robin Hood Stage. Beyond the caravans, a throng of people cheered at three energetic guys performing on an elevated platform. 6
My stomach rumbled loud enough to be heard over the crowd. “I guess I’m hungrier than I thought,” I yelled in JT’s ear. She rolled her eyes at me, then surveyed the area for edible options. “Well,” she hollered back, “there’s a spinach pie place over there.” She pointed to a shop in the distance. I curled my lip. She scowled at my expression. “Okay, then. I think you can get bangers and mash.” I looked over at a shop where two bored vendors stood behind a counter with their chins propped on their fists. What did it mean when a crowd this size seemed to be avoiding the place? A subliminal message was working itself out on my psyche. Maybe there was something to be said about the pickle guy’s approach to slinging his wares. “I think I want a ‘big, hard, salty specimen.’” JT’s brow furrowed in the cutest way when she tried to figure something out. It was furrowed now as she attempted to decipher my request, although I had no idea how she could forget something as bizarre as that pickle vendor. With a laugh, I said, “A pickle, goofball. I want a pickle.” “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pregnant.” “Not on your life, my love.” I grinned as I watched JT wrangle Bogey from a nosedive toward the zipper of the pudgy man standing next to us. He was cheering at the guys onstage and didn’t seem to notice Bogey’s rude manners. Dawg woofed at Bogey, his forehead all crinkled up. Sometimes I thought he was actually embarrassed by Bogey’s wayward nose. Dawg barked again and plunked his butt down on my foot, sitting so far back that his hind legs stuck up in the air. Very manly, my Dawg. “Bogey!” JT shouted to be heard over the boisterous crowd. Bogey pulled up short, returned to JT’s side, and heaved a frustrated
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sigh. Then he plopped on his stomach and slapped his chin on the ground with a disgruntled groan that I heard over the raucous crowd. I looked at the pathetic expression on Bogey’s face. “Maybe you could find me a nice big juicy pickle while I ply these two ravenous beasties with a treat.” JT laughed. “Okay. Stay and listen to the show. I think those nut jobs on stage are the Tortuga Twins. Coop would love them if he wasn’t in Duluth with the Green Beans.” Nicholas Cooper, better known simply as Coop, was my best pal. He loved this kind of stuff, including role-playing games and other such nonsense. He belonged to an environmental group called the Green Beans for Peace and Preservation that coordinated protests and gatherings to help promote awareness of environmental and social issues. Keeping Asian carp out of Lake Superior was their latest statement-making foray. JT handed me Bogey’s leash. “Hurry up, fair wench. I’m not in the mood to wait for me vittles.” “I think vittles is more a cowboy-era term. How about victuals?” “Whatever.” I attempted a friendly cuff, but she ducked out of the way and danced backward a couple of steps. Then she blew me a jaunty kiss, pivoted, and disappeared into the crowd. “Guess it’s just you and me, boys.” I tossed my beasties some Snausages, then turned my attention to the stage. Three men, all dressed in yellow shirts, black vests, and thigh-high leather boots stomped around a plank platform. I tuned in to their chatter and caught random rants about naughty Scottish girls, fuzzy Biebers, joystick humor, and grand-theft otter. When they started in on pickle hawkers, I realized JT hadn’t yet returned with my hard, salty specimen. How long had it been? Ten minutes? Twenty? Where was my prompt cop?
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I shifted from foot to foot. Those two bottles of water I’d guzzled on the way here had filtered through my system and were now looking for a way out. From the increasing screams of the crowd, I figured the show was about to wrap up. I searched the faces of the passersby, looking with increasing desperation for my babe. Over the next five minutes, my need morphed from gotta go to must go. Now. I texted JT to ask where she was, then tried to concentrate on the show. My bladder grew more and more impatient as the seconds ticked by without a response. The excited throng ratcheted up yet again. I could hardly hear myself think. Finally, I made an executive decision to bolt before it was too late. “Come on, boys,” I said as I turned in a circle looking for the Porta Potties I thought I’d seen not far away. They’d been dubiously renamed “privies” in an effort to give them a little more authenticity. I was pretty sure the only thing authentic to the period would be the smell. Dawg bounced to attention beside me while Bogey lumbered to his feet, looking dazed. The howling behind us maxed out in volume. I was more than happy to skedaddle before the audience charged to the biffs themselves after standing immobile for the last forty-odd minutes. We passed beneath a white banner with a red hem tied to two tall posts that proclaimed the privies were dead ahead. The outhouses were situated in an oblong circle surrounded by an eight-foot plank fence. Once inside, I scoped out somewhere to stow the mutts and was relieved to catch sight of a large handicapped biff. We would probably all fit. I checked to see if there were any physically challenged people headed toward the smelly brown plastic house. Fest-goers popped in and out of the regular outhouses, but no one seemed to be in
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imminent need of the double extra-wide one. With one final glance about, we charged up to the door of the john and I yanked it open. For one stunned second, I stood frozen, mouth agape, much like one of the mimes I’d seen working the crowd earlier. Bogey bolted forward. He buried his face in the crotch of a man perched on the pot. Before I had a chance to back out and apologize, the man swayed and then started to tip forward. Bogey yelped and scrambled backward. One hundred pounds of freaked out dog tackled me ass-first, and I crashed onto my butt on the ground. The man continued his slow somersault to the warped plastic floor. Strangely, a large, dark-green pickle protruded from his mouth. The sight mesmerized me until I lost sight of it when the top of his head gently thunked against the bottom of the john. Then the rest of his body flopped sideways onto the filthy surface, facing away from me. I scrambled to my feet and reached to shake his shoulder. Oh my god. The back half of his skull was missing. It was dripping down the back wall of the Porta Potty.
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T wo
I keyed 911 into my phone with shaking hands and gave the dispatcher the particulars. Someone flagged down a Fest security guard as curious gawkers gathered. I knelt a short distance from Half-Headless Dead Guy and scrubbed Bogey’s face vigorously with wet wipes, all the while wondering where the hell JT was. She’d been gone forever, and that was entirely unlike her. Really, how the hell could this be happening? I’d seen more dead bodies in the past year than I wanted to, and they weren’t even relatives at funerals. We were at the Renaissance Festival, for Pete’s sake, not in some seedy part of town. I finished rubbing every whisker on Bogey’s just-touched-adead-guy face and remained crouched with an arm around each dog’s neck. They watched the proceedings with wide eyes. I thought they somehow sensed this was bad. Very bad. In short order, the Renaissance security platoon of marooncaped men and women in yellow tunics crawled over the place like fire ants on a hill. Everyone but me was hustled out of the area. Two of the Ren Fest’s Swiss Guard security people covered the entrance, and, just like that, this set of privies was closed. 11
One of the security people kept me company until the sheriff showed up and they could hand me over to detail the grisly facts of my find. My guard was a square-chinned young man with a neatly trimmed beard and big eyes. A stoic expression was frozen on his face, but he’d turned a little green around the gills when he first caught sight of the body. He held on for dear life to a staff topped by a yellow flag bearing a red cross, which apparently signified him as a Renaissance copper. When this was over, someone was going to have to pry his fingers off the wood. “Hey,” I asked when I glimpsed his pasty complexion. “You okay?” Without tearing his eyes from the scene in front of the handicapped biff, he nodded stiffly. I hoped he wouldn’t lose his lunch. As suddenly as I’d forgotten about it, my bladder reminded me with a vengeance that it still needed attention. “Hey, I hate to ask, but I really have to go to the bathroom.” My pal lifted a hand and pointed to a biff five steps away. I handed him the dogs’ leashes, which he absently accepted, and made a beeline. I did my business with immense relief and returned to Green Face’s side. Where on earth was JT? Cripes, if I needed anything, it was her calm, reassuring self right about now. The guards at the entry were busy waving people off. Maybe that was the problem. I said, “My girlfriend is Minneapolis PD, and she’s looking for me. Can you tell those guards at the entrance to keep an eye out for her?” “Nope. Sorry, ma’am. I can’t leave. You’ll have to wait until you speak with the sheriff ’s department.” I rolled my eyes. Wasn’t I allowed a phone call or something? Then I remembered my cell. I pulled it out, expecting guard boy to grab it, unless he keeled over first. But his eyes remained locked on 12
the dead dude. I glanced around surreptitiously and quickly hit JT’s speed dial. It rang once and then kicked into voicemail. I ended the call without leaving a message. Good grief. Anger started to spread through my veins, mixing with the sick disbelief that was well entrenched in my gut. After another five minutes, a door that I hadn’t noticed creaked open in the fence between two of the Porta Potties. Beyond it a browning, grass-covered field extended as far as I could see. It was currently littered with the flashing red and blue lights of numerous squad cars and one ambulance. “Sneaky,” I said to my still-green friend. Beads of perspiration rolled down his face. He pulled his gaze from the body and tuned into the action at the fence door. “Yeah, it’s for emergencies.” Deputies funneled into the area and swarmed around the handicapped biff. A tall cop with ramrod-straight posture stalked over and spoke to one of the Fest guards, who pointed in our direction. The man turned on his heel and steamed our way. He was at least six feet tall, with a shaved head. Lean and wiry, not an ounce of fat bulged where his gray button-down dress shirt was tucked into sharply pressed black pants. A gun and extra magazines were secured on the right side of his fashionable, rottenbanana-colored belt. “So,” he said to me as he closed in, “you found the body?” I crossed my arms and really, really wished JT were here. “Yeah, I did.” He turned to my guard pal. “Beat it, kid.” The sheriff or deputy or whatever he was tossed his chin in the direction of the gate entrance. The guard shot me a half-grateful, half-apologetic look and hustled off. 13
The cop’s Neanderthal eyebrows were bushy and blond, overshadowing watery blue eyes. I’d bet anything those two facial caterpillars would grow wild, wiry hairs that stuck out at crazy angles when he got older. The man introduced himself as Scott County Sheriff ’s Detective Clint Roberts. He pulled a palm-sized notebook from his breast pocket and rumbled gruffly, “Name?” For the next few minutes I listed my vitals while watching for any sign of JT and at the same time struggling to keep Bogey from giving the man a snootful in the nads. I was about to explain my foray into the handicapped biff when I noticed a dust-up at the entrance. I glimpsed a familiar chestnut head and realized the commotion was my wayward girlfriend. Thank God and about damn time. I opened my mouth to tell Detective Roberts that the party crasher was with me when JT managed to wiggle past the guards. She spotted me and charged toward us like a terrified bull zeroing in on an irritating picador. She skidded to a stop next to me. As soon as she laid eyes on the detective, the panicked expression on her face immediately melted into either distaste or fury, I couldn’t quite tell. Maybe both. I had just a moment to ponder that when she said, or rather, snarled, “Roberts. They have you on this?” You could’ve cut the tension with a medieval broadsword. The detective squinted at JT. “This is a crime scene, Bordeaux, and I’d advise—” “Can it. Why are you questioning my girlfriend?” I opened my mouth, but Roberts beat me to it. “It’s Detective to you. She found the victim. Therefore she needs to answer my questions.” He added sarcastically, “Minneapolis has no jurisdiction down here.” 14
A muscle in JT’s cheek bulged as she clenched her teeth, but she held her tongue. I’d never seen her act combative with anyone in her own profession. Roberts waited a moment then nodded. “That’s a good girl.” He dismissed JT by turning his back to her. JT stiffened, and for a second I was afraid she was going to go after him. Instead, she took a breath, then shifted around so she was again facing Roberts. From the way she crammed her hands deep in her pockets and pressed her lips in a straight line, I knew she was working really hard to rein her temper in. I casually slid a hand around her elbow in case she lost the fight. “Okay, Ms. O’Hanlon,” the detective said as he refocused his attention on me, “you were at the part where your dog attacked the deceased.” I said, “No, he never attacked—” “Detective Roberts,” a short, bald man dressed in a windbreaker called out, waving a brown wallet as he hurried toward us, “I have an ID on the victim.” JT pulled her hands from her pockets and propped her hands on her hips as she watched the exchange. I looked closely at her for the first time since she’d entered the crime scene. Her hair was in disarray, as if she’d flipped her head upside down and ruffled her fingers through it. Chunks of what appeared to be pickle bits were stuck to her shirt, and there were dark splotches on the material that looked wet. I wondered what happened to my salty specimen and why she might be wearing it. I leaned a little closer to her and sniffed. A sharp vinegary aroma wafted off her. “Well, give it to me.” Roberts snatched the wallet out of his tech’s hand. He stared at it and blinked. Then he blinked again. “Well, I’ll be goddamned.” 15
His eyes rose from the wallet and met JT’s fiery gaze. Without another moment’s hesitation, he pivoted and stomped through the crowd of people surrounding the outhouse and the dead guy. He knelt, and called out, “Bordeaux, you might want to take a look at this.” JT met my eyes for a brief moment. The molten chocolate that usually stared back at me was hard as black diamonds. She walked over and bent down in the doorway of the biff beside Roberts. They exchanged words and then both stood up. JT backed away as Roberts leaned toward her, grabbed her sleeve, and flicked something off. Probably a hunk of pickle. Then he pulled her closer, and took a big whiff of her T-shirt. With a jerk of her shoulder, JT yanked the material out of his fingers. Roberts thrust himself right in her face. I was too far away to hear more than bits and pieces, but I did make out “pickle” and “this time” and “finally did it.” Before I could blink, the detective spun JT around. He whipped out his handcuffs, yanked her hands behind her back, and snapped them around her wrists. The Tenacious Protector—the little thing inside me that came to life when anyone I cared about was threatened in any way—roared with a vengeance that startled even me. Without conscious thought, I bolted toward them. Dawg and Bogey were just a fraction of a step behind. The two dogs charged along as I howled out what could only be categorized as a war cry. I’d almost reached my destination when two lean, mean deputies tackled me flat to the ground. Air slammed from my lungs. I did have the presence of mind not to let go of the leashes as I hit the hardpacked earth. One cop landed square on my backpack. The thought that there’d be no way my newly dipped rose was going to survive that squashing flashed through my mind. 16
I heard JT yelling, far away and muffled, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Hands clamped tightly around my biceps and jerked me roughly to my feet. I swayed unsteadily between the two deputies. Someone yanked the leashes from my hands. As suddenly as it disappeared, clarity returned. Both dogs were barking and snarling. One of the deputies danced around trying to avoid their gnashing teeth and keep hold of the leashes. JT shouted at the dogs, and someone else was hollering at JT. Detective Roberts had his meaty hands firmly on JT’s upper arms, holding her back. “Jesus Christ,” he shouted. “Get her the hell out of here. And those damn dogs too!” I hissed in a breath, battling down the fury that continued to threaten to take my vision. “Bogey! Dawg!” I yelled. Both dogs reluctantly stilled. The cop holding them looked like he might pee his pants. Detective Roberts bellowed again, “Take her somewhere out of my sight and finish getting her statement before I haul her ass in!” A thin, dark-haired, female deputy trotted over. I shook myself loose of the two deputies. “I’m okay,” I said hoarsely. “I’m not going to do anything. Jesus. JT, what the fuck is going on?” JT said, “I didn’t do this. Go find Tyrell, Shay. He’ll know what to do.” I opened my mouth but nothing came out. My eyes flicked desperately between JT and Roberts. Detective Roberts grinned as hateful a grin as I’d ever seen and addressed my woman. “JT Bordeaux, you’re under arrest for the murder of Russell Krasski.”
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T h r ee
An hour later, after detailing my limited knowledge of prior events to the deputy, I was in the truck with both Dawg and Bogey, tooling toward Minneapolis’s 3rd Precinct as fast as I could. I honestly had no idea what had just happened back there. I tried, with no success, to get a hold of Coop. I knew he’d know what to do, and if he didn’t, he’d help me figure things out. Damn dude. Maybe he was behind bars himself on disorderly conduct charges against the Green Beans. Wouldn’t be the first time, and certainly wouldn’t be the last. I left a message for him to give me a buzz. There was no way JT killed anyone, even if she did pack a gun both on duty and off. But you better believe I was going to find out what was going on, and fast. JT’s former partner-on-the-job, Tyrell Johnson, was a decent guy and a great cop who was now working Narcotics. I hoped JT was right when she said he’d know what to do. I disconnected after dialing Tyrell’s cell for the fourth time and swore some more.
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For once the freeway wasn’t clogged with a whole lot of traffic, probably since it was the weekend. As I headed into Minneapolis, I tried to organize the thoughts churning through my head. I saw Bogey’s nose in a cadaver’s crotch, the gargantuan pickle stuffed in the dead man’s mouth, and then handcuffs being clicked onto JT’s wrists—all these images appeared and disappeared from my vision like a slideshow. Why did JT smell pickley? None of this stuff was adding up. By the time I pulled into the 3rd Precinct, twilight was turning into full-on dark. I prayed to the powers that be that Tyrell was within the dreary confines of the red-brick stationhouse. I cracked the windows for the still-unsettled pooches and hustled between the cars in the lot. I barely missed mowing down an older couple leaving the station and nearly ripped the front door from the frame when I flung it open. The lobby smelled of mold and fear-tinged sweat. A narrow bench occupied one side of a short hallway, and at the end of the hall were a couple of closed doors and an information window with thick, probably bulletproof glass. Behind the window, a cop with black curly hair shuffled through a sheaf of papers. Her nameplate read C. Chevalier, and she looked familiar. I’d probably run into her at one of JT’s off-duty police functions. The screech of the buzzer startled her. She looked up from her stack of paperwork and keyed a button. “Help you?” Her voice sounded tinny and bored through beat-up speakers nestled in the glass. My heart banged within my chest. “Is Tyrell—Detective Johnson—here?” Recognition dawned on her round face. Her dark eyes crinkled as she smiled. “You’re with Bordeaux, right?”
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Well, maybe this was going to be easier than I thought. “Yup, I am. But right now I’m looking for Tyrell. Do you know if he’s in?” “Hang on.” She picked up a phone and punched in numbers. I watched her mouth move as she spoke to someone on the other end. After about twenty seconds, she hung up and keyed the mic. “He’s in and will be down in just a couple minutes.” I expressed my gratitude and moved away from the window. A shiver shook me, and I wished I’d thought to grab the sweatshirt I’d left in the truck. With the adrenaline of the body discovery and JT’s arrest, I was fricking freezing. I wrapped my arms around myself and wondered if word had yet gotten back to the station that one of their own was cooling her heels in a cage. Did agencies share info like that? Despite her profession, terror over JT’s well-being wasn’t something I was used to, and the emotion welled up again unbidden. I’d fought panic’s rising tide the entire way from Shakopee to Minneapolis, and every time I thought I had it under control, the force of it made me grind my teeth. I was going to have a jaw-ache before this was done. Typically I was pretty levelheaded. On the rare occasion when I lost it and the Tenacious Protector popped out to play, there was usually hell to pay on someone’s part. If somebody somehow threatened my loved ones, I lost my mind—but there was no one to scream at or punch out about this. And right now it made me somewhat sick and impotently furious that I couldn’t do a damned thing to help the woman I loved. Of course, I was pretty damn sure I was overreacting. Come on, Shay, I chided myself, JT is a good cop with a good reputation. She won’t be sitting in that cell for long. But when I was in the midst of heart-pounding fear and supreme confusion, losing my mind was easy to do.
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I toed a crack in the dirty linoleum floor and focused on regulating my breathing and slowing my heart. I was pretty sure I’d have a heart attack if I kept this up for too much longer. After what seemed like twenty minutes but was probably only five, one of the doors swung open and Tyrell stepped into the lobby. “Hey sugar. What’re you doin’ here?” A grin sliced his face and set his dimples dimpling. In two big steps he engulfed me in a bear hug. For a moment, Tyrell’s cologne, Sean John’s Unforgiveable, overtook the station stink, and I inhaled deeply. I knew what it was because JT and I had given it to him for his birthday a couple of weeks before. We’d spent twenty minutes at the Macy’s men’s fragrances counter, and I’d lost my ability to distinguish between scents before she settled on the Sean John stuff. I dragged myself out of my cologne-induced reverie. As soon as I contemplated what I had to tell him, any calm I’d managed to gain during my wait evaporated. “Ty, we have to do something. I don’t know what happened. They slapped handcuffs on her—” “Cuffs on who? Eddy?” “No! JT. He just—and she—” I was losing it again, hyperventilating. I gasped, “Half his head was gone—” “Shay! Exactly who and what are you talking about?” Tyrell gripped my shoulders and pushed me to arm’s length, alarm finally registering on his face. I wasn’t usually quite so random when I spoke, but for the life of me I couldn’t seem to put together a coherent sentence. “The dead guy tipped over—with a pickle—I had to use the bathroom—” “SHAY!” Tyrell gave me a good shake, making my teeth clack. “Calm down now and tell me what the hell happened.”
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I tried again. “They handcuffed her. Arrested her. They took her—” “Arrested who? Took her where?” Obviously Scott County and Minneapolis were not currently sharing information. Okay. I hauled in a shuddering breath. “JT. They arrested JT for murder.”
With a foam cup of ghastly cop coffee in my hand, I sat on an old metal chair, its seat ripped from too many criminal butts. I faced Tyrell across the file-strewn mess he called his desk. After he understood that it was JT who’d been cuffed and stuffed into a cruiser like a common criminal, he whisked me through a locked door and up a flight of warped, green-linoleum-covered stairs to a squad room. Desks, filing cabinets, and a long table at the back of the room filled the space. Only a couple other detectives were in residence, and both worked feverishly on computers sitting on top of their desks. They paid me no mind as we passed by. Ty had led me to his desk and pushed me into the chair. “I’ll be back in two shakes.” I’d tried to gather myself as I had stared at the dirty gray wall. I was on a rollercoaster that clacked its way up the track, rolled over the top, and finally dropped with sizzling speed into that breathtaking moment of free fall. Usually the cars would hit the bottom of the hill and head up the next incline. The problem was that I’d been in free fall since the moment JT disappeared through the fence toward the waiting squads in the field beyond. My heart had been in my throat ever since, and the end wasn’t anywhere in sight.
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I really needed to get a grip, but I had no idea how to regain my equilibrium. I tried to breathe slow and deep again, through my nose. That seemed to help a little. Tyrell had returned with a cup of lukewarm joe and handed it to me. I took a sip and nearly choked on the bitter liquid that flowed over my tongue. It was nothing like the rich brew we served at the Hole. He now settled in his own seat and said, “Okay, Shay, take it slow and start from the beginning.” I did, and for the next twenty minutes filled him in on everything that had happened. Maybe the horrible coffee had done its job after all. “So,” I concluded, “JT told me to come to you, and here I am.” Tyrell leaned back in his chair and crossed his heavily muscled arms over his heavily muscled chest. Tightly curled black ringlets framed his chiseled face. His hair was longer than I’d seen it before. That made sense; because of the position he was now working, he often went undercover. He pulled a big breath in and let it out slowly, his dark mocha complexion unusually pale. “Are you sure the name of the victim was Russell Krasski?” “Yes, I’m positive.” That name would forever be branded in my brain. Tyrell ran a hand over his chin. “Shit.” “What’s going on? Who’s this Krasski guy?” “JT never told you about him?” “No.” Tyrell suddenly seemed very uncomfortable. He shifted and gave me a considering look, but I couldn’t read his dark gaze. “If JT never told you about this, I’m not sure I should.” “Ty, come on.” I barely restrained myself from jumping out of my chair and across the desk. “JT is sitting in a cell at the Scott 23
County jail right now. She needs our help. I can’t help her if I don’t know what the hell is going on.” Tyrell’s jowls bunched as he clenched his teeth. “Let me call a couple people and see what’s up. Then I’ll explain.” I listened to two one-sided conversations and couldn’t glean much from either except that JT was indeed in custody, and she was being held away from the rest of the inmate population because she was a cop—a well-known cop with a lot of busts. There were a number of cons she’d had a hand in putting away who’d be after whatever revenge they could get. My blood ran cold at the thought of JT in there, alone and possibly in danger. My heart revved and I fought the red haze that appeared whenever my Protector came knocking. Deep, even breaths, Shay. In and out. Tyrell hung up and slid his right desk drawer open without meeting my eyes. He flipped through a number of files before shutting that drawer and opening one on the opposite side. After a moment, he pulled out a thick manila folder with the name Krasski scribbled in black Sharpie on the tab. He thumbed it open and shuffled through the contents. After a minute or two, he closed the file and threw it on his desktop. He then leaned back in his chair, threaded his fingers, and put his hands behind his head. “Okay,” he said. “Now, Shay, you sit calm while I tell you this. I can only give you the basics because the case is classified. So don’t go all crazy on me, you hear?” That didn’t sound good. I felt like I was stuffed in the pouch of a cocked slingshot about to be flung to Kingdom Come. The slightest nudge would set me off, which is never a good idea when the person in front of you has a gun and badge. I breathed deep once, then again. Oh God, just end this. “Tell me.”
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Tyrell pulled in his generous bottom lip and chewed on it a moment. “Awhile back, JT and I were on a team that set up a sting on a ring that abducted kids, usually minority children whose parents had no resources and questionable status within the country. Girls were sold to the highest bidder, usually to someone overseas. The girls who couldn’t be sold as marriage material, and all the boys, were bartered, traded, or sold as child slaves.” He paused. “For close to a year we worked the shit out of the case. We had the ringleader, Krasski”—he pointed at the file—“in our sights. He was a bastard of the highest caliber. He and his posse raped the girls and beat the boys to within an inch of their lives. Pretty soon those poor children were walking and talking robots. The kids that came from Krasski were in high demand. He used violence and the threat of violence against the kids’ families, so none of them would rebel and attempt to escape.” Jesus. That was unspeakable. I closed my eyes a moment, then refocused on Tyrell, rampant emotion evident in his expression. “The case was like JT’s obsession. She researched Krasski, followed him, staked out his ass night after night. He was the worst kind of slimeball. The kind of weasel who was wrapped in Teflon—every charge we tried to slap on him somehow slid off. For the life of us we couldn’t get a damn thing to stick.” “So what happened?” “The night of the bust … We had it all planned. Every stinking move. We finally managed to pull together all the evidence we needed to make an arrest, which would have shut down a huge Midwest operation.” He inhaled sharply and held his breath for a moment before slowly letting it out through his nose. I was riveted by Ty’s tale, lost in the middle of some kind of horrifying psychological thriller—a horrifying thriller that involved the 25
love of my life—instead of calmly looking at the hard facts of a reallife case. “The operation went off without so much as a hiccup. We went in, busted a bunch of assholes, including Krasski. They were in the midst of—” Tyrell’s face hardened. “God, it was awful. Anyway, we rounded up everyone. Not one person got away. JT and I had Krasski between us. We escorted him outside. And as we tried to stuff him in the car, he said something to JT. I missed it, and JT hasn’t repeated it to this day.” Tyrell closed his eyes. “She lost her freaking mind. With Krasski’s hands cuffed, she beat the shit out of him. I needed help to pull her off him, and by then the damage was done. She put him in the hospital with a broken jaw and cracked ribs and I can’t even remember what else. She nearly killed him. Goddamn it, the asshole deserved it.” Tyrell slumped back in his chair. His gaze was locked over my shoulder as he relived the memory. “JT was suspended. The case we worked so hard to make against Krasski fell apart.” Holy shit. “What about the others you arrested?” “They were charged and most of them went down. But the number-one man was free. Once he healed up, the bastard could start up the whole thing all over again. JT was furious with herself. Talk about a boatload of trouble. She had to take anger management classes, do some other Internal Affairs crap.” “She’s usually so in control. I can hardly imagine her on a rampage. If she snapped … I can totally see where it’d be next to impossible to stop her.” I stared at Tyrell. “She blamed herself, didn’t she?” I knew JT well enough to understand that it would drive her beyond crazy that she was the reason a no-good criminal walked. “Yeah. She ran herself through the wringer. When she came back to work, even I wasn’t sure she was ready. While she was off, she 26
decided it was her personal vendetta to nail the bastard somehow. Whatever it took, on the books or not. So she started following him on her days off, showing up at places he frequented. She wouldn’t say anything to him. She’d just be there, make it obvious she was on his ass.” “Jesus.” “Soon things started to escalate. She became even more obvious. She’d pull him over with our unmarked car, harass the hell out of him. Started getting in his face.” “Oh my God,” I whispered. This was a JT I didn’t know. Why didn’t she ever tell me any of this? I thought she loved her job, fully believed in what she was doing. “Krasski wasn’t stupid. He went to one of the watchdog groups that pull the police brutality card during trials. Got them all fired up. Wound up taking out a harassment restraining order on JT.” I could hardly believe my ears. A criminal had been allowed a restraining order? On my JT? “Part of the order was if JT were to come within a hundred feet of Krasski, she’d be arrested. Basically, her career would be toast. I think the order’s expired by now, though.” Tyrell heaved a huge sigh. “So that’s an abbreviated version of what’s probably the worst thing JT has ever been through professionally.” I was still reeling over the fact that a badass hooligan had taken out a restraining order against JT. It was really hard to believe she’d never said a word about it to me. I could almost feel her pain, her shame, the incredible frustration she must have felt. Tyrell said, “She tried to do what she could to prevent him from returning to the crap he’d been doing, but it was all just one huge cluster that spiraled into chaos.”
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“She had every reason to want to kill him. I get that. But, Ty, do you think she really could’ve done it? That she could completely lose her mind? I would never believe she’d be capable of doing that.” Right? Tyrell shrugged. “I don’t know, Shay. I do know she’s worked like hell to put this whole fucked-up nightmare behind her. I’ll see what I can find out and let the guys who can help know what’s going on. They’ll have ideas on a lawyer. Try not to worry, hey?” Yeah right. Not worrying wasn’t an option.
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