Hide and Snake Murder (3 page)

Three

Sophie B. Hawkins startled
me out of deep sleep. The dim light of near-dawn filtered in around the curtains as I squinted at the alarm clock. Then the synapses in my brain started to connect and I realized it was my cell that was singing to me. 6:13 a.m. JT was right on time.

“'Lo,” I mumbled, tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth.

“Hey, babe. How's my sunshine?”

Only a morning person could be so chipper at six in the fricking morning, but then it was seven her time.

“Sunshine yourself.” I tried to swallow. “How're you?”

JT cheerfully said, “Had my ass handed to me yesterday on the Yellow Brick Road.” When she'd first arrived at Quantico, she'd told me about the Yellow Brick Road. It was a hellish, six-plus-mile Marine-built trail through hills and treacherous woods. Any poor sucker who managed to finish received an actual yellow brick to commemorate the torture. JT had been delighted to attack the course. I had no idea how such physical punishment could make someone happy.

“Good to hear,” I managed. Dawg whined and shifted so his warm head rested next to my cheek.

She laughed. The sound folded around me, a mixture of comfort and loneliness.

“I miss you,” I told her as I rolled onto my side, awareness beyond the end of my nose beginning to kick in.

A sigh echoed through the airwaves. “I miss you, too.” JT's raspy voice was like honey when she wasn't in cop mode, and the way she said those words did something to my heart. I had always been what one might call girlfriend-challenged, happy to bounce around trying out different babes but not willing to stick with anyone for too long. At this point, our relationship was still rolling, and I wasn't asking questions.

JT said, “I'll be home in eight days. It'll go by before you know it. What's new?”

I sketched out the details of the meeting with Baz, and tension built as JT absorbed my words. Dawg stood, circled, and settled back down with his chin on the curve of my hip.

After a pause, she said, “You don't have any names, no one I could run? Are you even sure there really is a dead body?”

“No on all counts.”

“Call North Memorial and see if they'll tell you if someone was picked up in that area. I doubt it, but it wouldn't hurt. It'll be interesting to hear what Agnes says when you get a hold of her.” She paused. “You could check with Harry, too. He's probably on street duty, but you never know.”

I only knew the man as Dirty Harry. He was an MPD undercover narcotics officer who moonlighted with the homicide division occasionally. He and JT had worked a few details together and had collaborated periodically over the last few years. Tyrell, her current work partner, was out on leave, honeymooning in Tahiti.

“I will if I feel like things are getting out of control. I'm not sure what to believe when stuff falls out of Baz's mouth.”

“No solo stunts.” There was a clear note of warning in her tone. Last fall during Coop's unfortunate murder investigation, which had mob involvement, he and I had gone off and confronted the two killers without any law enforcement backup. JT was less that pleased with our actions and had let me know loud and clear.

I certainly wasn't planning any repeat performances. “I'll behave.”

JT gave me Harry's phone number and I jotted it on a notepad next to the phone.

We chatted a few more minutes. Our separation had clarified my feelings for JT, and I surprised myself after we hung up by the very consideration of dropping the L-word on her. I knew I was falling for JT, but apparently I wasn't ready to admit it aloud. It seemed like whenever my relationships turned serious, they melted into big puddles of regret.

Google was a great thing, made even better as an app on a phone. In seconds, I was connected to information at North Memorial. A minute later, I hung up after being stonewalled by the receptionist. No name and no family relationship equals nada. So much for that.

I set the phone on the nightstand and closed my eyes. With dog-breath in my ear, I hovered on the abyss of snoozedom. Before I had a chance to slip under too deeply, the phone rang again.

“Hello?”

“Tank god, I deed help!” The voice was deep, very congested. My caller panted like a rabid dog.

I propped myself on my elbow. “Baz? Is that you? What—”

“It's be. They bade be tell em where Eddy lives. They thik she has da sdake.”

My eyes popped wide open as his words sunk in. “Baz,” I growled as I struggled to sit up. “What's wrong with your voice? What did you say to them?”

“Just dat baybe Agdes gave her da sdake.”

He was a crazy man. “Why would you do that, you idiot?”

“I'm daglig from my fuckig feet in Agdes's garage, smardass. Sadistic batards.” He trailed off, sucking in great breaths of air. “Worked a had free. Good thig I'm fat or by cell would've fallen out of by pocket. I could die haging here. Head's about to expode. Feet are turnig black. Hurry up ad get be down!”

I made it to my feet, and Dawg whined. “It's time to call the cops.”

“DOE!” Baz howled. “I'b not goig back to jail. Beside, they told be they'd chop by dipples off if I squealed. Foget it. I like by dipples.”

Too much information. “Calm down. I'm on the way, after I make sure everything is okay here.” I hung up on the dingbat. Dawg let out a low woof and bounced off the mattress, flashing his Boxer grin. I couldn't believe Baz had handed over our address to those thugs. On second thought, I could.

I pulled on a sweatshirt, got a pair of cargos over my ankles, and grabbed Harry's number from the note pad and stuffed it in a pocket. I hopped into the living room as I tried to pull up my pants. Mid-hop, my left foot caught the leg of the coffee table. I went down in a tangle and landed on my side with a grunt.

Dawg barked and started bouncing up and down on his hind legs.

With a curse, I scrambled upright, buttoned my pants, jammed my feet into my shoes, and then realized my cell was still in the bedroom. I charged back in and retrieved it. Dog and I flew out the door, with me pausing at the last minute to grab the car keys. What was I going to do if they were in the house?

Dawg followed as I pounded down the stairs. At the bottom, to the right, a short hall led to the Rabbit Hole. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air. On the left, a set of floral, fabric-covered French doors led into Eddy's living room. When she was home, the doors were wide open, allowing her to monitor the goings-on in the Hole. She loved to lend a hand when the café
got crazy.

I unlocked the French doors and slowly opened them. My heart, already pounding, started tripping quadruple time. Thankfully, everything in the living room appeared the same as it had the night before.

We hoofed it to the kitchen. Dawg, somehow sensing my stress, was now glued to my side, play-mode forgotten.

I skidded to an abrupt stop at the doorway. The back door was wide open, the pane of glass nearest the doorknob shattered. Sharp shards of broken glass lay on the linoleum, glinting in the weak light. Panic flooded me.

I grabbed Dawg's collar before he wriggled past me and cut his paws on the glass. How could I not have heard any of this? Even Dawg had been oblivious. Damn those well-built nineteenth-century walls.

Then my gaze caught the corkboard, and I nearly hyperventilated. Eddy's carefully written itinerary was gone.

Four

I dialed Coop and
explained why I was speeding toward his place as if Lucifer himself were hot on my tail.

Those thugs could've still been in the house when Dawg and I roared into Eddy's apartment! I was a complete idiot. They could've duct taped us upside down just like Baz and then shot us both. Jesus. I guess I still hadn't learned that little think-before-acting lesson.

Ten minutes later Dawg and I screeched to a stop in front of Coop's apartment. He burst from the front door in the midst of pulling a shirt over his head. Coop was always a good sport about getting ready in a hurry.

Coop climbed in the pickup, and Dawg gave him a snoot full of tongue. I peeled out and headed toward Baz's as Coop used the hem of his shirt to wipe away the evidence of Dawg's affection.

He said, “Have you tried to call Eddy?”

“Not yet.” I threw my phone at him. My stomach ached, and my head pounded in time to my hammering heart. If anything happened to Eddy … or to Rocky or Agnes. I pushed that thought from my mind and concentrated on remembering where Baz and Agnes lived. Their house was near Glenwood Avenue and Penn, and it wasn't exactly easy to get from Coop's to there.

Coop punched some buttons and put the phone to his ear. After a moment he said, “Can you please transfer me to Edwina Quartermaine's room?”

The morning traffic was starting to get heavier. Without slowing, I weaved around a recycling truck.

After some long moments, Coop said, “Eddy, it's Coop and Shay. We need to talk to you right away. Please call Shay's cell, okay?” He disconnected. The message was similar to the last ones I'd left, and now, with Eddy's itinerary missing, the lack of response weighed heavily.

Pain throbbed above my right eye. “No one home again?”

“Nope. Maybe they stayed out drinking all night. It is New Orleans, after all.”

“True. Boozing it up and playing poker. Eddy can sniff out a game in thirteen seconds flat.”

Coop's mouth twitched in a ghost of a grin. “Right. Hurry up, lead-foot. We gotta get Baz down before his toes ooze out his ears.”

I pulled to a stop in front of an aging yellow, story-and-a-half ranch-style house with a tuck-under garage. Baz's car, an older-model silver Taurus, sat on one side of the empty double drive.

Aside from the occasional car driving by, there was next to no traffic in the neighborhood.

Coop bailed out, and Dawg and I followed. Paint was peeling off the closed garage door in big yellow flakes. I hollered, “Baz! We're here! How can we get in?”

There was no reply, and for a moment, I wondered if Baz's heart had blown up under the stress of hanging upside down. Then a strangled-sounding voice yelled, “Just oped da fuckig garage door.”

Dawg barked. He bounced around the driveway on his big paws, all revved up to play Let's Find the Stinker.

Coop grabbed the handle at the bottom of the garage door and heaved. There, in musty dankness, dangling on a rope from a rafter, hung Baz. His face was beet red. Gray duct tape wound around his torso. One arm hung below his head and the other was still taped behind his back.

I looked around for something to cut him down with while Coop grabbed Baz's shoulders and tried to wrestle him into a slightly less inverted position. Dawg danced around the two men, trying to figure out how to play their game.

I spotted a rusting box cutter on a worktable in the back of the garage and grabbed it. A ladder leaned against the wall, and I dragged it over and opened it up next to Baz.

The rungs on the ladder bowed from the weight of countless feet. Its wooden legs shifted on the uneven cement as I climbed toward the rafters and started sawing on the rope tied around Baz's ankles. The blade was dull, but with some elbow grease, the rope parted. Coop had hold of Baz's armpits, but there was no way he could hold up the man's dead weight. They both crashed with a heavy thud to the oil-stained cement.

Coop sprawled on the ground, arms and legs protruding from beneath Baz's rotund body. It would've been funny if I weren't afraid Baz had killed my best friend. I hopped off the ladder, grabbed Baz's loose hand and unceremoniously rolled him off of Coop, who let out a loud groan.

Dawg wiggled around, lapping Coop, then attempting to lick Baz, who weakly waved his arm in a losing attempt to fend off the shovel-shaped tongue.

“Oh—my god.” Coop dropped his hand on his chest as he tried to breathe. “Baz, you need to go on a diet.”

Baz had his thumb and fingers pressed into his eye sockets. “My eyeballs almost popped out.”

I nudged Dawg out of the way and hauled up Coop. “We need to get out of here. Your new pals could show up anytime.” I sure didn't want to be trussed up like a holiday goose and left for the Easter Bunny to find.

Both Coop and I helped Baz remove the duct tape wrapped around his torso. Most of the tape was stuck to his clothes, but his arms were a different matter. The air was punctuated with his curses as skin and hair came away with the tape.

“It's too bad you're so hairy, Baz,” Coop commented as he yanked a long piece of tape from Baz's forearm.

Baz hissed in pain. “For Christ's sake, easy does it. I've got sensitive skin.”

I said, “You don't have a sensitive bone in your body.”

“I do too. You don't know how sensitive I am.”

“Whatever.”

Sensitive about what he could steal next was more like it.

“That's the last of it.” I rolled the chunks of tape into a sticky ball and slapped it on the worktable.

“Help me.” Baz held out both his mitts like a two-year-old wanting up. Coop and I exchanged a look, then pulled him to his feet.

“Thanks,” he said as he shook himself. Raw red welts adorned his now nearly hairless forearms and even though he probably deserved it, I winced. Then my momentary feeling of goodwill fled as Baz noisily blew his juicy nose in his hands and smeared the snot on his pants. Twice. I nearly threw up. “Baz, you're disgusting.”

With a grimace of distaste, Coop said, “Let's go,” and headed toward the truck. Dawg trotted along beside him.

Baz said, “What about me?”

I stopped and threw him a look over my shoulder. “Follow us in your car.” Duh.

“Forget it. They know what I drive now. Maybe I could ride with you and Dawg could ride in back of the truck.”

No freaking way was Booger Pants going to get into my pickup. I told him so and added, “Besides, it's illegal for dogs to ride in the bed in Minnesota unless they're in a crate. So either you can hop in back, or you can follow us. Your choice. Snotnose.”

Baz's face turned into a pity-me mask. He even stuck his lower lip out. Shameless. He said, “Isn't
that
illegal? To have a person ride in the bed of a truck?”

“Nope, there's no law about that. Now come on or we'll leave you here.”

Baz hobbled after me, chattering about dumb laws that wouldn't allow dogs to ride in an open pickup bed but would let people tempt death. He planted a foot on the bumper and attempted to heave himself over the tailgate.

After the third failed attempt, he croaked, “Help me.”

I gave him a shove on the upswing. He rolled over the tailgate and landed with a thump, his feet sticking up in the air.

“I'd advise you to hang on, Baz.” I left him floundering like an upside down tortoise and got in the truck. Coop squinted at me. “This is going to turn out bad, Shay. I can feel it in my bones.”

“Me too.” My foot hit the accelerator, and there was thud in the rear. Through the mirror, I saw that Baz was playing turtle again.

“Take it easy, Shay.” Coop told me as he turned around and looked through the window. “You upended him.”

“Not my fault, I told him to hang on. What the hell are we going to do now?”

Dawg let out a low whine and sniffed my ear.

Coop said, “We have got to get a hold of Eddy. And we need to go someplace Baz's buddies won't find us.”

After a bit of driving and watching to make sure we weren't being followed, I pulled into a Perkins off Highway 100 in Edina. The sky was cloudy and it looked like it might rain any second. Dawg forced his big body past me when I opened the door and immediately ran over to the edge of the parking lot to take a leak on the shrubs.

I met Coop at the tailgate, and we watched Baz struggle to get out. Once he was safely on dry land, he said, “Thanks a lot for the hand, guys. And you didn't have to drive so crazy, Shay. I think my butt is black and blue now on top of everything else.”

“Sorry, Baz. I did tell you to hold on.”

He stomped toward the entrance.

Coop looked at me and brushed a hand over the top of his head. “He's making me crazy, and it's been less than an hour.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath. “The sooner we figure this out, the sooner we get rid of him. Go on in and order me a ham and cheese omelet, okay? Gonna try Eddy again and get Dawg settled back in the truck. If she doesn't answer, I'm going to call the New Orleans cops.”

Coop scowled but gave a reluctant nod and followed Baz into the restaurant.

I pulled up recent calls and pressed the number for the Hotel St. Margaret. Another very Southern-sounding receptionist forwarded me to Eddy's room. No answer. Where the heck were they?

Dawg wandered over and sat on my foot. He leaned his heavy, solid body against my leg. It was one of our favorite positions. I scratched a spot behind his ears, and he gazed up at me with adoration. If only life were as easy as finding a convenient lift-the-leg spot and mooching treats.

My brain felt like mush.
Think, Shay
. I needed the number for the NOPD. I'd switched to a smart phone recently, and the gadget never ceased to amaze me. At this moment, the device was invaluable. I pulled up Google and keyed in New Orleans PD. Their website popped up, and I found a non-emergency number for the district I thought might cover the right area.

I leaned against the truck and absently played with Dawg's ear while the phone rang.

A rumbly male voice answered. “N'awlins PD Eighth District, Officer Fallon.”

How did I even begin to explain this? “My name is Shay O'Hanlon, and one of my relatives is visiting your city with a couple of friends. I've tried to get a hold of them at their hotel numerous times, and they haven't answered. I'd like to report them missing.”

“When's the last time y'all spoke to them, Ms. O'Hanlon?”

I tried to remember. Eddy had given me a buzz when they'd arrived Monday. Today was Thursday. “Monday evening about eight, I think.”

“Where were they staying?”

“At the Hotel St. Margaret.”

“Nice place. Has anyone from the hotel seen them?”

I hadn't thought to ask anyone that question. “I don't know.”

“There's a lot of places here for folks to have a good time, Ms. O'Hanlon. Do you know what their plans were while they were here? Could you just be missing them when you tried calling?”

Eddy had mentioned touring some of the old plantations, but she liked to travel free and easy, without a lot of planning. “I don't know of any specific plans, but I left messages to call me back every time, and no one has.”

Officer Fallon took a loud, slow breath. He drawled, “I'll transfer you to our Missing Person's Division. It's been well over twenty-four hours.”

I waited through static, wondering if I'd been disconnected. Then a gruff voice said, “Missing Persons, Larson.”

“Hi, Officer La—”

“Detective.”

I cleared my throat and tried it again. “Detective. Sorry. Listen, Detective Larson, I think I have some missing people who need to be found.” I launched into my story.

When I finished, Detective Larson said, “Give me the stats on each of them.”

I gave him names, ages, and approximate heights and weights for all three.

The sound of clicking keys filtered through the phone. I imagined Detective Larson pecking away at a computer keyboard in a dismal gray police station.

Larson said, “I'll run it by Lieutenant Pomerantz and make a few calls, but all of them are of age, adults.”

“But the two ladies are old, Detective. They're
not
on a bender.”

“Uh,” he grunted.

Great. While Detective Larson was certainly being polite, I could tell a brush-off when I heard one. If there wasn't any blood or dead bodies, these cops were going to do jack.

“I sure appreciate any help you can give me.” I went on to spell out my name, recited my contact number, and then hung up.

Maybe I should call Dirty Harry. I pondered that as I rubbed the furrow between Dawg's shoulder blades. But what could he do? He wasn't in New Orleans. I'd hold off for now.

That decided, I told Dawg, “Time to get back in.” I opened the truck door for him. His happy face faded into a pout as he slowly climbed onto the driver's seat. I leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Hang tight, buddy. We'll be back out soon, and I'll have a present for you.”

His nub of a tail wagged twice, and he settled onto the seat with an aggrieved sigh. He was a patient mutt, and I was glad he'd followed Coop and me out of his brutal former life as a lowly junkyard dog.

When I walked inside, I could hear Coop and Baz, who were seated in a booth in the corner of the restaurant, yapping at each other. Wonderful. I was just dying to mediate the two of them. I had enough to worry about dealing with my own temper. I hurried over to them and slid in next to Coop, who was in mid-tirade.

“—and Baz, you are a stupid fu—”

“Shut up, Mr. Goodie Two Shoes—”

“I try and do what's right, unlike you, you two-bit thief—”

I elbowed Coop mid-roar. “All right you two, shut the hell up. We need to work together here, okay? Stuff your male egos back into your pants. We've got to figure out what to do now.”