Hide and Snake Murder (17 page)

Nineteen

We left Farroway and
Bogey at the dog park and drove back to Kate's place.

On the way I put in a fast call to the Leprechaun, and asked the bartender for my father. He came on the line after a couple of minutes, his voice all rumbly and deep. Cigars did something weird to his throat, and he could do a voice-over for James Earl Jones when he smoked more than one. From the sound of it, he'd puffed plenty. He said Eddy and Agnes were beating the butts off him and his poker-playing cronies, and they weren't finished playing yet. Just as well, two less people for us to worry about.

At seven-thirty, we pulled into Kate's driveway and piled out of the Jeep. Dawg bounced with excitement beside me. I opened the gate to the backyard, and he tore around the enclosure like his fur was on fire. Then he stopped in the corner near Kate's flowerbed, circled a couple times, hunched over, and deposited a log-sized doogie. He then straightened up, sniffed around, and looked from it to me and back again as if to say, here it is, clean it up.

Coop, who was standing next to me watching Dawg's antics, said, “I'm outta here,” and high-tailed it inside. Baz had already headed into the warmth of the house, so that left Dawg and me on our own.

I sighed. This dog ownership thing was sometimes smelly business. I rustled up a plastic bag and took care of things.

Once I'd dropped the bag with its revoltingly warm contents into a garbage can next to the garage, I reentered the yard. Dawg sat near the stoop, patiently waiting for me to return. His butt was on the ground, his legs skewed out to one side. Sloppy and very unmanly. Yet irresistible.

“You're definitely not suave, big boy.” I put both hands on his face and rubbed, flipping his lips up and down. His eyebrows shot up and he made a groaning sound that usually meant he liked whatever you were doing.

“Come on, let's get inside, you big fart.” I kissed him on the top of the head. He slurped my face, and I hardly minded at all.

I held the screen door open, and Dawg scooted in. I followed at a more sedate pace.

Kate sat sprawled on a black, worn-leather couch in the living room, watching
America's Top Chef
. Rocky worked at a computer on a desk by the window.

Kate looked up from her show and greeted me, while Rocky was so absorbed in what he was doing that he didn't hear a thing. Kate said, “The boys went into the kitchen. I assume you're all hungry?”

She stood and stretched. Today she was wearing a purple top and black cords. A couple of brown stains decorated one side of the front of her shirt.

“Of course we're hungry. Rough day at the Hole?” I asked, trailing her into the kitchen.

“Not bad, busy in the morning. I think we should hire another part-timer.”

Fine by me. It'd been a bumpy road for the last couple of years, but things were starting to pick up again.

Dawg followed us and kept nudging me in the back of the legs, his way of letting me know we weren't the only ones with grumbly tummies.

Kate opened up the refrigerator while I scooped up some dog chow and piled it in Dawg's bowl.

Kate's voice drifted from inside the fridge, “What's the news?”

We told her about meeting with up Luz Ortez and ICE Special Agent Mike “Big Red” Farroway. I left out the crush it appeared Coop had on Luz. If Baz hadn't been there, I'd have heckled Coop, but Baz kind of took the fun out of everything, even making fun of an old buddy.

“Well,” Kate said as she assembled various items on the countertop, “what are you going to do now?”

Coop said, “Nothing has changed. We still don't have anyone who can really be of help.” He crossed his arms and stuck his hands in his armpits. “Farroway says we need more evidence.”

“Evidence?” Baz practically spat. “What more can they want? We have a stuffed animal full of dough.”

I guess Baz didn't realize how ridiculous that sounded. “I think they want actual drugs or something. He said videotape would be good.” I watched Kate move around her kitchen, effortlessly whipping up what I guessed were going to be ham and cheese omelets. I knew better than to ask her if she needed help. She ruled her culinary domain with an iron fist, and unless you were doing dishes, she didn't need you getting in her way.

“Drugs.” Kate looked over her shoulder at us as she whipped the eggs in a bowl. “That's something hard to argue.”

I picked up the bunny-shaped salt and pepper shakers I'd given Kate for her last birthday and made them hop across the table in front of me as we talked.

Coop grabbed the shakers from my hands and plunked them back down in the center of the table with a bang. “Enough,” he said, softening his actions with a laugh. “I'm already jumpy as it is. You're making me nuts.”

“No kidding. Thank you,” Baz said.

I gave them both a dark look.

Kate turned to face us, wiping her hands on a towel. “So, you guys just need to get more evidence. Find some drugs. Then go back to that ICE guy.”

I scrunched my eyes shut. I was tired. Tired of running. Tired of talking. Tired of trying to figure out what to do. I wanted JT to come home and all this to be a cockamamie dream.

I opened my eyes, and unfortunately, I was still sitting at Kate's table instead of waking up from a nightmare. Guess I'd better suck it up.

Coop said, “Maybe we should do a little poking into the office at the Hands On Toy Company. I know most of the managers there. If we went later in the evening, there's usually only one manager on. I could divert their attention while you,” he paused and looked at me, “sneak into the office and see if you can find anything.”

Twenty

And that was how
I found myself about to break into the Hands On Toy Company management office a few hours later. As soon as we walked through the front door, the smell of freshly popped popcorn wafted through the air and right into my nose, mixing with the cardboard-like tang of plastic-wrapped games and packaged toys.

The office was located in the rear of the store between the café and the gaming area. The wall around the office door had been painted to look like the entrance to a big top, resplendent with colorful drape-like cloth hanging from above, made to appear tied off like real tent flaps.

Coop pointed out a woman dressed in the requisite red-and-white-striped, puffy-sleeved button-down reminiscent of the shirts the Swiss Guard—the Pope Protectors—wore. It didn't matter if you were a male or a female. If you worked at Hands On, you donned the shirt. I hoped Fletcher Sharpe paid his staff enough money to put up with looking like a Renaissance throwback.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. That's Robin. I won't have a problem distracting her. She likes me.” He shot me a lecherous look. “Hot, huh?”

Baz snorted while I checked Robin out. She wasn't classically beautiful, but she had what my mom used to call apple-cheeks and a smile that lit up her entire face as she laughed at something the employee said. Her blonde hair hung in two braids and brushed her shoulders. I couldn't help but think of Pippi Longstocking. I wondered if Robin had red-and-white striped knee-highs on, too.

“She's cute,” I whispered.

“Yup.” Coop said. “You know what the signals are, right?”

“I do, and he better,” I eyed Baz, “since he's going to be on lookout duty again.”

“I got it. Geez Louise.” Baz scowled. “Can't a guy screw up once and not have it made into a federal case? If your hands are in your pockets, things are fine. If you stretch, that means to hurry up. If you pull your jacket on, that means get out now. If you yell ‘come on!' we better run.”

Screwed up once, my ass
, I thought, but held my tongue with some difficulty. Coop caught my eye. He was thinking the same thing. But this was neither the time nor place to get into a verbal smackdown with mush-brain.

Coop tossed a worn, old sweater over his shoulder. “I'll distract Robin and you two meander toward the back. Make sure the kid working in the café doesn't see you. The code to the back office is 2-3-2-4.”

Baz nodded. I looked at my palm, where I'd written the numbers just minutes before sitting in the Bug with Kate, who was primed and waiting right outside as our get-away driver. I'd asked Coop how he got the access number, and all he did was grin.

Coop's smile was absent now as he sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She's in a good place, there by the board games. It's right where I can see both the front entrance and the office door. Oh.” His gaze stopped on a trash can against the wall. He walked over and spit out yet another wad of pink.

While Coop disposed of his gum, I tried to see how many Hands On patrons were still in the building. At a little after nine, most of the younger kids had already been dragged home and stuffed into bed. A few adolescents hung out in the young adult area, playing around with different items and chatting. I couldn't see past the wall where the checkouts were, but the only things on the other side were the gaming room and the café, both of which were semi-enclosed. Should make Operation Great Sneak that much easier.

“This is a bad idea,” Baz mumbled behind me.

I ignored him.

Coop returned, and with a nod said, “Here we go.”

He marched purposefully toward his target while Baz and I began the trek to our target. A single cashier hung out behind the tills. He leaned against the shelving behind the counter, paging through one of the magazines that lined the checkout aisle. He looked like he might have been two days over sixteen.

Since it was nearly Easter, the place was loaded with stuffed bunnies in a multitude of pastel colors, painted display eggs, little tot's outfits with rabbits and trees and Easter eggs. If tradition was followed, a couple days before the holiday hit, some poor schmuck would be stuck wearing a hot, stinky bunny suit entertaining whiny kids as adults spent their hard-earned money to make this Easter extra-special.

I peeled my eyes away from the holiday displays to grab Baz's jacket as he veered off the Path of Ages toward a display of video games.

He shook my hand off and fell back in step with me. “I was just looking.”

I resisted the urge to pop him in the nose. “Well, you need to be looking elsewhere. Come on.”

We passed Coop and the manager, who were deep in conversation. Coop caught my eye and raised a brow. We kept going right past them. The employee who'd been talking with the manager had drifted toward the group of kids in the young adult area, either to watch for dastardly doings or to join in the conversation. Maybe both.

As we followed the Path of Ages around the wall dividing the retail area of the store from Café Hobbitude and the Dungeon, I was relieved to see there were six or seven people sitting in the café. The worker behind the counter was busy whipping up something. Two people stood in line waiting to have their orders taken.

The gaming area was quiet, with only four people sitting at one of the tables in the first cave-like room, all intent on the cards in their hands.

The Path of Ages split, with one trail leading into the Hobbitude, and the other to the Dungeon entrance. Nestled between the two was the faux big-top entrance to the main offices. I glanced once more to either side, then shot a quick look behind me. Coop faced me, rather obviously flirting up the poor manager. From the giggles that floated to my ears, she was having a good time.

It was now or never.

“Come on, Baz,” I whispered and walked nonchalantly toward the tent flaps. Quickly I pulled on a pair of yellow rubber gloves I'd found under Kate's sink. I handed Baz another pair and pressed the numbers 2-3-2-4 into the keypad attached to the doorknob, praying no one was inside. I held my breath. The lock box made a whirring sound, and then a green light blinked on. I pushed down on the handle and we slipped inside.

The door clicked shut—too loudly, it seemed. Then the hammering of my heart echoed in my ears. My diaphragm kicked in, sucking air into my lungs. The roaring subsided, and my vision cleared. We were in a typical corporate backroom that had a break room cubby on one side. In the main space, five desks lined the walls on opposite sides and a closed door leading to another room, maybe a bathroom, occupied the far end. A large set of gray metal shelves held various office necessities like paper, rubber bands, filing folders, and signage.

Everything was quiet, and the place felt empty.

A teal banner with yellow letters hung high on one wall and read:
Make Their Day. Every Day. In Every Way.

Not a bad slogan.

Baz whispered, “What now?”

Yes, what now? I wasn't comfortable poking my nose where it didn't belong until we'd ascertained that the room on the end was unoccupied. “You crack that door and watch Coop and let me know if we need to run. I'm going to make sure we're flying solo here and check the room behind the closed door.”

For a minute I was afraid he was going to refuse. Then he said, “Okay. Fine. Let's get this over with.”

I rapidly positioned myself at the side of the door frame, like they did in the cop shows. I reached out and twisted the knob on the mystery door. Locked. After all that adrenaline, what a letdown. So much for that idea. At least if the door was locked, it probably meant no one was inside. Right?

I put my hand to my chest and felt the thumping of my racing heart. I felt pasty and sick.

I said, “Stay there and keep watching for Coop's signals. I'll take a quick look at these desks.”

“Best idea I've heard all day,” Baz whispered weakly.

The first desk I checked was bare. Nothing in the drawers, nothing on the top. Even the double shelf that sat over the desk was empty.

The second desk was exactly opposite. Its surface was loaded with files on one side, stacked in an alternating pile. One wrong move and they'd be all over the floor. The other side of the desk had a loaded wire basket with a sign reading
Incoming
taped to the front. It sat atop another basket with a sign that said
You Are Out Of Your Mind
. Someone here had a sense of humor.

I picked up a few of the files and sheets of paper, but they all looked like information used for day-to-day business. A photo of two kids and a plain but friendly-looking woman sat in a frame propped on the shelf above the desk. Toy catalogs littered the rest of the shelf and there were even some sheets that looked like blueprints peeking out on the bottom of one pile. I slid one of the lined pages out, and on the sheet was a diagram of a toy. I recognized it as one of the newly released Hands On–branded toys that had come out this past Christmas. I stuck it back in the pile and moved on to the drawers.

Hanging file folders held audit reports and accounting information. I pulled them as far forward as I could, but there wasn't any dope or bricks of cash hidden in the back.

Baz stood behind the door, holding it open just enough that he could see Coop. Or at least I hoped he could see Coop. “How're you doing, Baz?”

“Fine. Hey, someone's a Star Wars junkie. Look at that desk.”

“Stop looking in here and look out there,” I hissed. Baz obediently turned back to the door.

A credenza next to one of the desks was loaded with action figures, each out of their packaging and standing proudly at attention. There had to be at least a hundred different plastic men, and some women to boot. One accidental bump and the miniature army would topple like a set of dominos. A Millennium Falcon constructed of LEGOs sat on top of a shelf that spanned the desk.

The desktop itself was neatly organized. From the labels on the folders and the printouts of planograms for the store floor, I deduced all this had to belong to the merchandise manager.

I rifled through the drawers but came up empty. It'd been close to five minutes since we'd left the sales floor. I wandered over to the last desk. We needed to get a move on, and I wanted to see what was behind the closed door. I hoped curiosity wasn't going to kill the cat. Or maybe we were mice. That, actually, would be worse.

I softly called to Baz, “I'm going to try the break room.”

Baz shrugged and returned to his view in the main store. I pillaged the room in no time flat but found nothing but molding food in the fridge and a holiday edition Toys-R-Us magazine stuffed in one of the drawers beneath a counter built between the wall and the refrigerator. I wondered if the competitor's ad was like contraband and could only be perused on the sly. I crammed it back in the drawer.

“Nothing. This was a waste of time.” My watch said nine minutes had now expired. I really wanted to take a gander at what was behind that locked door. With our luck, it would be cleaning supplies.

“Let me try one more thing,” I told Baz and walked rapidly to the door at the back of the office.

“Shay,” Baz said slowly as he twisted around to watch where I was going. “What are you doing?”

I didn't answer and pulled out my wallet instead. I removed my pliable Minnesota driver's license, stuck the plastic card between the door jam and the door, and wiggled it up and down. It probably wouldn't work, but you never knew. I was ready to give up when I felt the card slide deeper, into something tight. I pushed at the knob, and the door swung open. Open Sesame. How about that?

“Wow, you did it.” An unusual trace of respect reflected in Baz's tone. I looked up to see him standing beside me. I gently pushed the door inward, and before I had a chance to yell at him for leaving his post, he crossed the threshold. The room was dark. I stepped inside, felt the wall for a light switch, and flipped it on.

I blinked as my brain caught up to what my eyes were seeing. Two maroon-covered plush-looking chairs sat in front of a desk. It was a huge desk that looked like a scaled-down, old-fashioned horse-drawn circus wagon.

The sides of the wagon were painted maroon, and bright yellow swirls and swooshes decorated the edges. In the middle of the side of the wagon that faced the door, raised yellow letters spelled out the words
Hands On Toy Company
. The roof, which arched over the desk, was a rich, burnished mahogany. Polished, wood-spoke wheels held the body of the wagon off the ground. I walked toward it, intrigued. This sucker was cool.

Behind the desk, a huge four-foot by five-foot picture hanging on the wall caught my eye. The black and white image within the gold-gilded frame showed a young man standing next to a circus caravan, dressed in overalls and a white shirt. The wagon in the picture looked similar to the creation in the middle of the floor.

Apparently Fletcher Sharpe came from carnival stock and was proud of his heritage. On the wall to my right several framed pictures showed a man I finally recognized without a doubt as Sharpe. He was a big redheaded man with a wide, friendly smile. The photos caught him shaking hands with a number of local and national celebrities, including Bruce Springsteen and Prince. Others showed him receiving awards or commendations of some kind.

Once Baz realized no one was lying in wait for us, he rounded the unique desk and started rummaging through desk drawers disguised as barred windows.

“Get your butt back to the door.” All we needed was to get busted in the inner sanctum of the circus of Hands On. “Baz!” I said.

Baz ignored me for a moment, then said, “Hey, what's that?”

I turned away from the pictures, surprised to find Baz's butt sticking out from under the desk. I moved closer and dropped to my knees next to him. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. He pointed to a row of various sized dark spots on the carpet. The floor covering was light tan, and the spots easily stood out.