Pickle in the Middle Murder by Jessie Chandler

Author:Jessie Chandler [Chandler, Jessie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: cozy
Publisher: Midnight Ink
Published: 2013-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

The clock on the dash read 6:19 as we pulled into the Scott County jail parking lot in downtown Shakopee. Thanks to Coop’s fast use of the mobile map on his phone, we made it in record time.

We bailed out of the truck and hustled to the front entrance. I still wasn’t used to it growing dark before eight or nine, and it was plain depressing.

The jail was a newer, two-plus-story, beige stone and metal-paneled building. It housed almost three hundred inmates and was connected to the courthouse via an underground tunnel. Coop had recited these facts to me through sticky bites of his PB but not J sandwich.

The doors opened to a rotunda. I approached the buzz-cut, blond-haired deputy on duty.

“Hi,” I said.

The deputy’s name badge read Thurston. My mind flashed back to Thurston Howell III from Gilligan’s Island, but the beefy cop in front of me didn’t look at all like the stranded millionaire.

He said, “What can I help you with?”

I chanted the name over and over again on the way here. Now I let it rip. “Can we please see Jake Rasmussen?”

“I can let him know you’re here. Who are you?”

Coop and I handed over our identification, and he picked up a phone and dialed a number.

“Rasmussen, hey. I have a”—he paused to peer at our licenses—“Shay O’Hanlon and Nicholas Cooper here for you.”

He listened a moment, frowned at whatever was said and responded with a reluctant, “Okay.” Then he hung up.

“You,” Thurston said to Coop as he handed his license back, “need to wait here. Benches are over there.” He pointed to a couple of unadorned wood benches against a wall.

Then he addressed me. “Wait over there by that door.” He indicated one of a number of doors leading only God knew where. Nowhere, I was sure, that I really wanted to find out about.

Coop met my eyes and gave an encouraging nod. My stomach quivered and I regretted eating the peanut butter sandwich that was now a big lump in my innards.

I refocused on Thurston. Everything in my periphery felt a bit out of whack. “Do I get my license back?” I asked.

“When you come back, I’ll return it. Regulations,” he said with a shrug.

Coop headed for a bench while I crossed the polished floor and waited by the door the deputy indicated. It wasn’t more than two or three minutes before it swung open, and a tall, slender man with short, walnut-colored hair stepped out. He was wearing a short-sleeved, button-down plaid shirt and blue jeans with polished-to-a-sheen black boots. His entire bearing screamed military.

“You Shay?” His voice was deep, his speech measured.

“Yes.”

He stuck a hand out. “Detective Rasmussen. You must have some pull with Tyrell. He’s been saving this marker for a long time.”

I wondered what Tyrell had to work with to make this happen. “He’s a good friend.”

“That he is. Well, come on back. I’m sure you understand this visit needs to be kept quiet.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

I followed Rasmussen into the depths of the jail.

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