Read Online Last Shot (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator, Book 6) by Mike Faricy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Faricy
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hung up.
I took a wi ld shot and Googled Helen Olsen. The first hit I got was a women living in the United Kingdom. I stopped searching after seven pages and hadn’t even scratched the surface. I’d have to refine my search.
I left the office and drove over to Fairmont Avenue. Desi’s former home was in a trendy area of town loosely referred to as Crocus Hill. I knocked on eight doors and got three answers. The first woman had moved in two years earlier and knew nothing. The second woman had lived there for fifty-six years and knew even less.
The third woman was attractive, looked to be in her mid-fifties and appeared to have all the time in the world to talk. She introduced herself as Libby. She thought a moment then said, “She was the one who got into all that trouble, right?”
We were standing on her front porch, a wood floored thing which ran across the entire front of the house with a white porch swing hanging at the far end. The house was three stories tall, cream-colored with green trim and a flowered-patterned stain glass window above the large front picture window. Her front door was actually a pair of heavy, dark-stained oak doors with a glossy finish and shinny brass door knobs. She was leaning against the door that was still closed.
“She was involved with the removal of some documents from her place of business,” I said. “The documents were never recovered. There was a question regarding proper access to the documents.” I thought it a good idea to skip over some of the more negative aspects of Desi’s situation.
“Well , you left out the little fact of a bank robbery. The Federal Reserve no less. Then there was that bizarre situation where they found that little character on the steps of the Cathedral. If I recall, the money, millions, were never recovered. If it wasn’t the largest robbery in the state’s history it certainly ranks in the top two or three.”
“That’s probably correct.”
“Sad… we were all quite surprised. She was quiet and kept to herself. An architect, right?”
I nodded.
“If architecture is anything like the legal profession, she worked long hours. My husband is a lawyer. He used to come home and work some more, collapse, then right off to work again. It’s no wonder we never saw the poor thing. Are you representing her?”
“Sort of.”
“Please give her my best. The whole situation seemed rather strange. I still have a difficult time believing she was involved.” She looked across the street and up two doors to the house where Desi used to live.
“Can you give me any idea of what she was like? You know, when she was living across the street from you.”
“Actually no, I can’t. We waved at one another, but I really only saw her maybe a couple times a month. I can’t recall ever having a conversation. She always looked like she was either going to or coming home from work. We maybe chatted about something at a neighborhood Christmas party for a brief moment, nothing memorable. You know how it is.”
“Did she ever have any visitors?”
“Visitors?” she asked and sort of gave me a look out of the corner of her eye.
“Boyfriends, girlfriends, did she throw parties?”
“No , nothing of that sort. At least that I’m aware of. Like I said, she was very quiet and kept to herself. Then one day there was a For Sale sign out front and she was off to Federal prison. Honest to God, St. Paul, I’ll tell you,” she said, shaking her head.
I thanked her for talking with me , gave her my card and drove down to the Bremer Tower. It was a sign of the times in downtown St. Paul that I was able to get a parking space right across the street from the building.
Back in the sevent ies, the city, in its wisdom, connected most of the downtown buildings with a series of second-story pedestrian walkways known as the Downtown Skyway System. The idea was to provide a way to walk around downtown without having to deal with the climate extremes of
I took a wi ld shot and Googled Helen Olsen. The first hit I got was a women living in the United Kingdom. I stopped searching after seven pages and hadn’t even scratched the surface. I’d have to refine my search.
I left the office and drove over to Fairmont Avenue. Desi’s former home was in a trendy area of town loosely referred to as Crocus Hill. I knocked on eight doors and got three answers. The first woman had moved in two years earlier and knew nothing. The second woman had lived there for fifty-six years and knew even less.
The third woman was attractive, looked to be in her mid-fifties and appeared to have all the time in the world to talk. She introduced herself as Libby. She thought a moment then said, “She was the one who got into all that trouble, right?”
We were standing on her front porch, a wood floored thing which ran across the entire front of the house with a white porch swing hanging at the far end. The house was three stories tall, cream-colored with green trim and a flowered-patterned stain glass window above the large front picture window. Her front door was actually a pair of heavy, dark-stained oak doors with a glossy finish and shinny brass door knobs. She was leaning against the door that was still closed.
“She was involved with the removal of some documents from her place of business,” I said. “The documents were never recovered. There was a question regarding proper access to the documents.” I thought it a good idea to skip over some of the more negative aspects of Desi’s situation.
“Well , you left out the little fact of a bank robbery. The Federal Reserve no less. Then there was that bizarre situation where they found that little character on the steps of the Cathedral. If I recall, the money, millions, were never recovered. If it wasn’t the largest robbery in the state’s history it certainly ranks in the top two or three.”
“That’s probably correct.”
“Sad… we were all quite surprised. She was quiet and kept to herself. An architect, right?”
I nodded.
“If architecture is anything like the legal profession, she worked long hours. My husband is a lawyer. He used to come home and work some more, collapse, then right off to work again. It’s no wonder we never saw the poor thing. Are you representing her?”
“Sort of.”
“Please give her my best. The whole situation seemed rather strange. I still have a difficult time believing she was involved.” She looked across the street and up two doors to the house where Desi used to live.
“Can you give me any idea of what she was like? You know, when she was living across the street from you.”
“Actually no, I can’t. We waved at one another, but I really only saw her maybe a couple times a month. I can’t recall ever having a conversation. She always looked like she was either going to or coming home from work. We maybe chatted about something at a neighborhood Christmas party for a brief moment, nothing memorable. You know how it is.”
“Did she ever have any visitors?”
“Visitors?” she asked and sort of gave me a look out of the corner of her eye.
“Boyfriends, girlfriends, did she throw parties?”
“No , nothing of that sort. At least that I’m aware of. Like I said, she was very quiet and kept to herself. Then one day there was a For Sale sign out front and she was off to Federal prison. Honest to God, St. Paul, I’ll tell you,” she said, shaking her head.
I thanked her for talking with me , gave her my card and drove down to the Bremer Tower. It was a sign of the times in downtown St. Paul that I was able to get a parking space right across the street from the building.
Back in the sevent ies, the city, in its wisdom, connected most of the downtown buildings with a series of second-story pedestrian walkways known as the Downtown Skyway System. The idea was to provide a way to walk around downtown without having to deal with the climate extremes of
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