Bulldog (Dev Haskell - Private Investigator Book 9) (9 page)

“I’ve been busy.”

“Starring out the window is what you’ve been doing. Staring as life just continues to pass you by, Dev. Come on, get with the program, hell, get with
any
program,” he said then chuckled.

“How did we get from Casey’s abstract to me being a bum? Don’t answer that, and don’t spill anything, damn it, she’ll kill me.”

Louie flipped the faded green cover back then nodded for a moment as he read. “Fantastic,” he said to himself then looked up at me again. “That information, previous owners, taxes, valuation is a matter of public record.”

“Yeah, I know that.”

“Well, since you know that, then you probably also know you can go down to the Recorder’s office and look it up, all you need is her property address.”

It was so basic it hadn’t occurred to me.

“I can see the light slowly coming on in that dim mind of yours, Dev.”

“You know where they’re located?”

“Hang on a sec, I know where they are, but let me get you the address.” He hit a couple of keys on his computer waited a moment. “Here we go, PRR, 90 Plato Boulevard West, just go over the Wabasha Bridge and take a right.”

“I’ll be back,” I said and headed out the door.

The Ramsey County Property Records and Revenue office is a fairly modern looking four-story, white stucco structure with lots of large windows and rounded corners on the entire exterior of the building.

The only county buildings I visited on any sort of a regular basis was either the courthouse or the jail. Just by the nature of the beast, the experience was likely to be on the unpleasant side. This was altogether different.

“Hi, how can I help you?” a pleasant looking woman, maybe in her fifties asked. Her name tag read ‘Mary Jane.’ We were standing at a long counter of laminated wood. She was on the business side of the counter and I was on the groveling side. The room was bright with floor to ceiling windows, off-white walls and fluorescent lights. Amazingly none of the lights were flickering. Framed and matted prints of various city scenes hung on the walls.

“I’d like to look up property records for a home in Saint Paul,” I said.

“I’ll just need an address and I can bring that tape out to you, everything is on micro fiche,” she added sensing my bewilderment.

I gave her Casey’s address and she directed me to a table divided into a number of individual cubicles. She brought out a roll of micro fiche to me just a few minutes later. “You need anything else just let me know. When you’re finished here just bring the tape back up to the front desk. If you need copies made of any records we can do that for a modest fee.”

“Thank you, I don’t think copies will be necessary.”

“The records are filed alphabetically by street name and then numerically based on address. So you’ll be going to ‘H’ for Holly Avenue then numeric order after that, okay?”

“We’ll see if I screw it up.”

“I’m here if you do,” she said.

“Thanks, Mary Jane.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Haskell.”

“Please, call me, Dev.”

“Okay, Dev,” she smiled. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

I nodded then watched her walk away wondering was that last line a come on? At the Records office? I didn’t think so. Was it?

I landed on Casey’s records in just a few minutes then slowly ran down the dates from the late eighteen hundreds through the last century. I paused at November, 1983 when Norman Speer purchased the property from a Richard Mallnory. Norman Speer sold to a guy named Lowell Bulski in 2006. Bulski sold to Dermot and Casey Gallagher in March of 2013. That was where Jackie Van Dorn got involved. It all pretty much dovetailed with what Casey’s neighbor across the street and Casey herself had told me. Now I just had to find this Lowell Bulski and see if he had any sort of connection to Bulldog.

I removed the tape from the viewer and walked back to the front counter.

“That was fast,” Mary Jane said looking up at me.

“That’s because you gave me such good directions to begin with. Do you have records on individuals?”

“Individuals?”

“Yeah, if I got a guy’s name would you have a record of where he lived, employment, you know, that sort of thing?”

“I do know and no we don’t have records of that sort. You might want to try a phone book or you could go on line and possibly look that up in a reverse directory. If you have an address you might be able to learn who lived there. Word of advice, don’t pay for any of that information. If they want to charge you just move on to another site. You might start online with ‘White Pages’. They’re a pretty intuitive site.”

“White pages, I’ll remember that. Thanks, Mary Jane, you’ve been a big help.”

“Always my pleasure, stop in anytime,” she smiled.

There it was again, was she or wasn’t she?

Chapter Twenty

I phoned Louie as
I pulled out of the parking lot.

“Yeah, Dev, what is it?”

“Just wanted to say thanks, I’m leaving your friends at PRR now.”

“You get what you needed?”

“Yes and no. The good news is I got a name, the bad news is it doesn’t mean a damn thing to me.”

“Who is it?”

“Some guy named Lowell Bulski, ring any bells?”

“No, not off the top of my head. You got a second, I’m on my computer I could look him up.”

“Yeah, please do.” I was headed back across the Wabasha Bridge. I stopped for a red light at the far end of the bridge while Louie was clicking keys on his computer.

“Okay, here we go,” he said just as the light turned green. “There’s a guy with that same last name listed with the Liquor Board of Control out of Washington, the state not D.C. A Bulski contracting out of Milwaukee, a Florence Bulski, poet, but nothing with the first name Lowell. That’s the guy’s name, the guy your pals bought their house from?”

“Yeah, he’s the guy Jackie Van Dorn covered for in the closing. I got an idea.”

“If you’re thinking of going to Van Dorn’s office, don’t. That’s not a good idea.”

“Relax, I have no intention of going to his office, I promise. I better ring off, I’m driving and I’m heading into some heavy construction.”

“Later,” Louie said and hung up.

The parking lot at Nasty’s was more crowded than when I was here the other day. I found a place about as far away from the door as you could get. The same heavy-set woman was stuffed into the little glass booth just past the door. She had a cigarette almost burned down to the filter smoldering next to her. Her left shoulder and arm were flattened up against the bulletproof glass.

“Five bucks,” she said not looking up from her book, it looked to be a different romance than the other day.

I slipped a ten into the little well in the counter. She gave half a sigh suggesting she really couldn’t be bothered then after some effort she slid a five back out to me.

“Thank you very much,” I said sweetly.

That got her going on a phlegmy coughing jag and I pushed the pair of brass boobs on the doors and fled inside. The place was more or less packed with guys in suits and loosened starched collars. I couldn’t spot an open table. Occasionally, a whistle or two came from the crowd. The two women dancing on stage looked fairly happy with clumps of dollar bills stuffed in their garters, and the half dozen girls out on the floor working the crowd all had smiles on their faces.

I headed toward the bar.

The same crabby bartender from the other day looked over at me while pouring a tray of tap beers, at least this time she was actually doing something. “Yeah,” she grunted.

“I’m looking for Freddy.”

“That fat guy, the bouncer?”

“That’s him.”

“I think he woke up from his nap and left about half an hour ago. You might check the parking lot, he could be back asleep out there in his car.”

Wow, she actually had a sense of humor. Then again, given it was Freddy we were talking about maybe she was just stating a fact. More whistles and yells from the crowd as the two girls dancing picked up cash from the guys seated along the edge of the stage.

The lights suddenly dimmed and a deep smoker’s voice growled over the speakers. “And now the moment you’ve all been waiting for, Nasty’s presents the nastiest star attraction you’ve ever seen, how about a warm welcome for Cougar. Take your hands out of your pants and give the clap to Cougar. Cougar. Cougar.”

Apparently they liked it because the crowd went wild. Cheering, clapping, more loud sharp whistles. A good portion of the place was on their feet, a couple of guys stood on chairs to watch as Cougar strutted on stage then placed her hands on her hips and pretended to pull out guns, she shot into the crowd with both hands, pointing her index fingers and moving her thumbs like the hammer on a pistol. The crowd went crazy and there was a palpable surge toward the stage. Three well-muscled, thug-type bouncers sort of kept people back.

The thumping music started and Cougar danced across the stage, after about thirty seconds she took the scarf from around her neck, used it like a towel to rub her backside then tossed it into the crowd. There was a pushing match to get the damn thing. I had no doubt that just ninety minutes earlier most of these idiots were probably at their desk somewhere in a bank turning down first-time home buyers or charging exorbitant ATM fees.

“Grrr-rrrr, it’s Cougar,” the voice growled over the sound system and Cougar lowered her shoulder straps and shook her enhanced features from side to side.

That brought on more whistles and cat calls. I frankly didn’t get it, but then again I knew her. Of course back when I knew her, she was going by a different name, Swindle Lawless. An out of work porn star who threatened to sue Heidi and me for rape or lack of payment. Neither charge was correct, but no good deed goes unpunished so based on the legal advice from Louie, I paid Swindle four or five hundred bucks just so she’d drop the charges.

The last I heard she was striping and then at the end of the day wanted all the girls to hold hands in a prayer service where she promised to save their souls. Not what most of them needed to hear at two-thirty in the morning. They either wanted to just get home or get with the paying customer out in the parking lot. I guessed timing had never really been Swindle’s forte.

I tuned out the wolf whistles, the cat calls, the cheers and thought back to what Casey’s across the street neighbor had said.
‘There was one woman, strange sort of thing. Unbalanced might be the best word I can think of. Dressed like she was the worst sort of street person, but I heard from one of the neighbors she was some kind of missionary.’
It suddenly dawned on me, strange, unbalanced and some kind of missionary, it had to be Swindle. She was one of the renters that had turned Casey’s home into the worst house on the block. No surprise. It seemed an odds-on possibility that Swindle could tell me something about the former owner, Lowell Bulski.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was getting late
and I’d nursed three ten-dollar lite beers for the better part of five hours. I didn’t know what I was more ashamed of, nursing the beer or the fact that they were lite. The crowd had finally thinned, the last of the bankers were in the process of dragging themselves home where they’d groan to their wives about working late hours and then fall asleep in front of the late night news.

Swindle aka Cougar had been working the crowd, giving lap dances and downing shots. I caught her eye while she was grinding away on some suit and scanning the crowd over his shoulder. She gave me an aggressive nod, pointed to me and mouthed the words, “You’re next.” Gee, I could hardly wait. She was staggering toward me a few minutes later.

“Hey, sugar, I’m all warmed up for you. What do say? You get comfy on that bar stool and for forty bucks I’ll give you the time of your life,” she said then struck a pose and half growled.

“Hey, Swindle, how’s it going?”

She seemed to sag for half a moment then brightened. “Back for more are we. I knew it, couldn’t get enough, could you? Tell me your name again, baby, you’ve got me so excited I can’t even think straight.”

“Yeah, I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the half dozen shots you did out there. I thought you went straight and were doing the Lord’s work?”

“That wasn’t any fun, forget that shit. So, you got forty bucks? Otherwise you’re wasting my time. What’d you say your name was?”

“Haskell, Dev Haskell, we….”

“Sure I remember, sort of. Didn’t we have a three-way, after the victory party for Gino D’Angelo? God, the victory that never, ever happened.”

“It wasn’t exactly a three-way, see…”

“Three, four what the hell difference does it make? They all run together.” She slapped me on the chest then said, “Hey, just for old times sake, I’ll give you a deal, let’s call it even at forty bucks for the time of your life. What’d you say, Den?”

“It’s Dev.”

“Okay, whatever.”

“How ‘bout a shot, Swindle?”