Shay O'Hanlon Caper 04 - Chip Off the Ice Block Murder Read Free Page B

my father. But my feet had a mind of their own. I slowly stepped farther inside. “Dad?” I called again, louder.
    I took a calming breath and moved across the floor and turned on the hall light. Just do it, O’Hanlon. Go to your parents’ room and look inside. My late mother had been gone for the better part of my life, and I still couldn’t think of that room as my dad’s alone.
    My dry throat clicked as I swallowed hard. Before I could talk myself out of it, I marched to the first door, reached in, and hit the light. “Dad?”
    I stuck my head around the doorjamb. For a minute I thought
I was going to hyperventilate. I concentrated on even breaths as I scanned the room. The bed was made—my father was a tidy drunk—and the rest of the room looked organized and neat like it usually did, minus any bodies.
    Emboldened, I moved on to the room that had been my own. I didn’t need light to see that it was void of my father. The bedroom was largely unchanged from when I’d moved out. Same twin mattress topped by the same old patchwork quilt. The same desk that had seen me suffer trigonometry and term papers sat in the same corner.
    Nowadays, my old room was an emergency crash pad for the pals my dad played poker with—on the rare occasion they actually admitted they were too drunk to drive home.
    The bathroom was the last place I checked. I flipped the light on and did a quick once-over. No one home there either.
    I steamed back out to the living room, breathing easier and a little miffed at myself for getting carried away. However, nothing about this night was anywhere near normal.
    Back to the task at hand. I needed to find the checkbook, post-haste.
    The metal TV tray next to my dad’s recliner seemed a good place to start. After shuffling magazines and almost spilling a half-full glass of some questionable liquid, I gave that up.
    Next I headed for the desk by the front door. It was a beautiful piece of furniture, hand-carved and inlaid by my grandfather. Bills and unfolded statements were strewn across the top. I sifted through the mess, noting that the dates on a number of the bills were past due. I tried to remember if my father had complained recently about his cash flow.
    At the bottom of the stack of crap was a typewritten sheet that looked like it had been balled up and flattened out again, maybe more than once. A business card was stapled to the corner. I was about to pass it by when I caught the words Intent to Purchase at the top of the paper. I pulled the piece of stationery from the pile and scanned the first few lines.
    Dear Peter O’Hanlon,
    This letter expresses the mutual interest in a transaction currently in negotiations between the following parties:
    Buyer: Subsidy Renovations Inc.
Seller: Peter James O’Hanlon
    This document outlines the potential terms of the sale of the property known as the Leprechaun Bar and its respective holdings to be negotiated and finalized at a later date.
    I sank into the chair and stared at the letter in disbelief. No way would Dad ever sell the Lep. He loved his bar, and I didn’t think it was just because he was a drunk. Although that did help. But seriously. He wouldn’t consider it without talking to me beforehand.
    Would he?
    And what was Subsidy Renovations? As I perched on the hard wooden seat, I recalled my father mentioning some time ago that he’d been approached by someone who was interested in the property the bar was built on. I remembered he said he laughed in the guy’s face and told him that it would be over his dead body that he’d let them tear the place down and build a parking ramp or some other unnecessary “un”-improvement. Then he said he’d kicked the man out of the bar.
    Maybe he’d reconsidered. I knew his funds were tight. Were his finances that bad? My father and I were going to have to have a heart-to-heart whenever he decided to show his face again. After I killed him, that is. I folded the letter and pocketed it, fully