The Shiver in Her Eyes

By Brian Anderson

Hired by a mob-controlled pornographer to investigate a grisly murder, Minneapolis PI Lyle Dahms faces murderous gunmen, merciless gang members, and a massive ex-professional wrestler who, besotted with the dead man’s wife, insists on tagging along.

The real mystery involves the pornographer’s mistress, a dark and vulnerable beauty who steals Lyle’s heart—and who may not be everything she seems. As the lies continue to mount and loyalties change like the Midwest weather, Dahms risks his life to seek justice and protect the woman he loves.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Aug 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9781509242818

Brian Anderson

Brian Anderson started his security career as a USMC Military Police officer. During his tour in the USMC Brian also served as an instructor for weapons marksmanship, urban combat, building entry techniques and less than lethal munitions. He also took part in the Somalia humanitarian efforts and several training engagements in the Middle East. Brian’s technical experience began when he joined EDS where he became part of a leveraged team and specialized in infrastructure problem resolution, disaster recovery and design and security. His career progression was swift carrying him through security engineering and into architecture where he earned a lead role. Brian was a key participant in many high level security projects driven by HIPAA, PCI, SOX, FIPS and other regulatory compliance which included infrastructure dependent services, multi-tenant directories, IdM, RBAC, SSO, WLAN, full disk and removable media encryption, leveraged perimeter design and strategy. He has earned multiple certifications for client, server and network technologies. Brian has written numerous viewpoint and whitepapers for current and emerging technologies and is a sought out expert on matters of security, privacy and penetration testing. Brian is an avid security researcher with expertise in reverse engineering focusing on vulnerabilities and exploits and advising clients on proper remediation.

Book preview

I was at my desk when my phone rang. I let the call ring through to the answering machine. The machine whirred to life and Carmen’s voice filled the room.

Mr. Dahms, she began, I know we just met and that I’ve no reason to trust you, but…But I’ve got to trust someone. I really don’t have anywhere else to turn.

Although her voice was steady, alarm edged her words. I picked up the phone. Carmen, I said. What can I do for you?

Oh, Lyle, she sighed, her composure dissolving. Thank God you’re there. I’m so frightened. I think they’re outside waiting for me. You’ve got to come over here. You’ve got to come over right away. I’m at my apartment. She gave me an address on Eighth Street Southeast. It’s on the bottom floor. I’ve got some things to tell you about how Ted died. Please Lyle. You’ve got to come over right away.

Calm down, Carmen, I said. What’s so urgent?

I can’t tell you right now, she sobbed. I can’t tell you on the phone. Please, just come right away.

I didn’t like it. I don’t get a lot of calls from mob-connected damsels in distress and my instincts told me to err on the side of caution. But I’d been carrying around a mental picture of Carmen since we’d met and I couldn’t shake the memory of that knife-edge of fear I’d seen flash in her eyes.

Are you in some kind of danger? I asked, trying to sound businesslike.

She didn’t answer. There was a clicking sound; then the phone went dead.

The great big nothing coming from the receiver was corrosive. It ate at my insides. I pushed back from my desk and headed immediately down to my car.

Praise for The Shiver in Her Eyes

…This tale mines the gritty underbelly of Minneapolis and turns up gems: a soulless hit man, a heart-stealing woman, a mob-controlled pornographer, and a tattered but loyal PI. Suspenseful, heart-warming, and wonderfully written, just try to put it down…

~Roxanne Dunn, award winning author

The Shiver in Her Eyes

by

Brian Anderson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Shiver in Her Eyes

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Brian Anderson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Kim Mendoza

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2022

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4280-1

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4281-8

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

In memory of Richard Gatten

Acknowledgments

I am deeply grateful to my editor Kaycee John and the entire team at The Wild Rose Press for giving me the opportunity to bring this novel to print.

It may not have come together at all without the advice and support of my critique group of the last twenty plus years—Jessie Irene Fernandes, Diane Spahr, Roger Schwarz, Mark Knoke, Meredith Fane, and Nik Joshi—fine writers all. My thanks also go out to Burnsville Boys Eric Lindbom and Nic Santiago for their inspiration and long friendship. Thanks are also due to the staff and regular customers of the late, lamented Valli Restaurant, now merely a dimming memory of my days in Dinkytown U.S.A.

But most of all I am thankful to my family—my much better half Sue, and daughters Nicole, Sydney, and Miranda. You are my light.

Chapter One

The day had started off so nicely, I reminded myself, dipping my sponge into the bucket of warm water and taking another swipe at the blood-smeared wall. Standing some three feet away, holding a clipboard and making little clicky noises with his tongue, cleaning crew supervisor Brad Decker squinted disapprovingly at my work.

Use a little more degreaser on that stuff over there.

That stuff, as Brad put it, was a grayish-white blob of brain encircled with dried blood and anchored to the wall like an infected pimple. I sprayed on additional solvent, swallowed hard against the nausea that was creeping up my throat, and recalled how only an hour earlier I had made my triumphal return to my old employer, Personnel Service Industries.

I didn’t have many happy memories of the days, years before, that I’d worked at PSI—a Minneapolis temporary help agency that specializes in placing day laborers. The pay was lousy, the hours worse, and a sense of hopelessness and despair hung over the place like the aroma of discounted scrod at an outdoor fish market. I’d been positively giddy when I’d finally found a real job and had walked out of the small redbrick building, I’d hoped, for the last time. But earlier that morning, despite mid-December temperatures that had plunged to the double digits below zero, when I entered, kicked the snow off my shoes, and looked up across the room into the face of PSI owner, and Brad’s father, Luther Decker, I flushed with a warmly nostalgic glow. Luther, resplendent in a red plaid shirt and a pair of blue jeans two sizes too big, seemed to feel it too. He smiled when he saw me come in. More accurately, the corners of his mouth stiffened, pushing back his jowls to form something that resembled a smile. It was, I quickly realized, a smile more condescending, than welcoming. Nostalgia is too often more than just the fond recollection of things past; it’s also the force that prompts unquiet spirits to linger at the sites of their suicides.

There were a dozen or so men waiting in the cramped lobby facing the assignment desk. Luther was still showing his teeth as I approached. When I reached him, he took a half step back. Well, if it ain’t Lyle Dahms. He then leaned forward and announced loudly, We must be living right, boys. Christmas is still two weeks away and the fat man’s already here.

I managed a weak chuckle. My mom taught me it’s important not to be too sensitive about these things. Besides, I wouldn’t say that I’m fat. There always seem to be plenty of people around to say that for me.

Golly, Luther, I replied, I can’t tell you how tickled I am that you remember me. I was worried when I didn’t see a candle burning in the window.

Luther’s smile faded. He coughed, then flipped a clipboard across the desk to me. Sign in if you want to.

What you got today?

Assignments aren’t out yet. Luther wiped a splash of coffee from the counter with a spit-moistened finger. You’re late. Don’t know if I can help you today.

I shrugged, signed the clipboard, and took a seat with the others.

Despite his warning that I was late, Luther assigned me to a cleaning crew with his son, Brad, and two guys of indeterminate age with wild hair and grime-encrusted, thrift shop overcoats. Brad didn’t work very hard at hiding his contempt as he sized us up. He was in his early twenties, tall, trim, and certainly better dressed than either my co-workers or me. He had on a pair of tight fitting, white denim pants and a striped dress shirt, left unbuttoned enough to expose a tanned, hairless chest. His jaw was firm; his teeth were white and perfect. I looked closely at my confederates. Neither of them had perfect teeth.

As we were about to leave, Brad paused. Puffing himself up, he said, Today we will be cleaning a residence on Garfield Avenue. The owner will not be home. It seems that there has been some unpleasantness at this address. It is important that I impress upon you that this job requires not only our diligence, but also our discretion. In other words, gentlemen, I wish us to be on our best behavior today.

The three of us manual labor types glanced inquiringly at one another. Brad pointed at the back door with his clipboard. Come, our van awaits us.

The conversation during the drive over was not what I’d describe as scintillating. Brad was silent the entire trip. My two new colleagues exchanged a significant look before introducing themselves as Phil and Don. One of them—Don, I think—grunted unfavorably when I told them to call me Lyle. They both then proceeded to ignore me, preferring instead to whisper between themselves in voices so soft I couldn’t even be certain what language they were speaking.

Our assignment was a well-kept bungalow that dated from the mid-1920s. A walkway of gray and rose paving stones led from the street to a wide front porch, hugged by green shrubbery. The walkways had been shoveled entirely free of snow and the house itself appeared recently painted. It stood in some contrast to many of the surrounding houses, whose state of ill repair testified to a neighborhood that had gone considerably to seed since the houses were originally built.

It had been bitterly cold all week. To make matters worse, the wind had picked up that morning and when we climbed out of our toasty van, the frigid air seemed to bristle with needles. We reached the porch, I stomped my feet, vainly trying to keep circulation flowing, as Brad fumbled with the door key. When he finally managed to work the lock, I rushed gratefully into the house. But despite the warmth, the scene inside made the blood in my veins go to instant slush.

The door opened directly into a living room. Off to the right, a blue sofa with wood trim took up most of the wall. A four-foot Christmas tree in the farthest corner was a riot of tinsel and glass ornaments. Kitty-corner from the sofa sat a television stand, but, oddly, the set was missing. Nearest the door, directly opposite the TV stand, was a brown leather recliner with an afghan draped over one arm. The chair was a mess. Someone had bled all over it.

A thick, red stain soaked through the leather and stuffing glared out from a large hole in the back of the chair. Bits of gray matter rested in the clotted blood which had oozed down to the mustard-colored carpet. Behind the recliner, an arc of blood and brains splattered a crazy mural on the wall.

Something too small to be seen buzzed past my ear, followed by a lot of somethings, swarming invisibly around us. The room was stale and musty, edged with a vaguely offensive tang that lingered like the dim memory of a childhood nightmare. Phil and Don both stood with their heads bowed—like penitents before a grim deity. I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes. I opened them when Brad let go a dramatic sigh.

As you can see, gentlemen, he said, there has been much unpleasantness here of late.

Who bought it? I asked.

Brad stared at me with distrust. What was your name again?

Dahms, I told him. Lyle Dahms.

Brad shifted his weight from side to side, ran a finger through his long blond hair, and flashed a prideful smile. Well, Dahms, he began, stressing my name as though he found it unpalatable, the owner was one Theodore Rovig. Ted, to his friends, of which there were several, despite the rather unsavory clientele for whom he worked. Rovig was an accountant who numbered among his clients a certain Mr. Alexander Farnum, this town’s only truly well-known purveyor of pornographic material.

I’d heard about it, of course. Rovig’s death had been big news for nearly a week. Minneapolis was on a record-setting pace for murders that year, but even with the glut, the Rovig murder stood out from the crowd. The tie-in with Farnum was what brought real juice to the story and the TV and newspapers were playing it up with the enthusiasm of a sailor who’d just bought himself a ten-dollar hooker.

Farnum had first come to prominence decades before as the owner of a large chain of adult bookstores in the Twin Cities area. Unlike most sex merchants, Farnum seemed to love the spotlight, and the local media had made his the face of porn in the Twin Cities. When his bookstores became unprofitable, Farnum moved to mail order, 900 numbers, and the Internet, finding that he could reach far more people if he made his product available to his patrons without requiring them to appear in a public place to purchase it. In recent interviews, Farnum had gleefully bragged that his porn profits were greater than ever. He was fond of saying that there was a lot of money to be made in the dark.

It was no surprise that the reports of Rovig’s death concentrated on the dead man’s connection to Farnum. Casual mention was made that he had other clients, but the image being pushed was that of the smiling porn king. It was widely speculated that Farnum, if not directly responsible for Rovig’s death, had at least led the accountant down the path that eventually led to his murder. For their part, the police said what they always said—they were following up several promising leads and an arrest was expected at any time.

Brad cast a weary glance over the scene. Well, gentlemen, it would be pleasant to stand here and chat about this all day, but we have the dubious honor of cleaning up what remains of our Mr. Rovig, and we must get on with the work. If you would kindly go back out to the van and retrieve the implements of our trade, I will stay here and map out our strategy.

By this I decided that he wanted us to go out and get the cleaning supplies, so my buddies and I each made two trips out to the van bringing in buckets, sponges, solvents, rubber gloves, and a two-ton carpet shampooer. Meanwhile, Brad walked around the house occasionally making a note on his clipboard.

Finally, surrounded by our implements, we turned to Brad so he could outline our strategy. He took a deep breath and offered us a look rife with disagreement. Gentlemen, it is important that you realize our position here. This home has been under a great deal of scrutiny, and PSI is nothing if not a reputable company. As my father is the owner of PSI, it is frankly a matter of family pride to me that we afford this job our utmost care.

We stared blankly back at him.

Brad’s eyes narrowed. By this I mean that I do not want it said that anything turned up missing after we have concluded our business here. He paused. I trust that I make myself understood.

Yes, sir, Mr. Decker, I told him. We darn sure wouldn’t want to do anything to muddy your reputation.

Brad raised an eyebrow before turning away.

As Phil, Don and I went to work, I did my best to keep an eye on Brad. He hung around for a few minutes, but soon began to make his way down a hallway that led to the rear of the house. He paused to glance into the adjacent kitchen but was moving on when a knock at the front door stopped him. He didn’t have time to answer it before the door swung open and two men entered.

The first guy through the door was a large, well-muscled, young man who, despite the cold, wore no overcoat. He was dressed in a crisp, blue suit, white shirt, and blue paisley tie. As he entered, he stepped to one side, keeping his eyes on us while allowing the second man to enter.

Man number two was short, overweight, and wore a shabby, olive raincoat. Having stepped through the door, he carefully pushed it closed with his heel. Slowly and silently, he unbuttoned the coat, under which he wore a rumpled, charcoal gray suit that, from the looks of it, he’d purchased sometime back in the Clinton administration. He put his hands on his hips, pushing back his suit coat to reveal his ample stomach, a pair of black suspenders, and a shoulder holster. I shielded my face, hoping he wouldn’t recognize me.

My morning had taken another potentially bad turn.

The short man quickly surveyed the room, then fixed his eyes on Brad. Okay, pal, he snarled, who the hell are you?

Phil and Don dropped their spray bottles and lowered their eyes. Brad, who had stopped at the end of the hallway, held his clipboard across his chest and shivered slightly. We’re from PSI, he said in an even voice. You know, Personnel Service Industries. We’ve been contracted to clean this place up. Then he looked down his nose at the man and in a voice just this side of arrogant, asked, Who, might I ask, are you?

The short guy didn’t answer. Instead, he wheeled on his partner. Christ, Mickey. Who was the jackass that authorized this cleanup?

Um…Ah, I guess I did, Augie, the younger man replied, careful not to make eye contact. I mean we’ve been over and over this place, and I uh…I thought…I released the crime scene. I told you yesterday that I’d take care of it. You didn’t really give me an answer. I didn’t know you wanted to look around again.

Without bothering to reply, the short man nodded a couple of times, then turned away. The younger man sighed and stiffly posted himself at the door.

Brad took a step forward and cleared his throat loudly. Am I to understand that you gentlemen are from the police?

No flies on you, pal, the short man said as he approached and didn’t stop until he stood practically nose to nose with the kid. Brad hugged his clipboard even tighter.

The cop reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and produced a badge. Name’s Tarkof. Homicide. He smiled thinly. I’m not disturbing you, am I?

Brad folded completely. Uh, not at all, sir. I mean…I mean, we’re sorry if we’re in your way, sir. We were told you were all done here. You know, with your investigation and stuff? He lowered his eyes and his face tightened visibly, as if at any moment he might burst into tears. You are done? he asked. Aren’t you?

"You mean with our investigation and stuff? Tarkof replied sharply. Oh, hell yes. We’re all done with that. No, we just stopped by to see if you guys needed anything. You know, maybe we could get you some lemonade, or something."

The younger cop by the door chuckled. Brad stared at his shoes.

After a moment, Tarkof declared, Well, if you’re gonna clean, then get on with it. Just stay out of my way.

Brad took several very small, quick steps backward and sighed audibly. I was turning back to the wall that I’d been working on when Tarkof noticed me. A smirky grin spread over his pudgy face. Coming closer, he said, Dahms? What the hell are you doing here? This part of your campaign against crime? Mopping up dead guys?

Brad stiffened. He jerked his head; his lips began to quiver. Officer, I swear, he insisted, I’ve never worked with this man before. Really, if he is some kind of criminal, I had no way of knowing. I’ve been watching him and I—

It’s Detective, Tarkof interrupted. Relax, junior. Dahms here ain’t a criminal. In fact, he’s a—

I cut him off. I’m just an acquaintance of the detective’s, I sputtered, my eyes mutely pleading with Tarkof not to say anymore to Brad. Tarkof stared at me a moment before giving me a slight nod. Brad continued to eye me suspiciously. Really, Mr. Decker, I assured him, I ain’t never been arrested.

Tarkof laughed. Like I said, relax, junior. You boys just get back to work.

Grateful, I turned around and had just enough time to put the sponge to the wall when Tarkof piped up again. On second thought, he said, you other guys can get back to work, but if Mr. Dahms has the time, perhaps he could help me out with a little something.

Tarkof took me by the arm and led me back toward the door, away from Brad and the others. He leaned in close and whispered, What gives?

I’ll tell you later, Augie.

Damn right you will.

Tarkof stepped back. Now, we’ve already got a pretty good idea of what went on in here. But there are one or two points that we need to be sure of. What I need is someone to help me reenact the crime. He grinned. You know, like on TV.

How ’bout your boy, Mickey? I asked, pointing to Tarkof’s partner, who was still stationed by the door, arms crossed over his chest. Does he get to do anything besides stand around and look pretty?

Tarkof smiled, reached up, and rubbed at his unruly mustache. Well, I tell ya, he said, shaking his head in amusement, Mickey just ain’t dressed right for the kinda work I had in mind.

Mickey glared at me. I considered blowing him a kiss but thought better of it.

Here’s what we need, Dahms, Tarkof continued. Rovig got it in the face with a shotgun. His assailant seems to have come in through the front door. The back door, the one back there in the kitchen, was locked. The front door was found wide open. There are no signs of forced entry, so either he let the killer in, or the killer let himself in through the unlocked door. Anyway, he’s in the chair and our guy comes in, circles around in front of him, levels the shotgun right at his baby blues, and lets him have it. You with me so far, Dahms?

I nodded.

Now, say you’re Rovig, and I’ll be our bad guy. You take a seat in the chair there and I’ll—

Hold on, Augie, I interrupted.

Tarkof’s brow furrowed slightly, but he was otherwise expressionless. His gaze held mine as he nodded toward the chair. I followed the nod, letting my eyes travel to the shredded upholstery, the chaotically twisting springs, and the clumps of stuffing lacquered in place with the burnt umber of dried blood.

You’re not serious, I said.

Be a good citizen, Dahms, Tarkof drawled, his eyes glinting. You wouldn’t want your boss over there…What’s his name? Decker? You wouldn’t want Mr. Decker over there to wonder why you wouldn’t help the police conduct a little official business.

I looked over at Brad. He was studying my face in case he’d have to pick me out of a lineup later.

No way, I told Tarkof.

Tarkof answered with a broad smile. Brad narrowed his eyes, checked his watch, and made a note on his clipboard.

You got your job, Tarkof said, I got mine. He gestured toward Brad. You help me with mine, I don’t have to interfere with yours.

Tarkof extended a large hand and gently pushed me down into the chair. I closed my eyes as the back of my head came to rest in what used to be Theodore Rovig.

When I opened them, Tarkof was standing over me, drawing a bead on my head with an imaginary shotgun. Behind him, Mickey wore a wide and goofy grin.

Yes, sir, Tarkof said, the killer shot him point blank. I hope he was wearing a raincoat ’cause he’d have got splashed good.

Tarkof chuckled to himself, but slowly the humor drained from his face and he seemed to become lost in thought. After some seconds, he turned back to face me. He seemed a little surprised that I was still there. Oh, that’s all, Mr. Dahms, he said. "You can get up now. A grateful public thanks you for your