by F J messina
The Bluegrass Files: Down The Rabbit Hole
The first in a series of mysteries solved by the agents of Bluegrass Confidential Investigations
f j messina
Contents
Acknowledgments
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part II
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part III
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part IV
25. ‘
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Part V
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Part VI
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Part VII
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Author’s Note:
Curious about what Sonia does next?
Chapter 1
About the Author
Look For:
2016/2017 Blair/Brooke Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
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 any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental unless used by permission.
ISBN: 978-0-9998533-0-6 (Soft Cover)
ISBN: 978-0-9998533-1-3 (MobiPocket)
ISBN: 978-0-9998533-2-0 (Epub)
PCN: pbi1503
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
Most writers learn to write . . . then they write their first novel.
I wrote my first novel . . . then I started to learn how to write.
I give all the credit to my dear friend, Edie Maddox Torok. After reading a “completed” draft of my first novel, she patiently walked me through not only the novel itself but the process of writing. She was much more than an editor, she was a teacher, a friend. Without Edie’s help, this book would not work nearly as well as I hope it does. I thank her husband Dale for sharing her with me for so many hours during the spring of 2016.
There also needs to be a special place here for my sister, Judy Thompson. She is one of the few people who read this and my other novels while they were in process and who made suggestions along the way, suggestions that significantly impacted the path the books and characters took.
Then there is my daughter Kristin Morford and her husband Logan. Kristin’s help as line editor (and resident millennial) was invaluable. Together, they did a great job in developing a photographing a great cover concept. In addition, if it were not for their incredible work leading the social media effort that supports this book, many of you may never have had the opportunity to read it.
I’d like to thank some of my beta readers, my dear friends George McCormick, Linda Vangellow, Debbie Lutz, Tom Hailey, Marcos Valdés (who’s help with the Spanish in this book was invaluable), Pat McClure (who poured over the MS so carefully and made important suggestions), and my daughter Jennifer Alrikabi. Without their support and comments Sonia Vitale might have turned out to be a somewhat different person.
And finally, of course, my most special thanks go to my wonderful wife Denise. When your husband turns to you and says, out of nowhere, “I’m going to write a novel,” it’s not easy to say, through your words and your actions, “Go for it.” Through all the literally hundreds of hours I have spent crafting this novel and the two that follow it, through all the other hours spent learning how to bring these books to fruition through our own publishing company, Blair/Brooke Publishing, through it all, her love and support never faltered. I am grateful.
So, as you can see, although writing can be a solitary experience, bringing the books of The Bluegrass Files to life has been a family affair─family and friends that is. I hope that as you read these books you will find yourself experiencing a sense of family─mine, and Sonia Vitale’s as well.
Part I
Come along for the ride as Sonia Vitale takes her first steps on a dangerous, action-packed journey that will eventually lead her from novice PI to consummate yet compassionate professional.
1
He remembered. He’d known it from the time he was a kid. It was always there─deep, deep, in the recesses of his mind─but always there. He’d been sure that someday, someway, it would come.
It had started with the glasses, needing them by age four. Not just corrective lenses. No, they had to be the damn coke-bottle kind, the kind that distorted what his eyes looked like to the rest of the world, big and kind of glassy.
Not that he’d cared at that young age. Then, it was about being careful, always being careful. His mother’s voice. “No rough-housing! You don’t want to break your glasses. Your father paid a fortune for those things.” Over and over again, gnawing at him like the buzzing of a mosquito in his ear. Always. “Be careful. Don’t break the glasses. Can’t you play quietly?” It was as if she still lived somewhere deep in his middle ear.
And small. Always so small. The other guys, Pete and Eddie and Joe, even as young boys they’d liked throwing themselves against each other, testing the weight and strength of their growing bodies against those of their friends. Sometimes it had turned into a real scuffle. But all had been forgotten in moments. They were friends to the end, learning what it meant to be boys, then men. But not him. He had always stood by and watched, knowing full well he was out of his league even with the normal-sized kids, no less the bigger ones.
Not that he’d been a peace-maker. For him, it was simply avoiding physical confrontation at all cost. The few times he’d been drawn into a situation he simply couldn’t steer clear of, he’d reacted with the ferocity of a trapped animal, biting and scratching, fighting for survival. His friends had stepped back, shaking their heads, giving him strange looks. “What’s with him? We’re just messin’ around.” They’d had no idea of the fear that lurked in his soul.
It got worse when his mom died and the state took him away from his alcoholic dad. Placed in a home with “lovely Christian folks,” his foster parents turned out to be bible-thumping fanatics. Too much of a “sissy” for his temporary father, attempts to turn him into a God-fearing man came with the song of a switch or a belt whistling in the air toward his soft body.
And then there was high school. Every kid had seen all the movies, the dorky kid being stuffed into his locker by the Neanderthal jocks. Great
laughs for everyone. But what if you could fit in your locker. What if your buddies thought it would be funny to do that to you, you know, “just for laughs.” What if they didn’t know that you were so claustrophobic that you would actually die in there, your lungs cramping with fear, refusing to work, your heart bursting? What if even as an adult you couldn’t make love to your wife or play with your kids in certain positions because having a body over your head in some fashion would drive you into a mini-panic.
Time passed. He’d “grown up.” Childhood fears had receded . . . some of them. But others had made their indelible mark on his soul. And this fear, the fear that had darkened his inner life, had never gone away. Not really. It was as if he always knew that no matter what changed in his life, how he left childhood behind and became an adult, even a successful adult, it was inevitable. It was going to catch up to him. It was going to cost him. Something terrible had been following him for years, coming after him. Slowly . . . slowly . . . always. It wouldn’t be his fault. It wouldn’t matter. Someday it would catch up to him and he would pay the price.
His eyes screamed as he watched the rough hands stretch the noose, ready to slip the rope over his head, laughter all around him. He felt it tighten against his throat, tearing his skin, burning. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t swallow. He heard the barking of commands as they pushed the bales of hay out from under his feet. His body flailed in the air. As darkness began to fill his vision, it hit him. He shook his head. Tiny movements. He almost smiled. It had found him.
Sonia turned away from the window overlooking East Main and sat at her wooden desk, more yard sale than antique shop. She pushed the few papers there into neat piles, those items needing the most immediate attention at the top. Then, since her partner, Jet, was not yet in, she set about making a few notes in the Dylan file:
3/17 – Two hours spent on case
Quite certain that Mr. Dylan is involved with another woman. Have photographs of both the woman and him entering the building on Clay Avenue at separate times. Includes images of a wooden box that could possibly be used for sex toys of some sort.
Have been unable to get photographic evidence of the actual sexual relationship thus far. Hope to accomplish that and close file by next Thursday, the 24th.
Sonia knew that it was best that she wrote the firm’s reports. When Jet wrote them, words and phrases like, “slimeball,” “bitch,” and “whore,” often found their way into the reports. Having grown up in a strict Italian family and, of course, gone to Catholic schools, rarely did Sonia let anything more than the occasional “damn” roll off her tongue. Her reports maintained a more professional tone. Accordingly, the report failed to mention, as Jet’s would have, that Mr. Dylan’s associate appeared to be, “built like a brick whatever.” Sonia shook her head. I guess that’s how he likes them.
She closed the Dylan folder and placed it on the top shelf of her small, black, metal file holder. As she did, Sonia couldn’t help but shake her head in muted disbelief. Who was she to be writing reports on someone else’s behavior, reports based on clandestine observations. There was no question that there were reasons Jet had asked her to join BCI, her skillset, her background with computers, but definitely not her personality. She was certainly bright and quietly self-confident. But she wasn’t the type of person you would expect to step covertly into some dangerous situation or cavalierly come face to face with impending harm. Still, there were times when she felt her new job might just take her into situations she never could have imagined.
Getting back to work, Sonia turned her attention to some of the new equipment she and Jet had just purchased. She began with the photographic weaponry. She knew that in most TV shows and movies, PI’s are armed with cameras that have gigantic lenses. And it was true that Sonia had at her disposal a great digital SLR camera, to which she could attach a giant telephoto zoom lens. But she also knew that, in reality, a PI with that kind of camera in her hand would be as unobtrusive as a Clydesdale at a pony ride. She would be more likely to use her trusty gold iPhone. She could turn her back to her subject and appear to be taking a selfie, and no one would ever think a thing about it. Sonia and Jet had also obtained a killer audio device for monitoring and recording conversations, a notion that still felt a little creepy to her.
Sonia leaned over her desk and took the laptop computer they had purchased out of its box. She turned it on for the first time. As she waited for it to boot up, her phone cooed like a pigeon. She looked. A text message from Jet.
C U SOON.
Sonia had just put her phone down when it sang out its silly Star-Spangled Banner. Remembering that Jet had gotten her hands on Sonia’s phone and changed its ringtone, Sonia sighed. I’ve got to changed that stupid thing. She picked up the phone, assuming it was Jet on the line. Still, she answered, “Bluegrass Confidential Investigations. This is Sonia Vitale.”
“Is this the ladies who hunt down putos boy friends who can’t keep their pinches pitos in their pants?”
Sonia leaned forward and pushed the laptop off to the side. “Yes, it is.” She picked up a pen and scooted a notepad in front of her. “I mean, this is Bluegrass Confidential Investigations, if that’s who you’re looking for.”
“Si. Oh, yes. I’ll tell you who I’m looking for. I’m looking for someone who is gonna help me catch that pendejo boyfriend of mine with his pants down so I can—”
“Yes, yes,” Sonia cut in. “We’re probably the right folks to help you find out if your boyfriend is involved with someone . . . something untoward.”
“I’ll tell you what that bastard is going toward. He’s going toward getting his pito cut off if I find he’s been cogiendo around with some other puta.”
“Ma’am,” Sonia said. “Before we go any further, I have to warn you that if you make any physical threats against your boyfriend, and then something actually happens to him, I might be required to report that to the police.” Sonia checked the clock. Ten fifty-three. She noted the time on her pad. “Let’s just say that you would like to find out more about your boyfriend’s activities when he’s not around you. What did you say your name is?”
“Teresa Torres. My name is Teresa Torres, and his name is Marcos Torres, but we’re not married. We just both come from the same small village in Mexico. Lots of people there have the same last name.”
Sonia jotted down the name. She spun her swivel chair around and looked out the window that overlooked East Main. “Well, Ms. Torres, my name is Sonia Vitale. I’m one of the partners here. And before we go any further, I should tell you I can probably help you, but our fee for that kind of work is $75 per hour.”
“A carbón! Seventy-five dollars an hour?”
“Yes, plus any expenses.”
There was a pause. When Teresa spoke again, Sonia could tell that she was less agitated, getting down to business. “And how long will it take for you to catch that bastard screwing around?”
“Well, I can’t tell you for sure.” Sonia swiveled her chair around. “It normally takes me six or seven hours work to wrap up a case. I could try to do it as quickly as possible to save you some money, and if it were all in-town work there would probably be no other expenses. Still, I think you’re looking at five to six, maybe seven or eight hundred dollars. Does that work for you?”
“And what if you never catch him? Do I still pay?”
“Ma’am, I can assure you that when you get my report you’ll have a very good idea of what your boyfriend’s been doing. It’s not my job to make it look like he’s doing something wrong if he’s not. I’ll just let you know what I find out about what he is doing. I’ll stop looking whenever you tell me to, and whatever you do with the information I give you is up to you. I have nothing to do with that.”
“Five or six hundred dollars?” Teresa said quietly.
Sonia wondered if five or six hundred dollars or more was too much money for Teresa. Her eyes ran across all the expensive equipment they had purchased for just this kind of
work.
“Okay, you do it. I’m pretty damn sure you’ll catch him pretty quick. He’s pretty dumb.”
Sonia wrapped up the conversation and made arrangements for Ms. Torres to drop off a $200 deposit at the office that afternoon. She went on to collect a little more information about Marcos Torres, no relation to Teresa Torres, and ended the phone call. Almost immediately, Sonia started to plan her strategy. She shook her head. “Ay caramba.” Snorting gently, she laughed at her own terrible Mexican accent.
2
Sonia looked at her watch. Eleven thirty, time for a break. She slipped her slightly tired blue pea coat over a white sweater and jeans that hugged her shapely bottom, something that had gently sparked her pretty smile as she’d checked herself in the mirror that morning. She knew that at thirty-two years old, her dark brown hair, long and wavy, and her olive complexion made no secret of her Italian heritage.
