by F J messina
“And he left you in charge?”
The look on Missy’s face instantly told Jet that she had pushed the wrong button. “Yes, he left me in charge.” Missy’s tone was sharp, defensive. “I’ve been his right-hand for almost twenty years. If something happened to him, I wouldn’t have the slightest problem keeping that business running.”
Unconsciously, Jet’s hand flew up in surrender. “I’m sorry, Missy. I didn’t mean anything like that.” She shrugged. “I was just wondering if you were able to stay in touch with him, you know, about day-to-day issues.”
Missy backed down a bit, fiddling with the napkin. “Yes, we talk every day.”
Jet struggled to keep her face blank. “Every day?”
“Sure, via email. Each night I send him any questions that arose during the day. Given the different time zones, by the time I get to work the next morning, I’ve got my answers . . . for what they’ve been worth lately.”
“Oh.” Jet wasn’t quite sure what to say. Finally, she looked down at her watch and tried to rev herself up one last time. “Look, it’s getting late, and I’ve taken up a lot of your Saturday. Just do me a favor, if you don’t mind.”
Missy’s eyes crinkled just a bit as she spoke. “What?”
Jet jotted her name and phone number on a napkin, hoping to solidify the impression that she couldn’t reveal her employer’s identity. She pushed it across the table to Missy as she spoke. “When next you speak to Mr. Rasmussen, ask him if he has any areas in which his attempts to create finer things might use a little support.” She stood up. “Thank you for your time, Missy.” She slipped out of her chair, turned sharply, and got herself out of the tennis club as quickly as she could.
13
A person’s address was one of the kinds of information Brad could easily get from his former colleagues at NCIS. That morning he had gotten Carla Lombardi’s address for Tee and an address for Rasmussen’s father as well.
Around ten o’clock, Brad pulled up to the metal bars that led to a gated community off Tates Creek Road, not far from his own home. The door of the guard booth slid open, revealing a man in khaki slacks and a sharply pressed white shirt, an epaulet on each shoulder. A dark blue ball cap with the logo of a security company completed the image. The crisp uniform gave the impression of professional protection. The gray hair, bent shoulders, and slack skin of the body within created a significant dissonance with that allusion.
“I’m here to see Mr. Rasmussen,” Brad answered to the guard’s unspoken question.
“Do you have an appointment?” His voice was more robust than his body would have implied.
Brad smiled comfortably. “No, but I’m sure he’ll want to see me, it’s about his son.” He gave the guard a friendly smile and waited patiently while the man phoned the Rasmussen residence, his Corvette purring quietly, a powerful wildcat lying at rest.
“He said he’ll see you right now.” The guard pointed as he bent toward the car. “It’s 7722, just around the bend on the right.”
Brad knocked on the door. He was surprised when it was answered by a middle-aged woman in a pink dress that gave the impression of being some sort of uniform. “Za mister is expecting you.” The Germanic flavor of her speech was hard to miss. “Right this way, bitte.” She stopped, turned back to Brad and spoke softly. “Be kind, he can’t be upset, ja? He is not well.”
Brad followed her clicking heels through the marble hallway, past the piano room, and into the den. He took in the sophisticated surroundings. Dark green walls, dark walnut furniture, touches of brass throughout. The smell of Lemon Pledge was pervasive in the room. He chuckled silently. I guess if you make a ton of money putting roofs on houses for a living you get to build a heck of a nice one for yourself. A moment later he looked up to see the father entering the room from the other end. “Mr. Rasmussen. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”
In his eighties, Carl Rasmussen, Victor’s father, was a visual dichotomy, much like the guard at the gate. Dressed in dark brown slacks, cordovan penny loafers, and a white, expensive-looking polo shirt, the gray-haired man appeared ready to head out for a successful day’s work, the owner of a large and successful local roofing company. Conversely, the tubes running around his head and to his nose came off a tall, thin tank he pulled along with him as he entered the room. His face was sunken, sallow. He gave Brad a fragile wave, then headed directly for a leather recliner, an obvious favorite, and much more well-worn than any other piece of furniture in the room. “Have a seat Mr. . . .” His voice was as thin as he was. Raspy, airy.
“Dunham, sir, Brad Dunham.” Brad took a seat in a leather chair opposite the old man. He nodded and spoke softly, “Very nice,” indicating his appreciation of the room itself.
Carl Rasmussen sat silently, clearly waiting for Brad to begin. “Mr. Rasmussen, I’m here to ask a few questions about your son.” His voice was gentle. “Would that be alright?”
Rasmussen focused his blue eyes, much paler than Brad’s, directly on his visitor. “Well, I guess that would depend on exactly what those questions were about and who you are.”
Brad smiled, hoping to appear as unthreatening as possible. “Oh, these are just a few simple questions about his new business ventures. I’m a potential business partner of Victor’s. Honestly, I would have asked him the questions in person if I had the opportunity. It just seems like I’m having a little trouble connecting with him.”
Brad was hoping for some sort of response from Rasmussen but got none. He decided to jump right in. “I understand your son has worked with you for quite a while.”
The old man nodded. His eyes became just a bit watery. “You know, he was quite the football player. Tight end for Henry Clay High School when they won the state championship.”
He stopped there, leaving Brad waiting for more. “I see.”
Rasmussen bobbed a little as he spoke. “Went on to play for the University of Kentucky for two years, well, almost two years, ‘til they treated him badly. He had to leave the team. Couldn’t take it anymore. They accused him of selling drugs to his teammates.” He shook his frail head. “It was all bullshit.” He stopped, taking a deeper, labored breath. “Finally dropped out of school altogether and came to work with me in the company.”
Brad smiled politely. Here we go. The kid hung the moon. “Can you tell me a little more about the family?”
“Got married in ’55 I think; I know I was twenty. Married a girl I met in a bar.” He gave Brad a look that was just a touch salacious. “She was crazy, but boy she was something else. Hot to trot if you know what I mean.”
He reached over, taking a sip of water from the glass the woman in the pink dress had left for him as if it were part of a special routine. “Hell, we were only married two years and I had to get rid of her.” He waved a frail hand back and forth. “Crazy. Sexy. I always thought she might be running around on me.”
Brad was working hard to stay patient. “And the business? When did that start?”
The old man paused and took another labored breath. “Well, I guess it was right after I booted her. I wanted to get started, you know, really started, getting somewhere. I’d been putting roofs on for other guys and had learned a lot. So, when she was gone, I took every penny I had and started a roofing business under my own company name, The Rasmussen Company.”
He swallowed awkwardly. “And I wasn’t putting on anything but the best. Not super fancy, you know, but high-quality. I watched over every guy that worked for me. I bought the best materials I could get my hands on.” He pointed a crooked finger at Brad. “No one put on higher quality roofs or put them on any better than Carl Rasmussen. You can count on that.”
Brad was listening patiently. “And your son, Victor? When did he come along?”
Rasmussen let out a little chuckle. “Yeah, my son. Wasn’t too long after the first wife was gone that I married again. Harriet. Just the opposite of the first one. Nice, easy to deal with, compliant.” He winked at Brad.
“But no slouch in bed, if you know what I mean.”
Brad smiled passively. Damn, this guy’s a real son-of-a-bitch.
The old man reached for the glass of water. Misjudging its location, he knocked it off the table, making a wet mess on an obviously expensive rug. Brad rose up in his chair, but Rasmussen raised his shaking hand and stopped him. “Don’t worry. The woman will get it later.” He shook his head, looking at the glass on the floor. “Damn glasses. Bottoms are so small they’re always falling over on me.” Rasmussen looked back at Brad, seemingly confused, having lost his train of thought.
Brad helped him out. “You married Harriet . . . .”
“Yes, yes, Harriet. Nice lady, but boring. Couldn’t stand her after a while. Divorced her too, but not before she gave me Victor. She’s dead now, for years.” He seemed to mentally drift away for a moment.
Brad had spent hours patiently waiting for victims or suspects to tell their stories. He was having no problem waiting for the old man to get to important things. “And the business?”
Rasmussen smiled. “Yes, the business. It became very successful.” He grinned at Brad. “You can make a hell of a lot of money putting quality roofs on expensive houses . . . if they’re worth it. And mine were. Top quality.”
“And when did Victor join the business?”
Rasmussen closed his eyes for a moment. “After that thing at UK, the drugs and everything.” He shook his head again. “Sad, sad.”
Brad couldn’t quite tell whether the father felt his son was guilty or wrongly accused. He just nodded, hoping the old man would continue.
“Anyway, Victor dropped out of school and came to work for me. At first, he just helped me put roofs on those high-end houses.” The old man took a deep, shaky breath. “But one day he comes to me and tells me we should get into commercial roofing as well. I didn’t really agree with him, it’s a whole different animal, but I wanted to let him feel like he really was part of the business, not just an employee.” He looked closely at Brad, “You know how that is.” Brad nodded again, staying silent.
“Anyway, those first commercial roofs were pretty nice. Not the highest quality, but still good roofs. Nice. People liked them. We got a lot more contracts.” The white-haired head wobbled slightly. “But that got Victor going. Next thing you know we were doing more and more projects.” His chin dropped a little. “More commercial buildings and more homes, less and less quality.”
Brad saw what appeared to be remorse creeping across the old man’s face. “I see.”
By then, Rasmussen’s face was actually looking downward. “Strange. You develop a reputation by doing good work, high-quality work, then the company makes a fortune churning out job after job that . . .” He stopped, seemingly unable or unwilling to finish the sentence.
After a long moment, Brad asked, “And Victor? He was okay with that arrangement—lower quality, more profit?”
The old man sat silently.
“And he’s running things now?”
Rasmussen looked up, pale blue eyes imploring bright blue eyes for understanding. “It’s all his now. I’m too old. The only part of me that’s still in the business is my name. He runs it the way he wants.” Brad could feel the old man’s energy rising. “In fact, he’s not even really running it anymore.” The crooked finger came up again, pointing at Brad. “It’s that Missy Charles, his assistant manager. If it weren’t for her the whole damn thing would go to hell.” His eyes squinted. “But it’s not her fault. He’s the boss. He’s just left a vacuum. She had to fill it.” He leaned toward Brad. “And she’s damn good at it.”
Brad waited another moment to see if anything else would come out of Rasmussen’s mouth. Nothing came. Brad pressed. “So, what’s Victor up to these days? I heard he bought a racehorse, and now he’s talking about bringing out a high-end line of bourbon.”
The old man reached for the water glass that was no longer there then pulled his hand back. He gave Brad a sly look. “You know, it’s women. They’re the source of all our trouble.” He chuckled, “And sometimes one man’s trouble is another man’s fortune. Seems like some poor fellow over in Arabia or some such had this great racehorse and thought he was going to get richer than he already was. But then he gets himself all tangled up with the daughter of the head guy over there and next thing you know he’s running for his life. Got to sell the horse.” Rasmussen’s finger wagged again. “And who do you think managed to steal that horse away for a song?” A big smile crossed his face. “My boy, Victor. Next thing you know Victor’s got himself a big-time winner. And do you know what comes with that, Mr. Dunlop?”
Brad let the mistake go by. “What?”
“Money. Money and prestige, just the things that Victor has been chasing all his life.” His eyes squinted, his voice got smaller. “Not quality, not reputation, money and prestige.” His lips curled, almost in disgust.
Brad sat silently, patiently listening. Hung the moon? Maybe not so much. “And do you know anything about the bourbon he’s planning on marketing? Do you know where he’s going to distill it? Distill it, or maybe purchase it?”
Carl Rasmussen waved his hand. “Bullshit. Probably just more of his bullshit.” He snorted. “I been drinking fine bourbon all my life, and one thing I can tell you for sure, you can’t come up with that stuff in a few months. He’s either buying it, stealing it, or this is just more of his bullshit.” He licked his lips. “I wouldn’t spend a lot of time worrying about it if I were you.”
Brad looked at Rasmussen. He could tell the conversation had taken a lot out of the old man. He didn’t want to press things further. Besides, he’d gotten plenty of information out of him, more, in fact, than he had expected. “One last question, if you don’t mind, sir.”
Rasmussen looked up at him. Brad couldn’t tell which looked more worn out, the old man or the leather chair. “Do you know where your son is now?”
He shrugged. “Who knows. Sometimes I don’t talk to him for a week or two.”
Brad pressed. “But you don’t know where he is right now? Maybe out of town or something?”
Rasmussen seemed to take offense. “I told you. Sometimes the bastard doesn’t call me for weeks. What’s it to you?”
Brad wanted to ask about the last time Rasmussen had heard from Victor but he felt like that window had already closed. He took a breath and spoke calmly. “And you don’t know if there are people he’s having any problems with?”
The old man dismissed the question with the wave of a frail hand and a sneer on his face. “No more than I can count on two hands.” He finished with a snort.
Brad sat up taller in the leather chair. “Well, I want to thank you for your time, sir. I appreciate your talking to me.” Brad stood and began walking toward the door.
Rasmussen surprised him. “I know where he is.”
Brad turned, totally off guard. “You do?”
“Out screwing. Screwing some woman, or screwing some family, or screwing any fool who’d go into business with him.” He looked Brad in the eye. “And you, Mr. Dunlop? Are you a fool?”
Brad walked over to the man. He reached out and took a frail hand in his own and shook it gently. “I hope not, Mr. Rasmussen. I truly hope not.”
14
Sonia had made an early call to Ed Rollins, the Master Distiller at the James Bennington distillery in Clearview, Kentucky. Rollins’ secretary had said that he wouldn’t be in, but when Sonia mentioned Mason Holiday, she was put on hold. A few minutes later Sonia was told to be there at eleven o’clock. As she hung up the phone, her eyes rested on the Smith & Wesson Airweight sitting on her nightstand in its holster. She felt uncomfortable about arming herself as she went to have a conversation with one of the leaders of the bourbon industry, right at his company’s main facility. Still, she put her left foot on a small stool near her bed, grabbed the holster, and brought it to her ankle. I’m either committed to being armed at work or not.
The drive from Lexington to Clearview to
ok a little less than an hour and a half, a pleasant ride through rural Kentucky. Sonia left her car in the parking lot in front of an odd-looking, brown and brick, two-story structure. The logo of the James Bennington company was emblazoned across its face. She walked around the campus a bit before heading for the main office and was impressed with its size; building after building, including the actual distillery and rackhouses nine stories tall, were spread out across the property.
Sonia walked into the main office and asked for Ed Rollins. She was disappointed when she was told that he wasn’t on the property but that she was expected and would be meeting with Oscar Branch, a man who had a long history with the company.
Sonia was escorted into a small, private conference room. Sitting before her, in a dark brown, leather, wingback chair, was a man who appeared to be in his mid-to-late eighties. There was a glass tumbler holding a half-inch of amber liquid sitting on a small round table next to him. Gray-haired and dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans that were by no means of the hip designer variety, he wore a brimmed, felt hat. Though he was indoors; round, dark-lensed sunglasses sat on his weathered face.
He smiled at Sonia warmly and gestured for her to take a seat. “Being a gentleman,” his voice was strong, but edged with the rasp of time, “I would normally stand for a young woman like yourself. But these bones and joints are a mite tired, and if you don’t mind, I’ll just tip my hat.” His hand touched the felt brim for the briefest moment.
“Certainly, sir.” Sonia smiled warmly. “Not a problem.” She took a seat in a matching chair, noticing how beautifully the room all came together—leather chairs, hardwood flooring, rustic paneled walls, and a fireplace stacked with wood that wouldn’t be lit until next fall. “Thank you so much, Mr. Branch, for taking the time to meet with me. Unfortunately, I’m not sure that you’re the one who can help me with my questions.”
