by F J messina
Sonia stopped short. She braced herself. “That’s what I said. I called him this morning. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Yes, I have a problem with that. Why him? Why didn’t you ask me if I had someone else, someone right here in town who could help?”
“Is there something wrong with Johnny? Some reason why I shouldn’t have called him?”
Brad took a beat before he answered. “Look, I know he’s an ex-cop and all but . . . but, well I don’t know.”
Sonia leaned in. “Well, maybe I do know. Maybe you’re upset because I dated Johnny before you and I . . . well, before we became us. Is that the problem?”
“No, of course not. It’s just that I don’t have a good feeling about the guy.”
Sonia’s answer shot out of her mouth. “Well, I do. He’s a good man. A good cop and a good man. A real professional.” Sonia was quite certain Brad’s reaction had more to do with romantic rivalry than any gut feeling.
Brad bristled. “More of a professional than me?” He glared at Sonia.
“No. Not more of a professional. Just a professional. And someone I know will keep our work confidential.” She turned away from Brad, unclear if she was mad or hurt. Doesn’t he get this? There’s nothing between Johnny and me. He’s just a solid guy I know I can trust.
One more thought smoldered in Sonia’s mind, became red hot, then finally burst out of her mouth. “And isn’t it my call, our call, Jet’s and mine, who we bring into this investigation?” She took a step toward Brad, now quite certain it was anger she was feeling—anger driven by hurt. “Is it because you think that you’re in charge of any investigation we work on together, whether it’s yours or ours? Is that it?” Another step closer, her finger now wagging in Brad’s face. “Listen. Get this straight. This is our investigation, BCI’s, and we appreciate your help, but don’t you think for a moment that we can’t pull this thing together without it. Don’t you think for an instant that in some perverse way Jet and I work for you, that we’re under your command, Captain Dunham. And don’t you think for one minute that when we’re married, you’re going to be the big, strong, boss man and I’m going to be barefoot and pregnant.”
Sonia stopped, still. Suddenly realizing that there were tears running down her face—coming to grips with the fact that this whole deal was about more than their professional relationship. Deep down, she wasn’t entirely sure that Brad would ever be able to truly respect her—as an equal—as a person.
Brad didn’t say a word. The frustration and anger that had been etched so deeply on his face just moments before were gone. His bright blue eyes moved to the floor and back, silently changing their message from one of contrition to one of supplication—wordlessly saying, “I’m so sorry for hurting you,” then “Please forgive me, please don’t reject me.” Finally, his voice joined in, “Sonia, I’m . . .”
She turned and walked out of the room.
29
It was a little after six before the door opened and Mason Holiday walked into the BCI offices, tiny droplets of water glistening on the light jacket he wore over his khakis and blue, Ralph Lauren sport shirt. The looks on the faces of the four people sitting around the plastic table waiting for him were less than welcoming.
“Mason.” It was the only greeting he got from Sonia─from any of them.
“Ladies.” He looked over the table at Brad. “Sir.”
“Welcome, again, to our humble abode.” The sarcasm dripped off Jet’s voice. “Do you happen to notice any changes we’ve made lately?”
It was obvious that Holiday’s focus was on the people in the room as he answered, “I see we’ve added two new folks to our discussions. I hope they are all well aware of our agreements.”
“Completely aware, Mason.” Sonia’s voice was terse. “This is Brad Dunham and my . . . and Teresa Vitale. They are both working with BCI at the moment.” She opened her hands, making a show of the next statement. “They are fully aware of our agreements and, I should say, in full compliance.”
Holiday scratched his forehead unconsciously, clearly uncomfortable with the greeting he was receiving. “Is there something I can do for you all?”
Jet waved her arm in the direction of the table in front of him. “Oh, please have a seat, Mason. But before you do, why don’t you take a closer look around the room. Can you see some of the other changes we’ve made?”
Before moving to a chair at the table, Holiday stood in place and turned slowly around, his eyes searching for the answer to the riddle. He stopped, turning quickly back toward the four of them. “Are those bullet holes in that glass?”
Tee banged her fist on the table. “Yes, they’re damn bullet holes.” It was obvious she was not going to be able to play nice.
Holiday recoiled from her comments and turned his attention back to Sonia and Jet. “I’m so sorry. I mean it. I’m so, so sorry. What happened?”
Sonia was determined to turn the scene into a useful dialogue. She spoke in more measured tones. “Have a seat, Mason, and we’ll explain.”
While Holiday sat down at the end of the table, Sonia took a few moments to explain what had happened and how frustrated she and her team were about getting the run-around from the bourbon distillers.
Holiday seemed truly rattled and not at all cavalier about the shooting. “Again, I’m so sorry. Have you called the police?” He took a moment to look across the table at Brad, who had not yet said a word.
Sonia stayed calm, though she brushed a wisp of hair out of her face and her foot was tapping a mile a minute. “No, Mason, we’ll not be calling the police.” She leaned toward him. “You see, when you got us to sign that non-disclosure agreement you sucked us into this mess. Of course,” she leaned half way across the table, anger in her voice, “we had no idea that this case was going to devolve into people shooting at us.” She waited a moment, then started again, more calmly. “Now, Mason, we think it’s time you tell us everything you know about what’s going on.” She gave him a snarky smile. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Holiday put his elbows on the table and his hands together in front of his face as if he were praying. “Yes, you’re right. But you’ve got to know, we never expected it to come to this, never.”
Sonia, Jet, Tee, and Brad all sat wordlessly, watching and listening.
The room was silent for a long moment while Mason closed his eyes, silently thinking. Finally, he opened his eyes and spoke. “Look, you’ve got to understand. Like I said when we first met, this whole episode has the potential to absolutely kill the momentum the bourbon industry has built up over the last few years, especially for Horatio Blevins.” He looked at them, his eyes almost pleading. “Remember? An urban myth about the entire output of a distillery being tainted by a corpse rotting in one of the barrels? It doesn’t matter that it’s not true. It would kill John O’Neal and his crew over there. It would hurt all of us.”
“Yes,” Sonia remained calm as she watched frustration, maybe even anger, growing on Jet’s face. “We remember. We understand. But . . . .”
“Okay.” Holiday let out a breath and held up one hand. “I know.” His gaze moved to Jet. “Listen. It’s like what Avery Hobart said to Ms. Jet─”
“Excuse me?” Jet all but popped out of her chair. “You know what Avery Hobart said to me?”
Holiday sat silent for a moment, his eyes searching for a place to settle.
Jet leaned forward, her hands on the table, her eyes glaring. “You talked to him after I left, didn’t you?”
“Well,” Holiday’s voice was quiet, contrite, “yes, I did.”
“Hold on.” Sonia sat taller as well. “Have you been getting reports on all of our interviews?”
Holiday didn’t answer.
“Dang it, Mason.” Sonia’s brown eyes held none of the inviting warmth Brad had often perceived in them. “What the hell’s going on?”
Holiday looked first at Sonia, then Jet, then Tee. Sonia could tell that the look he got from Brad
prompted him to speak. “Yes.” He dropped his head. “Everyone’s been reporting to me.” He looked up again, his gaze passing all four faces. “Look, like I said, Avery Hobart tried to explain to Jet that all the people in the bourbon community, we’re family. We’ve worked together for generations. We’ve helped each other when times were bad.” He looked at Jet as if reminding her of her conversation with the man. “Even when we don’t much care for somebody or respect them.” He looked back at Sonia. “You make bourbon in this part of the world, you’re family.”
Sonia took a deep breath, trying to control her frustration. “Yes, Mason. Jet got the message. In fact, she’s already shared it with us. But I still don’t understand. Why were you all not fully transparent with us? What were you hiding? You hired us, remember?”
Again, there was silence before Holiday began. “Look, you’ve been asking who in the bourbon brotherhood might have killed Victor Rasmussen, and we, all of us, don’t believe anyone in the brotherhood did.” His eyes searched the faces across from him plaintively. “We really don’t.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve also been asking about the twenty-year-old bourbon that Rasmussen said he was going to bring to market, bourbon he couldn’t just pull out of thin air.” He shrugged. “You had no idea how he could pull that off.” He paused, took a deep breath, and spoke softly. “We did.”
Sonia could see Jet about to go off. She waved a calming hand at her partner and took a deep breath herself. “Go on, Mason.”
He nodded. “Okay, I’m going to tell you something, something I’m pretty certain none of you know. But please believe me. The only reason we didn’t tell you before was that we were hoping you would be able to solve the case without knowing, without getting other people involved.” He turned to Brad, looking for support. He got none.
It was obvious to Sonia that the silence coming from Brad, a large and clearly powerful man, was beginning to make Holiday nervous and more likely to be honest with them. “Well, Mason, it appears we’re beyond that point.”
“Yes, I know that now.” Holiday’s eyes drifted to the bullet holes in the office glass. “Believe me, we never thought things would go this far. We never would have put you in danger on purpose. But now, I’m going to tell you the truth, the whole truth. I promise.”
“No time like the present.” Jet’s voice had more than a little edge to it.
Holiday sat up taller, folding his hands on the table in front of him. “So, you all know that for almost a hundred years coal has been the backbone of the Kentucky economy.” He waved his hand. “Oh, sure, the horse industry is important, flashy, world-renowned. And, I’m proud to say, there have been times, like now, when the bourbon industry has been important. But the real backbone of the state has always been coal. In fact, in 2010 there were something like four hundred and fifty active coal mines in the state.”
He pointed at Sonia, then Jet. “And twenty years ago, things were still good for coal, especially out in Eastern Kentucky.” Pausing, Holiday rubbed his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. “So, back then, two brothers, Ephraim and Ezekiel Bartley, they were making lots of money mining coal out in Knott County,” he pointed absently with his thumb, “down 64, past Hazard? Anyway, they decided that they were going to get into the bourbon business, but not like everyone else.”
Sonia and the rest of the team sat quietly, fully engaged.
“Now, what they were thinking was that the real money in bourbon was not in cranking out a lot of it, but rather, in turning out only the very best,” a small smile crossed his face, “twenty years in the barrel or more.” He stopped, almost as if he was thinking about the virtues of twenty-year-old bourbon on a cold winter’s night.
“You going to finish the story, or what?” Jet’s impatience was clear in her every word.
Holiday pulled himself out of his momentary revelry. “Sure. Sorry.” He rubbed his nose with a crooked finger. “Anyway, they found themselves a place just south of the Woodland Acres distillery and built a small production facility, I mean, almost tiny. They were able to use the same water, and they kept it real low-profile. Then they got one of the Bennington clan to put together their yeast recipe and figure out their mash bill.” He pursed his lips. “Now some folks say that yeast, or at least the recipe, was stolen, but I honestly don’t know the truth about that. So,” he took a short breath, “they produced a small batch of the best bourbon they could come up with without years of tinkering. But, given it was one of the Bennington boys, it was probably pretty decent stuff. Then they put it in a small, six-story-high rackhouse. They had to hire a few different folks over the twenty-year period to keep producing small batches and to keep track of things, rotate the barrels and such. They even had to build a second rackhouse.” He gave them an almost sly look. “But they never let the world know what they were up to, never.” He stopped and smiled. “The one thing they did allow themselves, after the first four years, was to go up there yearly, check on things, and bring back a small portion for their own personal use. Of course, they always took it from the original distilling, meaning they were sampling the beautiful stuff each year, smelling, tasting, absorbing its development and growing complexity.” He stopped again, nodding silently as if reveling in the beauty of the brothers’ plan.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jet’s voice was still edgy. “Listen, I’m as big a fan of fine bourbon as anyone else, but what does that have to do with us and this case?”
“I think,” said Sonia, “that Mason is about to connect those two brothers to Victor Rasmussen somehow. Is that true, Mason?”
Holiday became serious again. “Look. I don’t want to tell stories out of school, and I don’t know if there are any connections or not, no one in the brotherhood does. Let me say, though, that if I was suddenly in need of some twenty-year-old bourbon and hadn’t made or purchased any myself, the first people who would cross my mind would be Ephraim and Ezekiel Bartley.”
Sonia tipped her head. “And the reason you never mentioned these two before is . . .”
“Think about it. If it turns out that anyone associated with the making of bourbon is involved in this, the whole industry is going to get hurt.”
Jet sat up in her chair. “So, you wanted us to solve this as long as it didn’t turn out to be someone who makes bourbon?”
Holiday looked at her for a moment then dropped his eyes to his lap. “Well, maybe yes.”
Sonia pressed. “And the bullet holes in our office?”
Holiday shook his head. “I haven’t the slightest idea about that.”
30
After Mason Holiday left the BCI offices, Jet and Tee began sweeping up the little bits of broken glass they had left on the ground for Holiday to see. They had wanted him to get the full effect of the incident.
Meanwhile, Brad climbed up on a small stepstool Sonia and Jet kept in the office, neither one of them being tall enough to reach the stationery materials they kept on shelves above their armoires. Even at six-foot-four, Brad could just barely get the tip of the knife he always carried into the ceiling. Finally, he was able to pry out the two slugs that had whizzed through the room several hours earlier.
“Nine millimeters.” He held out his hand, showing the three women. “Almost certainly from a handgun.”
“You think?” Tee asked the question while she bent down again to sweep tiny glass shards into a dustpan.
Brad stepped down from the stool. “Oh, there are lots of nine-millimeter carbines out there, long rifles, but given the trajectory those bullets followed, I don’t believe anyone was really trying to hit us.”
Sonia nodded. “I agree. This guy shot from the street into these offices. If he really wanted to hit us, he would have climbed up on one of the surrounding buildings.”
Brad held the slugs out again. “And used a long gun with a much larger caliber, something that would be heavy enough to stay true over a long distance and through two panes of glass.”
Jet walked over to Brad
and Sonia. “So?”
“So,” Brad smiled as he rolled the slugs around in his hand, “whoever took that potshot was not trying to kill one of us. They were just sending a message.”
Sonia sat down at the table and reached for her coffee. “Message received.” One sip told her it had long since passed its “best by” moment.
Jet took a seat as well. “So, now what?”
Brad sat down and motioned to Tee to join them at the table. “So, now we figure out where we go from here. Any suggestions?”
Sonia swirled the coffee cup in her hand. “First thing in the morning Brad and I are off to Eastern Kentucky. We’ve got to find out if anything Mason Holiday just told us makes a bit of difference in this case. There’s got to be some reason Victor wound up in a barrel of bourbon.” She looked around the table. “Right?”
Brad gave her a tiny, one-fingered salute. “Right.” He put the slugs down in front of him. “We’ve got to know how that twenty-year-old bourbon plays into this . . . if it does at all.”
Jet jumped in. “And how the hell he got in there, too.”
There was a moment of silence, then Sonia put her coffee cup down. “On the other hand, I’m definitely interested in getting back to see if there’s something on Carl Rasmussen’s computer, something Missy Charles saw or copied and then erased.”
Brad turned to Sonia. “Right, I’m still thinking that Missy Charles is our strongest suspect so far, unless there’s something cooking with those brothers.” He glanced back at Jet and Tee. “And when Sonia gets to go after that computer, I’m going to make a little unannounced visit to Missy Charles, right at the Rasmussen Company offices.”
Sonia gave him a tiny wink and a smile. She turned. “Jet, what about you?”
Jet shrugged. “I’m not sure. Do Tee and I start checking out Rasmussen Company clients?”
“Wait.” Tee tipped her chin down. There was uncertainty in her voice. “So, we’re not going to talk about the fact that someone,” she swallowed, “sent us a message today?”
