by F J messina
“Ma’am, if I didn’t, I never would have told you any of this.”
34
After a restless night, Johnny Adams had slept later than he’d hoped. When he rolled over and swung his legs out of bed, his side hurt like hell. The whole process put him in a foul mood.
Still in his underwear, he sat on the edge of the bed and picked up his phone. The screen indicated it was ten minutes after eight. “Damn.” He dialed a number that wasn’t in his new phone but that he knew by memory.
“Officer Oliver. How can I help you?”
“Ricky, it’s me, Johnny Adams.”
“Hey, man. How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m fine, pretty much. I’m back in town for a little bit.”
“Wow. I was pretty sure I’d never see you again after what happened a couple of months ago. Where you been living?”
“Out West. I’m living out West. You, uh, still at it—you know, running stuff?”
“Me? No. Things got way too hot after you all iced that Hensley guy. Man, if you hadn’t wasted those three at the Coroner’s Office, I’m afraid we all would have been rolled up.”
“Yeah, well. I did Dimitrov and the farm manager, but it was that Marine guy, Dunham, who actually shot the Medical Examiner.”
“Still. If Dimitrov or Hollings had flipped on us, you and I would be doing time for pushing drugs and worse. Man, that took some balls, blowing them away right there in front of that DEA guy.”
“Yeah, well, you do what you’ve got to do.”
“And what about that chick? You told everybody you were leaving town because she picked the marine guy over you. Was that true?”
“No, no. I was just trying to stay close to her while she investigated the Hensley thing. You know, just to keep up with what she was learning. So, listen, with Dimitrov gone, I thought I’d be cool with Toro, but I’m pretty sure he sent some bitch after me. Damn near killed me a couple of nights ago.”
“Really? You okay?”
“Pretty much, but I’ve got two problems. First, I need to see a doc real soon. She caught me in the side with a nine-millimeter slug and I can’t get it to stop bleeding. It sucks. Second, I’ve got to talk to Toro, get him off my back. You still know how to get in touch with him?”
“Toro? Hell, he’s still in Mexico.”
“Yeah, I figured. But can you get in touch with him?”
“Yeah, I guess. Might take a day or two.”
“No, no. It can’t take a day or two. I’ve got to talk to him right away. I saw two guys pull into a motel I was staying at in Little Rock. Pretty sure they were looking for me. I’ve got to get him to call off his goons before it’s too late.”
“Okay . . . I guess . . . . Look, let me make a phone call or two. Where you staying?”
“Don’t worry about that. Just call me back at this number when you’ve worked out some way for me to talk to him. Can you do that for me?”
“I’ll do the best I can, Johnny. Just stay cool. I’ll get back to you.”
Johnny Adams ended the call, not sure if maybe he’d done more harm than good.
Having gotten up early, Tee had thrown on jeans and an old sweater, grabbed a quick cup of coffee, and left the apartment. She’d jumped in her little, blue Chevy and driven the two blocks to Magee’s. She was right on time, seven o’clock. The plan was for Johnny Adams to meet her there and work out a strategy for getting to as many Rasmussen Company customers and vendors as possible in one day. The BCI team had to know if any of those people had a reason to send Victor Rasmussen to the great bourbon barrel in the sky.
By seven-thirty, Tee was pretty certain that Johnny was probably not coming. She had no idea why, though she had noticed that he’d looked kind of sickly the night before. She wondered if he had overslept. Unfortunately, she had no phone number for him and didn’t know where he had spent the night.
At seven-forty-five, eager to prove she could do things on her own, Tee packed up her notes, refilled her paper cup with Southern Pecan coffee, marched out the door, and headed for her car. Struggling to open its door with coffee in one hand and a large notebook in the other, she was glad she hadn’t locked it. Then again, she never locked it—who would bother to steal this old piece of junk. As the car noisily came to life so did Tee’s level of frustration. Sick or not, that jerk should have called me by now. Screw it. I’ll do this without him. A few moments later, Tee had turned left on Main Street and was on her way to meet with the first of the companies on her list of Rasmussen Company vendors.
Jet walked into Magee’s and checked her watch—twelve forty-five. It was time for lunch and she was good and ready. As she stood, looking up at the electronic menu, she was nudged from behind. Turning quickly, she saw Tee’s smiling face. She winked as she responded. “Hey. Watch out there, girlie. No cutting allowed.”
Tee batted her eyes. “Oh, I’m not cutting in line. I’m just letting you know that I’m here and that the mean old ladies who run Bluegrass Confidential Investigations haven’t paid me in forever.” Her gaze fell to the floor, the feigned weight of hunger and despair heavy on her shoulders.
“Oh, my, my, my,” Jet’s southern belle personae kicked into high gear, “have things been so dismal on Tara that you’ve had to eat nothin’ but collard greens and bean soup all winter?”
Tee gave her a weak smile, having missed the Gone With the Wind allusion but certain that Jet was just playing with her. “Sure, yeah.”
“Well, step right up here you little rag-a-muffin’ and let this lady of fine breedin’ fill out your cheeks and put some meat on those pitiful bones of yours.”
Having ordered lunch, they both headed for a table and waited for their order to be brought to them. Tee started the conversation, telling Jet that Johnny had been a no-show. She went on to say that she had spoken to several of Rasmussen’s business connections but had yet to discover any reason why they might have it out for Victor. As their meals were delivered to their table by a young woman in a Magee’s T-shirt, Tee asked, “And what about you? Where have you been?”
“Well, last night Sonia and I spoke again about the fact that whoever did Victor in had to have access to the Horatio Blevins facility. Could have been some low-level guy, could have been someone in management, could have been someone who used to work there. I went out there today just poking around, not telling anyone what I was looking for, just hoping I might see something.”
“And?”
“And nothing. Absolutely nothing caught my attention.”
“Well,” Tee wiped her face with a brown, paper napkin, “I’m not sure I agree. Not in the way you mean it, anyway.”
Jet leaned forward in her seat. “Mean what?”
“Mean that someone must have had access to the place, regular access I mean.” Tee sat forward and leaned over the table. “Just think about it. Let’s just say that someone had it out for old Victor. Couldn’t they have just put in the time watching staff come and go every day? Couldn’t they just have figured out a way to sneak onto the property?”
Jet shrugged. “Sure, I guess. But why?”
Tee took a bite of her club sandwich then tried to talk with part of it in her mouth. “I don’t know. Who knows why anyone kills someone and sticks them in a barrel of bourbon?” She finished with a shrug of her own.
As they finished lunch, Jet offered to spend the rest of the day working with Tee on her list of Rasmussen clients and vendors. A smile crossed her face. You know, this one is working out just fine.
35
The Corvette’s engine purred as it made its way along the country roads, back toward the Mountain Parkway and Interstate I-64. The sun faded slowly behind the mountains as Brad and Sonia sat in silence. It was clear to her that each of them was trying to get a grip on Ephraim’s story. “Well, at least we know now why Victor Rasmussen was so certain he would soon be putting his hands on some fine, twenty-year-old bourbon.”
Brad checked his rearview mirror before he answ
ered. “We most certainly do. I guess the guy was on a roll. First, he makes a bundle in his dad’s business. Then he lucks out and winds up with a winning racehorse.” He glanced over at Sonia, “Then, with just one winning hand at poker, he winds up with twenty years-worth of prime bourbon, crafted by one of the Benningtons, at that.”
Sonia gave Brad a crooked look. “If you can call winding up dead in a barrel of Oscar Blevins’ finest,” she snorted, “on a roll.”
Brad inhaled. “Well . . . let’s just say mostly on a roll.” He turned to her and grinned. She answered with a chuckle and a smile of her own.
Sonia thought for a moment, then she spoke. “Okay, though. Where do we go from here? Do you think Zeke Bartley has already done Victor in? Is he the one who killed him?”
Brad had his right hand on the wheel while he tugged on his ear with his left. “I don’t know. Sure sounds like he could be our guy.” He watched a pick-up going well over eighty fly by him in the passing lane. “It certainly sounded to me like Ephraim was trying to tell us that’s what he was planning on when he left over a week ago.”
Sonia let her eyes drift to the mountains as they seemed to disappear into the fading light. “Does that fit our timeline?”
“Actually, it does.” Brad stretched his back, already stiff from a long day of driving and sitting. “It’s just killing me that we can’t take advantage of any of my NCIS connections to get fingerprints or even an approximate time of death.”
Sonia turned to him. “Are you sure? I mean, couldn’t there be DNA on the barrel?”
“Too hot to handle, babe. I can’t ask any NCIS technicians to put themselves on the line by going to a murder scene and tampering with evidence when the police haven’t even been notified about the murder.”
“Well,” Sonia sighed, “I hate to say this, but we may have to do exactly that come Thursday.”
Brad checked his rearview mirror again. “Right. Time’s up tomorrow night.”
Sonia pursed her lips. “And I hate it.” Her voice began to rise. “We wanted so much to help out—to learn something before the bourbon brotherhood had to go public with a story that could create havoc in the industry, in the whole state. Especially when it would all be nonsense anyway. One barrel. One body. Not even a whole batch would be affected, no less a whole distillery or a whole industry.” She sat silent for several minutes.
“Okay.” Brad broke the silence. “Let’s understand that Zeke either killed Victor or he didn’t, right?”
“Figured that out yourself, did you?” Sonia’s voice was on full snarky.
Brad gave her a look. “So, let’s think this through. If he did kill Victor, then we have twenty-four hours to find the guy and prove that it was him.”
“And if he didn’t?” Sonia’s voice was taking on new life, if only slightly.
“And if he didn’t, then where the hell is he? Is he in Lexington? Is he still waiting to kill Victor because he doesn’t even know Victor is already dead?”
Sonia sat up in the soft leather seat. “Or . . . what if he killed Victor and now he’s waiting to do something more?”
“Like what?”
“Like kill somebody else.” Sonia was fully engaged, energized by the terrible possibilities.
“Like whom?”
“Like the old man, the son, the ex-wives, Missy Charles, anybody.” She was becoming animated.
“Okay.” Brad nodded. “You could be right, but let’s think this through.” There was a tiny pause before he spoke again. “So, you think it’s possible that Zeke’s our killer and might be thinking of hurting someone else?”
Sonia’s voice was a bit calmer. “Well, could be.”
Brad watched another pickup pass him going eighty or more. “Damn, these boys fly in these mountains.” He gathered his thoughts. “But listen. I think, one way or the other, you’re right about this, at least about the fact that we have to take the threat seriously. We need to find Zeke Bartley as fast as we can. Either he’s our guy now or he might be later.”
Again, Sonia let a few moments go by while she thought. Then she asked, “So, how do we do that?”
Brad reached for his phone as he answered. “Actually, for the first time in this case, we really can use some of my old contacts. I’ll put in a sort of emergency call to some guys in the electronic communications department and see if we can find out where ol’ Zeke Bartley has been keeping himself for the past two weeks.”
Sonia watched as Brad made the phone call, asking for any information his old colleagues could pull together based on cellphone and credit card information. They were already back on I-64, headed for Lexington, when he got a response. He put the call on speaker.
“Brad Dunham.”
“Hey, Brad. Billy Stapleton here. I’ve got that info you asked for.”
“Great. Let me have it.”
“So, this Zeke Bartley you’re looking for. Seems like he left his usual hangouts in Eastern Kentucky about ten days ago. Been in Lexington almost the whole time since then. We’ve got credit card usage and phone logs that make all that pretty clear.”
“Do we know where he’s staying?”
“Looks like he’s been paying weekly rates on some place called The Embers Motel. Based on what he’s paying, it’s certainly no Hilton.”
“Excellent.” He gave Sonia a quick smile. “Anything else you can give me?”
“As far as I can tell, there must be a lounge there at the motel, something called The Embers Lounge.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he’s been running up a bar bill there every night for the past nine days.”
“Got it.”
“And Brad?”
“Yeah.”
“If I were you, I’d be hoping this guy’s not an angry drunk.”
“Yeah? Why?”
“Based on his bar tab, this boy’s been doing some serious drinking, real serious drinking.”
“Got it. Thanks, Billy boy. I owe you.” Brad smiled at Sonia. “Thanks, again. Talk to you soon.”
“Wow.” Sonia was still impressed with how much a federal organization could learn about a person in a matter of hours, or even minutes.
“Well, there you go, babe. One Zeke Bartley, staying at the Embers Motel and drinking himself into a stupor every night.” He tugged on his ear again. “Looks like the boy’s looking for trouble.”
Sonia turned in her seat, her concern reflected in her voice. “I know, Brad. We’ve got to do something before he gets away, or worse, hurts someone else.”
Brad changed lanes to pass a slower car. “You’re right. The first thing we’ve got to do is get eyes on him and we’re still a good two hours away. Who do we have that we can send to the Embers tonight?”
Sonia was quick to answer. “Johnny. We can send Johnny.” She was careful not to glance at Brad, certain that the look on his face was less than enthusiastic. “Let me call him.” She reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. After a long moment, she ended the call. “No answer. Dang.”
Brad kept his eyes on the road. Sonia sensed it was a clear attempt to hide his pleasure at Johnny’s failure to fulfill his responsibility—one of which he wasn’t even aware. He chuckled quietly before he spoke. “Okay. Not Johnny. Who else do we have?”
“Brad?” The look on Sonia’s face was incredulous. “Do you think I’m going to send Jet down to the Embers to babysit Zeke Bartley? Do you really?”
“Oh.” He kept his eyes forward.
“Oh, is right, mister.” She shook her head. “Or maybe I should send my baby sister down there.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded honestly contrite. “It’s just . . . . It’s just that I spent years having a team of professionals who were always totally prepared to do whatever I needed them to do. I forgot.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry. I really am.”
There was silence in the car as the night fell down around them. Finally, Brad spoke again. “Listen, babe. We really do have to get
eyes on this guy, and right now we’re lucky enough to have a pretty good idea where he is. We really can’t let him slip away into the dark. I’ll take you home once we get back to town and then I’ll stop by The Embers Lounge for a little nightcap. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah, right. I sit at home while you go looking for Zeke Bartley? I don’t think so.”
Brad gave her a quick look. “What’s that mean?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really. What do you mean?”
Sonia turned back to him. “Well, no offense, but I know that part of town.”
“And?”
“And I’m afraid you’ll stick out like a sore thumb there.”
Brad’s voice started to rise, clearly a sign that he was feeling insulted. “And why, Ms. Professional Investigator, is that?”
“Well, with your short hair and hairless face, I’m afraid you don’t exactly look like you just crawled off your Harley and stumbled into The Embers Lounge reeking of dope and ready to take on half a bottle of tequila.”
“So,” Brad was clearly getting pissed, “you don’t think I can pull this off?”
Sonia reached out and put her hand on Brad’s leg. “Now, I didn’t say that, sweetheart, but I’m pretty sure I’ve got a better idea.”
36
She walked into the Embers Lounge just past eleven o’clock at night, a beautiful woman, approximately thirty-five years old. Thin, shapely body, black hair, dark Hispanic eyes. Her choice in clothing left little doubt that she hoped, expected, to be noticed. Black jeans that hugged, really hugged, her body, a red satin top that plunged all the way to Mexico, red five-inch heels, black and red earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders; she gave off the unmistakable aura of a flamenco dancer.
Every eye, male and female, followed her from the entrance, through the smoke-filled room, to one of the several empty seats at the bar. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ played on the PA while no one danced on the small wooden floor that sat tucked up against the back wall. It was only moments before the sandy-haired, female bartender—late fifties, in black slacks, white shirt, and a red vest—moved to take her order; she had, after all, only two other customers at the bar, both of whom were adequately supplied at the moment.
