by F J messina
Pushing away the yogurt and apple that were on her desk, her “healthy lunch,” Jet’s smile broadened. “I may just have exactly what you need.” She reached down and pulled a box on the floor close to her. Then, with both hands, she lifted it onto the desk and placed the package right in front of Sonia. Slowly, with a bit of a dramatic flair, Jet pulled out a small black object with a tiny antenna, obviously some sort of transmitter. Then, as she intoned the magic words, “Abracadabra,” she produced a small video recorder. “These, my friend, will solve all your problems.”
Sonia’s sandwich was half-way to her mouth. She was speechless.
Jet continued. “Remember how I have to record the deliveries at Clay McCormick’s restaurant?”
Sonia nodded.
“Well, we needed to get the right kind of video recorder to do that. And given that it’s not such an easy place to set up the camera, I went ahead and got this transmitter gizmo to go with it. It’ll send the signal at least a half-mile, maybe up to a mile. You can set the camera up across the street from the farm and watch it on that bad boy lap-top of yours from almost a mile away.”
Sonia smiled. “Awesome! That’s brilliant. But─oh crap.” A chunk of avocado had fallen on her jeans. She picked it up gingerly and popped it into her mouth. “Five-second rule.” Then she did her best to wipe the mess off her pants. “But don’t you need that equipment for the restaurant gig?”
Jet tapped her hand on the recorder. “Listen, I told McCormick I’d have to order the equipment, then I found it right here in town. He’s expecting that it’ll take a few days for me to get the surveillance up and running. By then you may have all you need on Marcos Torres.”
Sonia stood. “Cool. Let me take this sandwich over to my little corner of the world and, after I’ve eaten lunch, we can figure out how to set all this stuff up.”
Sonia left Jet’s desk and headed for her own. Earlier, she had wondered how Brad Dunham would have solved the problem of keeping tabs on Marcos Torres. Now, she smiled. How ‘bout them apples Mr. Semper Fi?
After lunch, Sonia stepped into Jet’s office carrying her laptop. Jet scooted over and she and Sonia got started figuring out how the new equipment worked. Sonia was in her element and happy as they spent the next hour working together and getting the video camera to transmit a wireless signal to Sonia’s laptop. Around three o’clock, Sonia took the camera and walked down the long staircase and onto East Main, all the while transmitting back to Jet in her office.
The camera was small and inconspicuous, therefore, Sonia could keep recording as she walked the two-block area around Magee’s. They had also set up voice communications from Jet to the earpiece Sonia was wearing. Just for practice, Sonia would listen as Jet gave her instructions and called for certain images. “Give me a close-up of the optometrist’s office . . . . Now give me a long shot of the school district office across the street . . . . Can you zoom in on the Superintendent’s office?”
Things were working out pretty well. Sonia walked across the street and turned around to get a long shot of Magee’s. Then she slowly walked toward the white house.
“What are you going for?” Jet asked. Sonia zoomed in on the sign that said Semper Fi Investigations. Holding the camera in one hand, Sonia spun it, turning the image on the laptop upside down.
“Feeling a little mischievous, are we?”
Sonia answered in the only way she could, by moving the camera up and down, creating an image on the laptop that resembled shaking her head, “Yes.” Then she grinned, turned the camera off, and headed back to the office.
At around five-thirty that evening, Jet and Sonia piled into Sonia’s red, seven-year-old Subaru Forester and headed out to Dahlia Farm, transmitter, receiver and two-way communications system lying in Jet’s lap. It was getting quite a bit colder, but the cover of dusk would afford them a greater chance of going undetected. Directly across from the entrance to the farm, Sonia slowed to a stop. Jet, wearing boots, jeans, and a dark green jacket, hopped out of the car as quickly as she could. Sonia took off immediately, hoping to get around the bend in the road before anyone noticed her.
Sonia had given Jet instructions to move quickly into some low bushes that were on the side of the road, across from the farm. She hoped Jet would be able to set up the camera in such a way that it would have a reasonable view of the farm and, at the same time, be pretty inconspicuous. Sonia felt guilty sitting in her warm car while Jet was out in the cold.
“Are you getting anything?”
Sonia fiddled with her earbud. “I’m definitely getting something, but it’s pretty dim. Let me try to enhance the image.”
With her laptop leaned against her steering wheel, Sonia worked with brightness, contrast, and some other image parameters. The picture on the screen brightened a bit. “I’m pretty sure we’re doing okay. I’ve got the entrance to the barn and the entrance to the house,” she said into the microphone. “But there’s just not enough light anymore. Without some sort of night vision imaging, this just isn’t going to get it in the dark. Let’s hope that Mr. Torres does all his cavorting during daylight hours.”
Sonia closed the laptop. “I guess that’s the best we can do for now.”
“Great. Now get me out of here before I freeze my ass off.”
Sonia put the laptop on the back seat. She stepped on the gas and within moments brought the Subaru around the bend. Jet had already run across the street, so when Sonia stopped, it only took a few seconds for Jet to hop into the car before they drove away.
Jet gave Sonia a look. “Well, that was lots of fun.”
“Like it’s going to be a barrel of laughs sitting in the car all day tomorrow, watching the grass grow green?” There was a snarky smile on Sonia’s face.
Jet hugged her body with her arms. “Well, the adventure begins. Now, what have you got in that thermos?”
Sonia’s eyes were on the road. “Coffee, just the way you like it. Hot from Magee’s and with a serious dose of Jim Beam bourbon.”
“Jim Beam Black or four-year-old?”
“What? Now you’re a bourbon snob?” Sonia gave her a quick look. “Listen, if you’re looking for their best stuff, it certainly won’t be cut with coffee.”
“Okay, okay.” Jet returned the glance. “But when we get back to the office I’m pouring us some of their new Double Oaked, neat. Man, that stuff is earthy. I love it.”
Sonia smiled. Before she’d moved to Lexington she’d never had a single taste of bourbon. Now she was all but arguing the attributes of different bourbons and their uses. Strange. They got to the castle and turned left, back toward town.
5
Nine-thirty on Tuesday morning, early for her, Sonia walked into Magee’s and up to the front counter. “Large coffee and an almond croissant?” Hildy asked with a smile.
“Not today.” Sonia shook her head. “I need a large coffee and a thermos of coffee. I’ll also need a club sandwich to go.”
“Another thermos of coffee?” Hildy raised her eyebrows. “Got a lunch with a special somebody?”
“Nothing like that. Just going to watch how horses spend their afternoons.”
“Alright then,” Hildy shrugged, “large coffee, more coffee, and a club sandwich to go. That’s order number forty-seven.”
Sonia smiled at her then walked back to the coffee bar to pour that first cup and fill her thermos. As usual, she glanced at the school district offices across the street. Her gaze drifted over to the white house.
Sonia squinted and her face wore a tight-lipped little smile. Well, Mr. Semper Fi Investigations, I’m on my way out to do some fieldwork. I wonder what you’re up to today. Probably just working out at the gym, polishing up those “guns” of yours. She knew she was being a bit catty, but darn it, it had kind of bugged her the way he moved through the place yesterday like he owned it. Just because he was good-looking and buff and an ex-Marine didn’t mean he was special. For all she knew, he could be a pretty terrible PI. Maybe the onl
y reason he got all those clients was that he was some sort of stud.
Sonia wagged her head sharply, almost a shudder. Wow, get a hold of yourself. A little jealous, are we? I’d better start thinking more about Marcos Torres and less about Brad Dunham.
A few minutes later, Sonia pulled out of Magee’s parking lot and headed for Dahlia farm. The camera was already in place, so as Sonia passed the entrance to the farm, she slowed for just a moment and turned the camera on remotely. The prior evening, with more time than she’d had that afternoon, Sonia had found a turn-around spot just around the bend. It would have been a grassy spot, had it not been for all the vehicles that had used it to change directions on the narrow road. Paint marks and a few broken boards on the classic horse farm fence made it clear that drivers had sometimes misjudged the available turning space the area allowed.
Less than a mile away from the camera, Sonia tucked the Subaru into the turn-around, wondering how long she could stay without arousing any suspicion. There was no question that she might have to move every once in a while. There was also no question that she would have to have some believable story about why she was sitting there if someone stopped to help her. “These Kentucky folks are awful darn friendly,” she said softly.
By one o’clock, Sonia had filed her nails, cleaned out her purse, and caught up on her Facebook and Instagram pages. She was bored. Several hours may not seem like a long time when you’re at work, or out to dinner, or watching a movie, but it’s a darn long time to sit in a car watching a computer screen upon which not much is happening. Yes, she had her coffee and her lunch. And yes, she had Spotify to listen to. But this stakeout thing was much tougher in real life than it was on a one-hour TV show. The way she figured it, a TV stakeout probably lasted only about six seconds before the partners had a brief conversation, and no more than a minute and a half before someone said, “Check it out. Here they come!” She’d already been sitting there almost three hours.
Sonia was pretty darn pleased when her camera/computer told her that Mr. Torres, no relation to Ms. Torres, appeared. A smallish man, dark-haired, wearing blue jeans and a dark green jacket, he was getting in the truck Teresa Torres had described. He was thick, almost pudgy, and significantly shorter than his girlfriend. Sonia snorted quietly, remembering the picture of him dressed as Zorro that he had posted on Facebook. Given his size and the shape of his body, it was an epic fail. Starting her car, ready to roll, she opened the voice recorder on her phone and noted that it was 1:17 PM.
Sonia watched as Marcos Torres fired up the vehicle and left the property. Watching the monitor carefully, she saw him turn right as he entered the road. She pulled out immediately and was close behind him as he turned left at the castle. Within a few minutes, he was passing Blue Grass Airport and going up the ramp to the road that circled the city, New Circle Road. She had backed off and was following approximately a half-mile behind.
A mischievous little smile crossed Sonia’s face. Well, Mr. Torres, it appears that you’re an afternoon delight kind of guy. Shame on you. Ms. Torres is at work, planning on making you a nice dinner this evening, and you’re out here on your way to hook up with your little puta. As she drove on, careful to not get too close, Sonia wondered what puta actually meant in Spanish.
Sonia was relatively certain this would be a pretty short trip. After all, Marcos probably only got an hour for lunch. Maybe he could stretch it a bit, but his little puta would have to live pretty close if he were going to get there, “get down to business,” and return, all on a lunch hour─even a long lunch hour.
At the top of the circle, Marcos and his dark blue Ford 150 got off the circle and headed north on another major road. Sonia was certain Marcos would be pulling in somewhere pretty soon. To her surprise, that didn’t happen. About a mile-and-a-half up the new road, Marcos turned right, driving up a steep, curving ramp onto I-75 north. Soon, Marcos was out in the left lane. It seemed clear that he was heading out of town on a trip of some length.
Thinking about Teresa Torres’ financial situation, and the fact that there was every chance that Marcos was not, at this moment, headed for a liaison, she headed for the next exit. Turning left at the end of the ramp, and left again after she had crossed over the interstate, Sonia was back on I-75. She was on her way home with nothing to show for the day.
6
Day two of the stakeout, Wednesday, was even less eventful for Sonia. She knew that arriving around ten o’clock she was missing most of the morning activities, but that didn’t seem to matter to her case. She wasn’t shooting a documentary on the life of a working horse farm. She was, as her partner had so delicately put it, “trying to catch a cheating, slimeball boyfriend boffing some slut while his poor girlfriend was at work.” She shook her head. Ah, two years as a college English major has given Jet such a rich, descriptive vocabulary.
Sonia curled up on the couch in her tiny living room that evening. The CNN anchor and his roundtable guests were talking about yet another political impasse on her television, but she and her glass of merlot were pretty much ignoring them. She listened to the notes she had made on her phone that day:
Teresa Torres case, Wednesday, March 23:
11:07─ FedEx truck arrives. Makes a quick delivery. Leaves immediately.
12:36─Young man arrives. Probably driving his own car. Jimmy Johns sub sandwich company sign on the roof. Quick delivery. By the smile on his face, there must have been a good tip.
.
1:57─Red tarp-covered truck drives onto farm. Magnetic sign attached to door.
Mid hyphen West Feed and Hay Company. Truck backs partially into barn. Can’t tell how much feed and hay is delivered. Whatever.
4:36─Black Lincoln Continental drives onto farm. Might be owner or client?
Man comes out of house to greet driver. Dressed better than farm hands. May be the farm manager.
4:39─Car leaves. Looks like farm manager was just giving the driver directions to town or something. Was able to get license plate MDB-619. Thank you, Ohio, for demanding cars have two license plates.
As Sonia sat on the couch, the folks on CNN still grinding on and on about a political possibility that didn’t have the slightest chance of ever happening, Sonia was frustrated. After two solid days of work, Sonia had not a bit of evidence that Marcos Torres was doing anything at all untoward.
The third day of the stakeout, Thursday, was significantly different. At ten o’clock Sonia was in her appointed position. The routines of the day had, at first, seemed about the same. There was another FedEx delivery and, right around lunchtime, the Jimmy Johns boy showed up with more sandwiches. Later, however, something very odd occurred.
At 2:07 PM, a white, late model, Mercedes pulled onto the property. It was driven by a man in a bright orange and red jacket. Sonia assumed, from his dark skin and black hair, that he was Hispanic. Accompanying him in the car were four women, all of whom were dressed in some combination of skirts and tops that clung tightly to everything below the waist, and gave important things above plenty of room to breathe. Sonia noted that it was not likely these women were there to consider purchasing horses, though the word “studs,” did cross her mind.
Sonia sat up and adjusted the angle of her laptop screen. What the . . . . He’s not going to his puta; his puta is coming to him. Only in Kentucky, the land of beautiful horses and fast women.
Sonia watched the farm manager, Steve Hollings, come out to greet the ladies, escort them to the barn, then turn and walk away. Sonia noticed he had a habit of running his fingers through his hair. A few minutes later, she saw all four farm hands, including Marcos Torres, enter the barn, laughing and joking. Sonia made the assumption that somewhere in that barn there were places more fit for humans than for horses, and those places were about to be used in the service of the world’s oldest profession.
It made Sonia uncomfortable to sit in her car watching the motionless computer screen. Although she could see nothing significant on the screen, her
head was filled with images that belonged in some porno flick─not in the mind her Italian mother had tried so diligently to protect.
Sonia’s foot tapped as she waited for the four prostitutes to service the farm hands. She had already successfully caught several men and women in compromising positions, but this was entirely different. When a spouse gets involved with another person, thinking they’ve fallen madly in love, that’s one thing. Four prostitutes servicing four farm hands in the same barn at the same time, that’s another. Yuck.
On the other hand, she knew she should be pleased. She was here to catch Mr. Torres with his pants down, and it was pretty obvious that was precisely his state of undress at the moment. Unfortunately, Sonia wasn’t peering through some window getting a photograph of his behavior. She was around the bend in the road and couldn’t even see inside the barn. All she could see on her computer screen was a beautiful white Mercedes in the foreground of a lovely pastoral scene. Heck, it looked like a slick car commercial. She could show Teresa Torres this image and tell her the Queen of England was in that barn drinking tea with Elton John, and the image on the computer would neither confirm nor deny the story.
No, what Sonia needed now was some photographic evidence that would bring this case to a conclusion. She had expected to follow Marcos Torres to his rendezvous. Now, with the woman, or women, coming to him, she had been caught off guard. She hadn’t been in place to get shots of the prostitutes and Marcos walking into the barn. Neither was she in position to get shots of them doing the deed. She could try to get some shots of them leaving, but to attempt that in broad daylight, without a plan, seemed a bit reckless. Sonia was going to have to wait for another opportunity, one she was pretty sure would present itself in a week or less. “And trust me,” she whispered to the motionless computer screen, “next time I’ll be ready.”