Twisted Dreams

by F J messina

  The Bluegrass Files: Twisted Dreams

  The Second In A Series of Mysteries Solved By The Agents Of Bluegrass Confidential Investigations

  f j messina

  © 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: 978-0-9998533-3-7 (Soft Cover)

  PCN: pbi1503

  Created with Vellum

  Author’s Note and Acknowledgements

  For those of you who read my first novel, The Bluegrass Files: Down the Rabbit Hole, it comes as no surprise that this book is set in my well-loved home, Lexington, Kentucky. It is great fun to write stories set in places I know so well and, as I’ve been told so many times, great fun for readers who are familiar with this lovely city to see some of their favorite places come to life on these pages.

  All this familiarity, however, creates a problem. No mystery novel is worth its salt without a few dastardly individuals doing things that go well beyond being untoward. We need villains and heroes and crimes. Thus, the question arises, “How do we set murders and mayhem and misdeeds in our own cities and towns without casting aspersions on the real and mostly wonderful people and institutions that reside there?” My best effort at absolving all of those people and institutions from any unfortunate association with the evil-doing in this work is to direct readers to the admonition on the copyright page, pointing out that this is a work of fiction. In other words, I’m just making this stuff up! On the other hand, some of Lexingtonian’s favorite places are mentioned by name, but you’ll probably notice, only in the most positive of lights.

  Now, as to the people who have helped me bring this story to life, my gratitude goes out to a group of special people─special in the help they gave me, special in who they are. I thank my sister (and partner in crime), Judy Thompson, for reading this work while in progress. So many twists and turns in this plot were held up to the “believability test” by her keen mind. Some made the cut, some didn’t.

  Then there is my daughter, Jennifer Al-Rikabi, who can spot an extra space or a missing quotation mark with the best of them. More importantly, it was her input that kept Sonia working at the highest possible level in her quest to be a true professional private investigator.

  It is my daughter, Kristin Morford, who took on the responsibility of being my feminist filter. It is not easy for a man, especially an older man, to be in touch with the ever-evolving views of our society on women and their emerging empowerment. On more than one occasion my own understanding of those issues was enhanced by our discussion of what it was that Sonia and her partner, Jet, might say, or think, or feel. I am grateful that both Kristin and Jennifer helped me to avoid writing things that women might find demeaning or insulting, or even just unbelievable.

  Thanks also go out to Marcos Valdes for his help with authentic Mexican dialects, Rick Fern, for insights into the ever-fascinating world of accounting, and George McCormick for his willingness to read the manuscript several times over, looking for problems in text and thought.

  Finally, as always, I thank my wife, Denise. Without her patience and support, this book and the ones that surround it in the series could and would never have been written. When I write about a man truly loving and cherishing a woman, I write what I feel about her.

  1

  “They should call me Lucky,” she whispered out loud as she drove her car through the early morning darkness and onto the property. Her eyes followed the beams from the vehicle’s headlights as it moved along the winding driveway.

  She smiled and nodded as she thought about her life. Lucky. I’m lucky to be doing what I love, working with these majestic beings. Lucky to be working on a farm that’s so beautiful I can see its wonder all around me, even before the sun really comes up. Lucky to be helping these animals, and those I’ll never even have the chance to see. Life is good; I’m blessed. And soon, soon things will be even better. Soon this will have all been worth it.

  First to arrive, as usual, she pulled her car into the same spot she used every day, just next to the old east barn, a building constructed sometime in the late 1800s. She stepped out into the brisk morning, a quick chill running through her body.

  The sound of her car had brought the giants inside the barn to life. Her heart lifted as she heard the rumble of their voices and the sound of their thousand-pound bodies moving on the old wooden floor. She loved these animals. And though her employment had more to do with breeding and development, she cherished the depth of the relationship she engendered with them by being the first face they saw each morning, the one who fed them and welcomed them to a new day.

  She didn’t want to pull open the large sliding door the horses would use later in the day, so she stepped through the human-sized door and turned on one bare-bulb light, creating a dim, almost surreal, atmosphere in the barn. Heads bobbed and hooves clumped, stretching long, powerful muscles. The sweet smell of hay, straw, and grains filled her senses. Her already-muddied boots moved quietly over the well-worn floors of the barn. Big, brown eyes stared at her, while snorts and the occasional whinny welcomed her into this special domain. This was where she felt most comfortable and a warm rush of satisfaction rose in her as she looked at each of the beautiful creatures who counted on her for their well-being.

  She headed for the large bin in which breakfast was held, a blend of oats and other grains. A strange sensation crept up her spine. She turned her head to peer into the dim recesses of the building. Pausing, she saw nothing. She went back to her task. But as she scooped out the first bucket-full of grain, the sensation returned, this time verified by the shifting and nervous responses of the animals. She spun completely around. She was stunned. He was right there.

  “Oh, you scared me. What are you doing here?” It was almost a whisper. A deeper, much darker chill ran through her body.

  His voice was smooth, almost soothing. “Oh, my dear. Now, you didn’t think our last conversation was going to be the end of it all, did you?”

  She took a small step backward. “Wait, wait. We can talk about it. We can─”

  He stepped into the space she had vacated. “No, child. I’m afraid the time for talking is over.”

  She just barely saw it coming out of the corner of her eye. Her head was wracked by the sudden blow from his large hand. It would have sent her reeling to the ground if he had not caught her himself. He pushed her backward into one of the stalls; he struck her again. This time the back of his hand sent her down into the straw that covered the wooden floor.

  He was on top of her almost immediately, the weight of his body sitting squarely on her tiny hips, pinning her to the ground. His powerful hands wrapped around her sleek, thin neck.

  “Believe me, child. This was never what I wanted. I never planned it this way. But now, this is where we are and this is what we must do.”

  She struggled, kicking her mud-covered boots, trying to get even a tiny bit of that cold morning air to descend into her lungs. His now-monstrous hands, hands she used to admire, were crushing her windpipe. His eyes bore into hers. She could just barely hear what he was saying as her mind and body screamed out for oxygen, struggled against the pain. A few phrases came to her, “long trip . . . your own car . . . before they find you.” Darkness began to creep into her mind. She str
uggled even harder. Her body relaxed. Blackness came.

  2

  At ten o’clock on Monday morning, the mood in the offices of Bluegrass Confidential Investigations was somewhat festive. The recently-installed television in the waiting area was rarely on; this morning, however, things were different. This morning the two young women who ran the firm had a special interest in a local morning show interview taped the day before. Jet leaned against the molding in the doorway to her office, her arms crossed. “Well, look at that. We’re TV stars.”

  Sonia took a seat on the brown leather couch in front of the television. She smiled. “I’m not sure the word ‘stars’ actually fits, but it is kind of exciting to watch, isn’t it?”

  “Sho ‘nuff is,” Jet replied, slipping ever-so-briefly into one of her many accents.

  A quiet sense of pride filled Sonia’s heart as she watched the images of the three PIs being interviewed. Sitting on wooden chairs with dark red cushions, they were all facing Mark Sullivan, the young, attractive male host with the blonde hair and the quasi-beard. It being March, both women were wearing heavy sweaters, Sonia green, Jet white. Both had on dress pants. The man was wearing a navy V-neck sweater over a white shirt and snug-fitting jeans.

  “I’m here with Sonia Vitale, Joyce Ellen Thomas, and Brad Dunham,” Mark had started as he sat on his matching wooden chair, a small jungle of artificial plants behind and beside him.

  “Jet,” Joyce Ellen had corrected. “Everyone just calls me Jet. Apparently, I was a bit of track star at Woodford County High. She’d smiled. “And Sonia’s name is pronounced Vi-tah-lay, with an accent on the ‘tah’ and a long ‘a’ sound at the end.”

  Mark had turned, speaking directly to the camera, reading from the prompter. “Over the last few weeks, these three local private investigators combined the resources of their two firms. Together, they discovered illegal activities that were taking place right here in Lexington and beyond.” He’d turned to Sonia. “Now, Sonia, is this the kind of work you usually do at Bluegrass Confidential Investigations?”

  Not used to being on television, even local television, Sonia’s voice had sounded a bit tenuous. “Well, we generally have more of a local focus at BCI. You know, helping people find missing loved ones, checking up on missing things. Personal matters.”

  “I understand.” He’d turned to Jet. “So, Joyce,” he’d lifted his hand, “excuse me, Jet. This must have been exciting work for you all.”

  Sonia had been a bit surprised when Jet had come off cool and collected. “Really, I have to say that it was mostly Sonia and Brad that did all the heavy lifting. They followed some of those folks right down I-75 into Tennessee; they followed others all the way to Memphis.” She had grinned. “And things got pretty intense after that.”

  “That’s true, isn’t it Brad?” Mark had turned slightly in his chair.

  Given Brad’s experience as an investigator with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, NCIS, it had been no surprise to Sonia that Brad had seemed even more at home on set than Jet, although much less enamored of the attention. “Well, I can’t deny that things got a little dangerous for a while. And I do have to thank my good friend from the DEA, Special Agent Roberto Alvarez, for saving our bacon on the way back from Memphis.”

  Mark Sullivan had looked down and checked his notes. “Now, Sonia, am I correct in saying that it was your interest in the John Abbott Hensley affair that got you involved in all of this?”

  A quick image of Dahlia Farm and a man dressed in a madras shirt had flashed through Sonia’s mind. “That’s true, Mark. And at this point, I think we all have a better idea of what was going on there.”

  Sitting on the couch in the BCI offices, Sonia’s eyes drifted from the screen. She remembered well how she had felt at the beginning of the Hensley case─committed to doing the right thing but fearful that the whole situation might be beyond her. She didn’t feel that way anymore. She’d seen the case to its completion. She’d stared death in the face─three times. She was no longer the same person.

  Her attention returning to the television, Sonia watched as Mark had continued. “Now ladies, your offices are right here in town, correct? Right on East Main, over Magee’s bakery?”

  “Well, yes they are,” Jet had answered, flipping her perpetual blonde ponytail. “Yeah, bad for the diet but great for the soul,” she’d said with a grin.

  “And Brad, your office is right across the street?”

  “That’s correct.” Brad had answered evenly, with no emphasis. “In the white house, right next door to the school district’s Central Office.”

  “And I assume the name Semper Fi Investigations implies that you’re a former marine?”

  The mention of his time in the Marine Corps had brought Brad’s bright blue eyes to life. “Yes, sir. That it does.”

  “So, Brad, how is it that you all started to work together?”

  Brad had looked quickly at Sonia, then back to the host. “Really Mark, it’s a long story.”

  Sonia and Jet watched the television as the interview went on for a few more minutes, Sonia looking carefully at their images on the screen. In all modesty, she had to admit that all three of them, the women in their thirties, Brad in his early forties, looked pretty darn good. Sonia’s trim, smallish body, dark hair, and dark eyes created a pleasant counterpoint to Jet’s taller, leaner body, her blonde hair highlighting an attractive, blue-eyed face. For Sonia, however, it was the image of Brad that drew her attention. His large body and rugged countenance were set off by blue eyes brighter than Jet’s.

  After the interview ended, Jet turned and stepped into her office. She took a seat at her large wooden desk. It was at least fifty years old and had a lot of “character,” but it matched, somewhat, the big antique armoire that provided the only closet space in her office.

  Sonia turned the television off and followed, sitting in the red padded chair opposite Jet’s desk, trying to come off as modest. “I thought that all went very nicely.”

  “Yeah, it did. I’m just glad that you and Brad are getting the credit you all deserve for solving the Hensley thing, and for setting Robbie Alvarez up to take down the others.”

  “Uh huh.” A hint of pride slid quietly across Sonia’s face. Her eyes opened wide. “Not that you didn’t play your part as well.”

  “Come on now, Sonia,” Jet rocked back in her chair, her accent creeping southward. “You know that ol’ Jet here was just along for the ride. It was you and Brad that treed those guys, and it was you alone who figured out what happened to Hensley.” She paused and picked up a paper coffee cup, one look at its contents apparently discouraging her from taking a sip. “Speaking of Brad, how is all that going?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jet looked at Sonia over invisible glasses.

  “Oh. Well,” Sonia shrugged her shoulders gently, “great, I guess.” Her voice was less than firm. “I mean, ever since we wrapped that other thing up, I’ve seen him almost every night.”

  “Hmmm, shackin’ up with Semper Fi? Got a toothbrush over there yet?”

  Sonia squirmed, rolling her eyes.

  “Good for you. You take your time.” Jet reached out and pushed some folders around through the clutter on her desk, apparently looking for a particular document. “I’ve got to say it. I’m glad all this attention has our phone ringing off the hook. We certainly have more cases now than we’ve ever had.” She stopped and looked directly at Sonia. “Speaking of that, now that you and Brad are a ‘thing,’ how is that going to work?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Business-wise.” Jet tapped the folders in her hand into a neater rectangle then seemed at a loss as to where to put them. “I mean, I’m assuming we’re still going to be BCI, just the way it’s always been.”

  Sonia ran her fingers through her hair. “Sure. I guess so. Brad and I haven’t really discussed it.”

  Jet sat up taller in her chair. “Listen, honey. I know it’s only been a li
ttle while, and you and Brad are just getting used to,” her fingers created quotation marks in the air, “ ‘being together.’ But you’d better get that part of your relationship squared away. The last thing you need is to make some assumptions and then have everything blow up in your face.”

  Sonia knew there was work waiting for her on her own, much more organized desk. She stood up to leave. As she did, she glanced out the window at the white house across the street from the BCI offices. In it, Sonia assumed, Brad Dunham was sitting at his desk working on one of his Semper Fi cases. She straightened the close-fitting red sweater she was wearing─a color that suited her well. “We’ll be alright. The business thing can’t be that much of a problem.” Her voice sounded just a tick less than convincing.

  Sonia began walking out of Jet’s office then turned. “I’ve got to get started on the pile of stuff on my desk. Want to go downstairs for lunch sometime around noon?”

  Jet shook her head. “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving before then to meet some guy at Bronson/Brownlee. We’ll be talking about the possibility of us doing some work out there.”

  “Bronson/Brownlee. That’s a big plumbing company here in town, isn’t it?”

  “Yup. Can’t imagine that’s going to be all that exciting,” Jet shrugged. “But work is work. I’ll see you after I get back.”

  “Okay.” As she walked from Jet’s office to her own, Sonia wondered if the transition from being business competitors to being a couple, if that’s what they were, was going to be more difficult for her and Brad than she had imagined.

  3

  The BCI offices occupied the entire second-story space of a two-story building constructed in the 1950s. A locally owned bakery, Magee’s, filled the first floor and was the most likely place to find Sonia and Jet, other than their offices. Unfortunately, the only access to those offices was a long, two-story flight of wooden stairs with no turn-around landing.