by Trace Conger
Hafner screamed and pushed his chair away from the desk. He stood up, but the bats connected and dropped him to the floor. Ollie’s boys didn’t stop swinging until they could see his brain through his cracked skull.
Two minutes later, Ollie Stoner and his blood-soaked boys walked from the constable’s office into the lobby. Ollie wiped the shotgun’s pump and stock with a handkerchief and tossed it behind Adrianne’s desk. The three men were through the door when Ollie stopped, returned to the desk, picked up the Jonathan Valin novel, and rejoined his boys in the parking lot.
Fifteen
I PULLED INTO THE PARKING lot next to DTC Woodworking in downtown Detroit and parked next to a box truck that had the shop’s logo and a few inches of road dust on the side. There were two dead trees looming over the parking lot and a gray Jeep Grand Cherokee parked next to the entrance.
DTC Woodworking was a legitimate operation, but it was also a front for Micah Dunbar’s criminal activities. Dunbar was one of the cornerstones of the Detroit mob. He wasn’t at the top of the food chain, but he was close. His network was entrenched deep throughout Michigan, and bled into both Ohio and Indiana. I wasn’t sure how deep it was, but as far as criminals go, he was the biggest one I knew, both figuratively and literally. The guy was bigger than most NFL linemen and was the type of person who didn’t look over his shoulder in the most violent parts of town. He was always the baddest guy in the room.
As a PI, I could easily run the usual profile information on Holbrook. Who he worked with, how much time he’d served, how much he paid to the IRS, his spouses, kids, and bank accounts, but that wasn’t what I wanted. I needed to know what I was walking into with Holbrook. How did he run his operation? Did he run a crew or an entire organization? What was he involved with? Anything that could help me prepare for my face-to-face with him in three days. Getting that type of information wasn’t the same as running the typical background check on a babysitter, and I couldn't find what I was looking for in an online database. I needed an expert.
Dunbar could fill in the blanks, but getting him to talk wasn’t going to be easy, given the last time I saw him I leveled a .45 at his face and threatened to bury his entire crew. That’s not something you easily forget, but Dunbar had no reason to come gunning for me since I had information on his Cincinnati activities tucked away in a safe deposit box. I’d informed him the last time we butted heads that if any of his men moved on me, one of my associates would turn over everything I had on him to the FBI. It was safer for Dunbar to forget about me, but now I was about to ask him a personal favor, that might make him reevaluate our truce.
I walked through the front door and stepped into a medium-sized showroom packed with Shaker furniture, mirror frames, chests-of-drawers, tables, chairs, and desks. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was in Amish country.
There was a black man with three fingers on his right hand talking to an elderly couple who looked over a four-drawer coffee table. I recognized him from the last time I saw Dunbar. From the way Three Fingers looked at me, he recognized me too.
I strolled over to the rear wall and stared at a row of wall clocks when a shadow appeared on the wall in front of me. I turned around and was face to face with Dunbar’s armpit.
“Something I can help you find?” he said.
“I’m here to talk about a job.”
“You might be interested in a Shaker nightstand or a blanket chest…”
“No, I’m here for some information,” I said.
“…Or maybe I can show you a steamer trunk or a craftsman-style barrister book case?”
“You’re not hearing me, Dunbar. I’m here to talk about a job.”
Dunbar crouched down so we were eye-to-eye. “It’s not my hearing that’s fucked up. It’s my vision. I must be hallucinating because I can’t believe you’re actually standing here in my shop. I told you three weeks ago that if I ever saw you again we’d have problems. And now here you are, Mr. Finn.”
I took a step back and felt my shoulders press against one of the clocks on the wall. “I need to talk to you about someone named Mason Holbrook. He’s a heroin dealer in Cincinnati. You know him?”
“Mason Holbrook?” Dunbar turned and looked toward the double swinging doors at the back of the room. “This is the showroom. Not a good place to talk.” Dunbar motioned to Three Fingers who had finished with the elderly couple. “Davy Bill, why you don’t take our friend here back to the workshop so we can talk?”
I looked around Dunbar’s massive left shoulder at the twin metal doors. “No thanks. We both know if I walk through those doors I’m not walking back out.”
“That might be true.” Dunbar smiled. “Bottom line is you shouldn’t have come here. It’s best if you just leave now and go fuck yourself. You made a long drive for nothing.” He turned and headed back toward the double doors.
“Come on, Dunbar. I just want to know who he is.” Dunbar didn’t stop. “There might be something in it for you.”
Dunbar turned. He closed the twenty or so feet between us in three strides.
“There’s nothing in it for me,” he said. “You don’t know what the fuck you’ve gotten yourself into.” Dunbar stepped forward bumping into my chest and sending me back a few feet. “I don’t like you, Mr. Finn, and normally I wouldn’t tell you shit, but I’m going to make an exception today because I want you to clearly understand who you’re up against. Mason Holbrook isn’t a heroin dealer. He runs one of the biggest criminal operations in the Midwest. Runs it from some horse farm near Indianapolis. If you’re mixed up with him, then you’re in way over your head and there’s no way in hell I’m gettin’ caught up in it.”
“What do you mean biggest criminal operation? What’s he into?”
“He’s into everything a guy like him should be into. Heroin is a small piece of it, but it gets way bigger. Got some roughneck, named…” Dunbar thought for a moment. “Named Adler. He’s bad news. Likes shovels. Why are you involved with him anyway?”
“It’s not by choice. A friend…” I stopped myself. “Someone I know got roped into supplying fentanyl to Holbrook and now my associate wants out. I’ve got a meeting with him in three days to discuss an exit strategy.”
“Why is it that things have a way of escalating once you get involved?” I could feel Dunbar’s breath on my face. “If I were you, I’d cut ties with your associate and disappear. Holbrook isn’t someone you want to do business with.” Dunbar turned back toward the double doors. “Stick to working with the dime-store criminals you’re used to, and stay away from the big fish or you might get eaten.” He pushed open the double metal doors so hard they ricocheted off the walls on the other side and swung back open into the showroom.
Before stepping inside DTC Woodworking I had no idea what I was up against with Holbrook. I still didn’t have a lot to go on, but Dunbar had confirmed I’d stepped deeper into things than I wanted to. Dunbar was one of the few people who scared me, and I didn’t like the idea of dealing with anyone who scared him.
I’d made that second mistake after all. It was a long drive home.
Sixteen
I ARRIVED AT WINANS COFFEE on Friday, a half hour before Adler was to pick me up. I grabbed a large Highlander Grogg, took a seat at the front of the shop, and cracked open my Lee Child novel. My eyes shifted from the page to the street, and I saw a red minivan pull to a stop outside the coffee shop. I didn’t pay it much attention at first, because the last thing I expected Adler to drive was a minivan, red or otherwise. But after a moment I looked up again to find Adler standing beside the vehicle, waving me out. Darby was nowhere to be found.
Nothing about this situation made me feel warm and fuzzy. I didn’t make a habit of getting into vehicles with strange men, and I avoided minivans as much as possible, but this was the only opportunity I had to get Daryl out of his current situation and put all this behind us.
I walked out of the coffee shop. Adler slid open the side door. As I ducked my h
ead to climb in, he grabbed my arm, threw me up against the passenger door and patted me down.
“I’d hoped you bailed on us,” he said. “Would have loved to hunt you down myself.” He finished his pat-down and pushed me into the back of the minivan. “Course, I might still get my chance.” He slid the door closed, returned to the driver’s seat, and we pulled away from the curb.
Faith plays a large part in this job. Not faith in God, but faith that every criminal you work with won’t plug you in the face Pulp Fiction style. From what Dunbar told me, these were bad people, but bad people want things too, and some things they can’t get for themselves. That’s why I knew Adler wasn’t going to kill me. At least not yet. Mason Holbrook wanted something, and he was smart enough to recognize I could help him get it. If Dunbar was right, and Holbrook did run his operation from Indianapolis, I’d know what Holbrook was after in about two hours.
After a moment of silence, it was obvious that Adler wasn’t the chatty type, so I flipped open my novel to pass the time. Every few minutes, I glanced up to check the road signs. Adler turned onto I-75 and then miles later he picked up I-74. Indianapolis it was.
TWO-PLUS HOURS LATER, WE pulled onto a freshly paved two-lane road. Sensing we were close to our destination, I closed the book and took in the scenery. There wasn’t much. Mostly trees and more trees. We drove by a dilapidated graying barn that could have passed for a tobacco shack had it not been for the tractor and harvester poking out the front. Another quarter mile and we took a left onto a single-lane road. We passed a white sign with “Triple Bend Farm” embossed in gold lettering, and I saw a large white house and several barns on a hill maybe a half-mile out. The road gently curved around a bend, and if the sign was accurate, we’d see two more.
Adler stopped in front of a massive white colonial house. It had four columns, two wide bay windows, perfectly manicured landscaping, and looked like something out of a Hallmark television special.
Darby met the minivan in front of the house. He opened the sliding door and waved me out. Before I could stand up straight, an older man thrust a wrinkled hand in front of me.
“Mason Holbrook,” he said. “Happy to meet you.”
Holbrook was trim, in his late fifties or maybe early sixties. He wore a neatly-pressed short-sleeved white button-up collared shirt. The kind my grandfather always wore. The outline of two thick Velcro straps across his midsection were visible through his shirt, a telltale sign of a bullet-proof vest. His shirt was buttoned at the neck and he wore a black leather bolo tie with a red gem at the top. A belt with the largest brass buckle I’d ever seen, probably some sort of rodeo prize, held up his ragged blue jeans. His short gray hair poked out from beneath a sun-faded cowboy hat, and a black watch adorned his right wrist. He looked more like a farmer than a drug kingpin.
I shook his hand.
“Comfortable ride?” he said.
I looked over my shoulder at the minivan. “I usually don’t ride in this much style.”
Holbrook grinned from ear to ear. “Ain’t that right? I’m more at home in a pickup myself, but this one’s pretty roomy.”
He turned to Adler. “Any weapons?”
Adler shook his head.
“Good.” He turned back to me. “Can’t be too careful these days.”
I nodded to his flak jacket. “I see that.”
Holbrook smiled again. “Crazies everywhere.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” I said. “Just the other day some dipshit threatened to cut my daughter’s throat. What’s the world coming to?”
“Sorry about that.” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I noticed the digital watch on his wrist wasn’t the typical timepiece. It had a digital face that counted backwards, like one of those Budweiser clocks you see in bars counting down to St. Patrick’s Day or Cinco de Mayo.
“I’m sure you’re eager to get into it,” he said. “Let’s take a little walk.”
We walked away from the massive house toward a white barn. Adler and Darby followed us like two dogs looking for scraps. Adler kept his right hand behind his back. He looked eager to put me down at the first opportunity.
“You’ve got a nice piece of property here,” I said.
“Three hundred acres. Been here about thirty years.”
I looked at the imposing barns. “You board horses?”
“We do a lot more than board ‘em. I’ve got a thoroughbred breeding and a training operation too. We’ve trained two Preakness winners and one that finished second at the Derby.”
We approached the open end of a large white barn with green trim.
“Aren’t you in the wrong state?” I said. “I thought they only raised racehorses in Kentucky.”
A cartoonish laugh leapt from Holbrook’s mouth. “Kentucky has birthed the most winners, but they come from all over. Far away as California and Florida.”
Holbrook led me into the barn. It had mahogany walls and the place was cleaner than most of the homes I’d been in. The barn housed ten stalls per side, each with a sliding wooden door with brass bars. The top of the doors could be folded down to allow a horse to stick its head out of the stall. A lead rope, riding blanket, and brass nameplate hung from each door. The dozen ceiling fans spinning overhead emitted a low hum. Holbrook pointed down the right side of the barn.
“Most of these are yearlings here,” he said. “They’ll be ready to race next year.” He pointed to the two front stalls. “Boy, these two here are gonna be something special. Both are competitive as hell. You get ‘em out on the track and they run like there’s nothing they’d rather do. Real special.”
He put his hands on his hips and I could see the pride in his smile. “They’re gorgeous animals,” he said. “Especially when they’re at full stride. Beautiful creatures.” He turned back to me and slapped me on the shoulder again. “So, tell me about your friend, Dr. Jennings.”
“He’s not really my friend.” The strong scent of hay wafted through the barn propelled by the fans above. “He’s more of a…” I struggled for the words. “We’re kind of like two convicts shackled together. Neither of us asked for the other, but sometimes life just shits on you.”
“I’m surprised you’re putting your neck on the line to get Dr. Jennings out of his current obligation. You not being so keen on ‘em.”
I looked over my shoulder to check if Adler and Darby were still behind us. They were.
“I’d hardly call it an obligation.”
Holbrook shrugged his shoulders. “Call it whatever you like, but the fact is, he’s supplying me with fentanyl, and it’s easier to continue getting it from him than to find someone else.”
“As I understand it, Christ Hospital is investigating the thefts. With the heat, he doesn’t think he can get it anymore.”
“That’s what he says. I’d wager he’d say anything he could to get me out of his life.”
“What do you want with it anyway? The fentanyl.”
“Ever do heroin?”
“No,” I said. “I’m fine with caffeine.”
Holbrook laughed. “Me too. Heroin is a sonofabitch, but just like any other high, it gets stale after a while. Users want the next big thing. The next great high. Cuttin’ fentanyl into the mix gives it that extra boost.”
Holbrook placed a bony finger on the mahogany wall and dragged it in an up-and-down motion, as if admiring the wood’s rich color and smooth texture.
“I’ve heard people can die from it. Wouldn’t that hurt your business?”
“Heck, my boy. People can drown brushing their teeth.” Holbrook looked up. I followed his gaze to a man in blue scrubs standing at the other open end of the barn. Holbrook slipped his glasses out of his shirt pocket and jockeyed them onto his face. Then he waved, slipped his glasses back into his pocket, and motioned me to follow him. “You know what’s funny? The more people who die from my product, the hotter it gets. Buyers know it’s high-quality shit. Demand is through the roo
f, and I can’t keep up with it, which is why your pal is such an important asset to me. I used to get fentanyl from Columbia, but that place is wilder than a mustang now. Can’t get much of anything outta there, so we have to secure it domestically. Which, again, is why Dr. Jennings’ services are in high demand.”
We reached the end of the barn, where the man in scrubs waited for us. “Excuse me for a moment, my boy” said Holbrook. He walked over to the man. “Is it positive?”
“It is, Mr. Holbrook.” The man handed Holbrook a red file folder. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, we did what we could, Doc. I’ll take care it from here.” The man in scrubs nodded, turned, and walked toward a heavy-duty pickup parked outside the barn. Holbrook looked at the file folder and shook his head.
“Darn it,” he whispered.
“Everything okay?” I said.
“Just some bad news from my vet.” He waved me forward. “Come on. We got a lot to discuss.”
We exited the mahogany barn and started toward a second barn, a smaller one, about fifty yards from the first.
“Excuse me for asking,” I said. “You’ve got a legitimate business here with the horses. Why the heroin?”
“Because this business is damn expensive. I’ve got twenty-two full-time staff at this place. That includes breeders, trainers, veterinarians, even dietitians. And not a one of ‘em is making minimum wage.”
Dunbar seemed to think Holbrook was one of the biggest criminals in the Midwest. I had a hard time believing that, because this guy seemed as ruthless as a retired schoolteacher. I didn’t know what happened behind the scenes, but it was time to find out.
“I think we’ve danced around it enough,” I said. “Let’s talk about why I’m here.”
“Right, enough with the small talk. I need you to find someone for me. And Darby says that’s what you do. That right?”
“That’s right.”