by F J messina
“Well, my, my, my. Aren’t we just the professional one?” The southern accent was unmistakable.
“Jet. Where are you?” She put her phone on speaker for Tee’s sake.
“Just doing what I’ve been told to do. Following the scurrilous Missy Charles all about town.”
Sonia was excited. “And?”
“And you’ll never guess where she just wound up.”
“I’d rather not.” Sonia’s voice was just a touch impatient. She wasn’t really in the mood for playing. “Can you just tell me?”
Jet didn’t seem to catch her drift. “Well, in the last hour she has gone right from First Bluegrass Bank to the offices of James Peterson.”
Sonia was really getting itchy for a sip of something—warm or strong. “Who’s that?”
“That, little lady, happens to be a lawyer who does a lot of corporate work. Handles business transfers, small corporate take-overs and such.”
“Okay. And?”
“Aaand. I couldn’t help but wonder if she might be talking to him about some sort of change in leadership at the Rasmussen Company?”
Sonia smiled. “Well, it turns out, dear friend, that you’re absolutely correct. I just found a letter from her hidden on Carl Rasmussen’s computer. The letter made it clear that she was making a move on the company and she wanted his help. In fact, she even mentioned the emails from Europe. I guess she’s simply been making them up, trying to keep people thinking he’s alive until she gets some sort of deal worked out with Carl.”
“And in case she didn’t?”
“And if she didn’t, then it would turn out that Victor’s unfortunate encounter with that barrel of bourbon would throw the whole thing up for grabs anyway. Given her experience with the business, she’s still got a chance of winding up with the company and getting it away from Davey.”
Jet paused for a moment, clearly thinking things through before she spoke. “So, she tries to get Carl to turn the company over to her but does poor Victor in just in case?”
Sonia glance at Tee again. “Looks like it.”
“Wow, that’s some cold lady.”
“Wow is right. And get this. She must have known that Carl wasn’t much for computers, so she very specifically told him to delete the letter and then empty the trash so the file couldn’t be found.”
“Of course, not knowing that our very own computer genius would be poking around on said computer and finding that exact file.” Jet let out a long, “Awww, isn’t that just cunnin’?”
Sonia couldn’t help but appreciate the compliment. “Whatever. Anyway, my dear partner, thanks to your work and mine, it looks like we’ve got her. We know exactly what she was up to.”
Jet spoke, sans accent. “Yeah, but how do we prove it . . . by nine o’clock tonight?”
45
Sonia had finished her conversation with Jet by telling her about what Steven Belcher had done to Tee, that Brad was leaving soon to go talk to Belcher, and that Brad needed Jet to relieve him at Zeke’s motel room. When Jet pulled into the Embers’ parking lot, it wasn’t hard for her to locate Brad’s car. She pulled into a space right next to his and rolled down her window as he rolled down his. “What up, Semper Fi?”
“Just livin’ the dream. What about you?”
Jet stretched her arms out over the steering wheel, trying to relieve her fatigue. “Me and the Camry have had a long day, pal. Been following Missy Charles all over creation.” She nodded gently and gave him a warm smile. “But looks like it paid off.”
“How so?”
“It seems,” she was too tired to fall into an accent, “that Sonia found a pretty damn incriminating file on Carl’s computer while I was tracking Missy to a bank and a lawyer’s office.” She gave Brad a giant smile and winked a pretty blue eye. “No question about it. Looks like Missy had big plans for the future, and they didn’t include Victor Rasmussen. Sonia’s still got a bee in her bonnet about Missy being the one who did Victor in.”
Brad’s bright blue eyes were on high beam. “Is that so? Even after I let her know that Zeke told Gabriela he’d come to Lexington to kill both Rasmussens and that one of them was already dead?”
“Really?” Jet furrowed her brows. “Gabriela got him to admit that he’d already killed Victor and was planning on killing Carl?”
“Either Carl or the son, Davey. We’re not sure.”
She tipped her head. “How’d she do that?’”
“Jet,” Brad chuckled, “do I need to tell you that Gabriela has certain, uh, charms?”
“That’s one way to put it, now ain’t it?” Jet paused and thought for a moment. “And you already told Sonia that?”
“That I did.” Brad got more serious, “Anyway, I’ve got to get out of here. It’s getting late and I’ve got to go check on this Steven Belcher guy. I don’t think Zeke’s going anywhere tonight, except maybe to drink himself into a stupor in the motel lounge over there. But I need you to keep an eye on him for me, nonetheless.” Brad pointed in the direction of the motel building. “He’s in room 114.”
Jet looked at the poorly kept motel and room 114’s faded red door. “I’ve got you covered, Captain. Now, off you go, and I hope this Belcher guy can finally understand what happens to a man when he messes with someone on our team, especially the youngster.”
Brad fired up the Corvette. “Count on it.” His eyes roamed the property. “Something happens, you call me.” The ‘Vette’s window slid silently upward. The sound of gravel was louder than the purr of the powerful engine as the car moved out of the parking lot.
As Jet relaxed back into her seat, a chill ran down her spine. A realization struck her. She loved being a PI. She loved helping someone find a missing child or spouse. She more than loved tracking down cheating lovers, especially husbands. But now, she found herself sitting in a parking lot keeping an eye on a man who had already confessed to one murder and admitted that he was simply waiting for the opportunity to commit another. Scary. She let out a deep breath. She also reached into her purse and let her fingers find her recently purchased handgun.
Jet’s other realization was that she was starving. Following the subject of an investigation all day doesn’t always allow for a union-required sixty-minute lunch break. They may be sitting somewhere eating a heart-healthy lunch and drinking bottled water, but you’re stuck, hoping you might just get lucky enough to slip through a fast-food drive-thru lane without losing them. Today hadn’t been a “lucky day” for Jet.
About thirty minutes after Brad had left, Jet started thinking about the liquor store that sat in the adjacent parking lot. She knew liquor stores sold all kinds of liquor. She could almost feel the sensation of a glass of Horatio Blevins Black in her hand. But it was the other thing that she knew about liquor stores in Kentucky that had higher priority for her. They sell Slim Jims, the “Meat Stick for Real Carnivores,” and Mingua Beef Jerky. Not exactly roast rack of lamb, either one of them, but the thought of one of those, when the red needle in her stomach was on “E,” became harder and harder for her to resist. She also had to pee.
Jet slipped out of the Camry and headed for the liquor store. She figured she could be in and out in less than three minutes, and she’d already spent ten times more than that staring at a red door that hadn’t budged.
The jingle bells over the door jangled when she entered the small, narrow building she assumed had a bathroom. Of course, she was quite certain it wouldn’t be for patrons. Few liquor stores offer that courtesy, given the types of things that might well go on behind those closed doors. However, she was pretty certain that the batting of her blue eyes and the tossing of her silky blonde ponytail could convince any young man behind the counter to let her use the employee’s facility. She stepped to the counter, smiled at the young Hispanic man, went through her act—eyes then hair—and found herself in the bathroom within minutes and just in time. She finished, washed her hands without soap, and was not the least bit surprised to find that there were n
o paper towels to be found anywhere in the nasty little room. Oh well.
Jet stepped out quickly, drying her hands on her jeans, and moved directly to the counter. She grabbed a package of beef jerky and an Ale-8 One, a unique, Kentucky soda with a huge, cult-like following. She reached for her tiny wallet. As she did, her eyes noticed movement beyond the flashing Coors sign in the window. It was Zeke. He was throwing a duffle bag into his car.
Jet threw her “lunch” on the counter and hustled out the door. She thought about calling Brad, but she knew Zeke would be long gone before Brad ever got back. She decided she’d just have to follow him, wherever he was going. When Zeke stepped back into his room, Jet headed for her car, walking slowly, casually. Then it hit her. If this guy takes off for Eastern Kentucky, there’s no way we would have him in custody by nine o’clock. The contract might be blown. She stopped. Standing still, she made one of the toughest decisions of her life.
46
Jet started walking again. Just as she reached her Camry, she saw Zeke come out of his room, throw a blanket or heavy coat into his car and then head back inside. She assumed it was for the last time. Opening her passenger side door, she reached in, opened her purse, and pulled out her handgun. Holding the 9mm tucked slightly behind her leg, she walked directly toward Zeke Bartley’s room. Her heart was pounding, her breathing difficult.
Jet was only a few feet away when Zeke appeared in the doorway. He stopped, a surprised look on his face. Glancing quickly left then right, she lifted the gun. “Don’t move, you bastard.” Her voice was soft but strong. “Don’t you lift one little finger.”
Taking advantage of Zeke’s surprise, and realizing he could shut the door at any moment, Jet moved quickly, right at him, driving him back into the room with the fierce look on her face and the gun in her hand. Fortunately, Zeke, not being the most considerate of motel guests, had left the lights on, so Jet’s eyes didn’t have to adjust to any darkness. She kept moving right at him, driving him further back, until he was standing in the middle of the room, confused and apparently stunned into inaction.
Looking around, Jet realized she didn’t really have him where she wanted him. In the corner, right next to the heater/air conditioner unit, was a beat-up old chair. That’s where she wanted him, sitting in that chair. Unfortunately, she was standing between him and the chair, and in order to get him there, she would have to let him walk past her. Damn.
Jet took a deep breath and pulled herself back into the corner, behind where the door would open. She motioned him toward the chair. “Not a single quick move or I’ll blow your f’ing head right off.” As he slipped past her, the thought crossed her mind that it was probably a good thing she’d made it to the ladies’ room.
Fortunately, Zeke complied readily. In Jet’s mind, he seemed broken. He took a seat in the ratty old chair and spoke in almost defeated tones. “So, what’s this all about?”
“Oh, I think you know.” Jet was trying her damnedest to be strong. “It’s about you and the Rasmussens.”
Zeke narrowed his eyes and leaned a bit toward her. “How do you know ‘bout that?”
Jet’s insides were shaking, but she was determined to do her best playing the toughest role of her life, badass. “Let’s just say that Gabriela and I are friends, really good friends.”
Zeke hung his head. “Damn. Shoulda known.” He looked up at Jet, truly inquisitive. “What’d she tell you?”
Jet could feel sweat in the palms of her hands, particularly the one that was holding the pistol. She wanted to switch hands, so she could wipe her palm on jeans. She didn’t dare exhibit that weakness. “Let’s just say that I’m not sure why you’re leaving town now,” a snarky smile crossed her lips, “your work unfinished and all.”
Zeke looked up at her again and let out a muffled laugh. “Yeah, me either.”
Jet furrowed her brow. “What?”
Zeke leaned forward, his forearms on his knees. He had the look of a person who was about to explain something, something that would take some time explaining. “Look, little lady. I’m on my way home because things just don’t seem to want to go my way.” He shook his head and actually smiled, “You know the old saying, ‘If it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?’ Well, I ain’t had no luck worth talkin’ ‘bout for the last ten years.”
Jet leaned against the wall to steady herself, her gun pointed at a man who, it appeared for the moment at least, presented no real threat to her. In fact, the closer she looked at him, the more she could see the humanity in his eyes. It was as if he had morphed from a monster into a real man, a real man with real problems.
“See, me and my brother, we done good in the coal business, but then that all went to hell.” His eyes searched her face as if he were looking for a reaction. “Then we come up with this plan to get rich makin’ great bourbon, but I go and lose it all to a cheatin’ son-of-a-bitch in a card game.” His head dropped again. “So, I get all pissed and come here to Lexington to kill the guy and his ol’ man, only to find out the guy’s in Europe and the old man’s dyin’ anyway.” Zeke sat up taller. “Then last night,” his voice grew rougher, “and again this mornin’, I got played for a fool by some hot Mexican gal.” Sitting back and putting his hands on his legs, Zeke almost laughed when he spoke. “And then wouldn’t you know it, while I was out chasing that damn piece of ass, some local bastard must’ve snuck into my room and stole my gun.” He smiled at Jet, a sad smile. “If it weren’t for bad luck . . . .”
“Wait a minute.” Jet had to remember to keep the pistol pointed at Zeke. “You mean you think that Victor Rasmussen is still in Europe?”
Confusion crossed Zeke’s face. “Well, ain’t he?”
Jet took a deep breath. “Actually, before I say anything else, explain something to me. Last night you told Gabriela that you were here to kill both the Rasmussens, and that one of them was already dead. Isn’t that so?”
Zeke thought for a moment. Then he shook his head. “No, I told her that one of them is already a dead man.” He huffed “The old man. Don’t you know he’s dying of cancer or some such? He’s a dead man. He ain’t never comin’ out of that hospital.”
It was Jet’s turn to stop and think things through. “So, the reason you were still hanging around Lexington─”
“Was to kill that cheatin’ son-of-a-bitch Victor. Soon as he gets back from Europe. But I’m tired of waitin’, and now I don’t even have a gun. Not here. I was goin’ to go back home and get another.” He stopped and took a breath. “Though I’m startin’ to wonder if it’s such a good idea.” He scratched his head. “Or maybe I’m just losin’ my stomach for the whole thing.”
Jet took a breath, a deep, long breath, then moved to the bed across from the chair. Sitting as far away from Zeke as she could, and still being careful to keep the gun pointed at him, Jet said, “Maybe you’re a luckier man than you thought, Zeke.”
He shook his head, indicating he didn’t think so. “How’s that?”
“Okay, so listen. The reason Gabriela came looking for you last night, the reason I’m watching you right now, is because our firm has been hired to investigate something.”
“Yeah, what’s that?”
“The murder of Victor Rasmussen.”
Zeke’s head popped backward. “How can that be? I ain’t done it yet. The son-of-a-bitch is still in Europe.”
Jet shook her head gently. “No, Zeke. For the last week or so, Victor Rasmussen has been marinating in a barrel of Horatio Blevins’ finest.”
“Bourbon?”
“Yeah, bourbon. Somebody killed him and shoved his body into a barrel full of bourbon. Left it right there in one of the rackhouses on the Blevins property.”
Zeke was having trouble comprehending. “So, he’s dead already?”
Jet’s whole body was nodding. “Absolutely. And you are one lucky son-of-a-bitch yourself. Instead of running from the law the rest of your life, you get to . . .” Jet didn’t know how to finish the sente
nce.
Zeke seemed to come to life. He sat up taller. “I get to leave this damn room and go home.” He tipped his head. “Really? He’s dead?”
Jet smiled. “Yup.” Then it struck her. It was nothing she should have been smiling about. She shrugged gently, sadly, “And I guess you’re getting your wish about the old man as well.”
Zeke took a deep breath, capitulating to the truth. “Oh, I never really meant the old man harm. I was just so pissed. I just . . . . Actually, I feel bad for the old guy.”
A long minute passed while Jet and Zeke sat in room 114, at the ramshackle Embers hotel, digesting what they had each learned. Finally, Zeke stood up. “Well, I guess I’m out of here.”
Jet jerked backward, standing, holding the gun higher. “Now, I didn’t say─”
Zeke waved her off. “Put the gun down, little lady. I knew all along you never had the gumption to shoot me. And you’re certainly not going to shoot me now, seein’ as how I ain’t done nothin’ wrong,” he chuckled at himself, “ ‘cept be a fool.” He turned around, looking at the chair as if to check that he hadn’t left anything there. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my stuff’s in my truck and I’ve had about all of Lexington a man like me can handle.” He walked right past her and out the door. “Evenin’ ma’am.”
Jet still had the gun in her hand, had even kept it pointed at him as he’d walked by her. But she knew that there was no way she was going to stop him from leaving. In fact, she really couldn’t come up with a reason why she should.
47
Brad Dunham was a pro. A combat-hardened Marine and a veteran of years as an NCIS agent, he seldom took unnecessary chances. He could have gone to the Horatio Blevins property and waited in the parking lot for Steven Belcher to leave work at six. However, that would have meant a long, one-car surveillance on a two-lane country road, followed by a trip on an open four-lane highway, and travel through town. Too many chances for him to be noticed.