by F J messina
On the other hand, as much as he was convinced that Belcher would take the Bluegrass Parkway to US 60 and head for Lexington, he couldn’t take the chance that Belcher had other plans. There was only one solution in Brad’s mind, using the same type of GPS tracking device he’d recently used to follow some criminals all the way down to Memphis and back. Accordingly, by six o’clock, Brad had been to the Horatio Blevins facility, placed the device on Belcher’s car, and then driven back to Versailles. He waited in the parking lot of a KFC, confident that he would pick up Belcher’s signal on his laptop, wait for him to pass, and then follow him back toward his home.
He was right. Around fourteen minutes after six, Belcher’s car came to Versailles, took the left at the dog-leg turn and headed for Lexington. Brad moved in right behind him. A few moments later, he dropped back over a mile, certain that he was following the right car. It wasn’t long before Brad’s laptop indicated to him that Belcher had turned onto his own street, Longview Drive.
A few minutes later, Brad pulled up to Belcher’s home. Though many of the homes in the neighborhood had recently undergone fortuitous facelifts, the small, white, shingle house that Belcher owned had not been so fortunate. Able to see clearly that Belcher’s car was now in the open-fronted garage at the back of the property, he had already decided not to fool around. This situation would demand a full-frontal attack plan. He knocked on Belcher’s front door.
Steven Belcher opened up and looked out through the glass storm door. Tall and thin, his scraggly goatee and dirty comb-over sat sadly over his brown, Horatio Blevins T-shirt.
Brad stepped back two feet and spoke softly, so softly that Belcher opened the storm door a few inches in order to hear better. It was exactly what Brad had counted on. He lunged for the door, grabbing it with two hands before Belcher could get the door completely closed. Yanking it open, Brad forced his way into Belcher’s home.
Brad pushed him backward, driving Belcher against the wall. The only words spoken were Belcher’s. “Hey, hey. What the─” His head slammed against the wall. He was stunned into silence.
“Okay, creep.” Brad was not playing nice. “You and I are going to have a little talk. Right?”
Belcher’s eyes were opened wide, fear emanated from every pore on his body. He said nothing.
“Yeah, I thought you’d agree. Now, sit down.” Brad pushed on Belcher’s shoulders, driving him to the floor. Standing over him like a giant pin oak dwarfs a rose bush, Brad slowly drew his Colt 1911 out of his shoulder holster. The move was mostly for effect, but Brad could tell it had been more than successful. “Now that we’ve come to an understanding, friend, let’s you and I have a chat. Where would you like to start, the Burl, the BCI offices?”
Belcher sat silently while Brad wondered if the poor guy might actually be about to pass out. Perhaps he might have come on stronger than he’d needed to. He took a deep breath, looking around the shabby living room─maroon plush couch, worn gray chair, fifty-inch flat-screen TV sitting on a scratched imitation wood table. “Okay, Steven. Let’s start over. My name is Dunham. I am not your friend.”
By the look on Belcher’s face, Brad could tell the calm words were making the man even more frightened. He continued. “But Steven, although I am not your friend, I am not yet fully committed to hurting you. In fact, Steven, if you tell me everything I want to know, you may well be able to survive our little discussion. Would you like that, Steven?”
Belcher’s eyes were wide as he spoke. “Are you a cop?”
Bad grinned. “I’m afraid you’re not nearly that lucky, Steven. Now, let’s begin with the Burl. What was that all about?”
Belcher started to speak, but no words came out.
“Calm down now, Steven. We really need to get to the bottom of things. Take a deep breath, swallow, and start slowly.” He smiled again, “We’ll get through everything, I hope.”
Belcher did take a deep breath. He did swallow. “I didn’t mean to hurt the girl.”
Brad lifted his chin. “Tee?”
“Yeah, the Italian one. I didn’t mean to hurt her. I just wanted to scare her.”
“And,” Brad used Jet’s over-the-glasses look, “why would you want to scare her?”
“I had to. Just like I had to scare all of you by shooting into your office.”
Brad looked at him silently, motionless.
“You’ve got to believe me. I knew I wouldn’t hit anybody. I shot real high, to make sure that no one got hurt.”
“Steven?” Brad said his name slowly. “I’m glad you’re telling me this, but I really do need to know why you had to scare Tee, why you needed to scare all of us at BCI.”
Belcher looked at Brad as if Brad should already know. “Because of the investigation. She said the investigation could get us both in trouble. Don’t you see? All we wanted was for you all to stop poking around.”
Brad took a moment to inspect his weapon. Then he asked, “And who, exactly, is she?”
“Carla. Carla Lombardi. She’s my girlfriend.”
Brad thought for a second. Lombardi. It sounded familiar but . . . . He squinted and looked closely at Belcher.
“Carla Lombardi, Victor’s half-sister?” Belcher was on a roll. “She’s the one who made me do it.”
Brad gave Belcher an encouraging look and used his gun to signal that Belcher should continue.
“She’s the one who made me try to scare the young girl, and the rest of you.”
Brad rolled his head and shoulders as if all of this was making him tense. “Now, Steven. Or should I call you Steve or Stevie?” Belcher didn’t respond. “I get the feeling you did something else, is that true?”
Sweating, Belcher was almost breathless as he spit out the rest of the story. “Listen. I didn’t kill him. That wasn’t me. All I did was help her get him into that barrel.” He shook his head. “I’m telling you, she did that, she killed him. All I did was help her with the body.”
“Him, who, Steven?” Brad knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it directly from Belcher.
“Victor Rasmussen. Her half-brother. She killed him. Asked him to come meet her at the Irish bar where she works then tricked him into going out back with her. Stuck a knife right in his gut and twisted. Guy bled out like a pig in just a couple of minutes. Blood was everywhere. She called me and told me to come help her. I was freaked out, but I had to do it. We wrapped him in a bedspread and dumped him in the back of her pickup. We took him out to the distillery.” He blinked at Brad. “We could get in late at night because I know the codes. I work there.”
Brad smiled. “Yes, you do.”
“Don’t know why she felt she had to stick him in a barrel of bourbon. I guess it was because she couldn’t stand hearing him bragging about the fancy, new bourbon he was going to start selling.”
Brad looked at him sideways. “How’d you get him into that barrel?”
Belcher scratched behind his ear. “You know, you can’t just kind of open a full barrel of bourbon.” His voice became less scratchy. He began to calm down. “I had to start by putting in a tap then emptying some of the bourbon into a big pan, just enough to kind of fill the barrel back up after we had him tucked away. The rest of the bourbon just went down the drain. After that, I had to knock off the hoops, take the lid off, lift that heavy sucker up and drop him in. Then I had to put the whole thing back together, bourbon and all.”
Brad paused before continuing. He knew Belcher was ready to tell him everything he needed to know and he didn’t want to overplay his hand. “All right, then, Steve. How ‘bout you tell me why Carla Lombardi killed her brother.”
Belcher was starting to regain his composure. He spoke almost calmly. “It was the old man. She hated the old man.”
Brad tipped his head to the right. “Carl Rasmussen?”
“Yeah, the old man, her father. He kicked her and her mother out of the house when Carla was just a little kid. He never had a single thing to do with either of them all these years,
nothing.”
“So?”
“So,” Belcher had become a willing confidant, “she hated his guts. Then, he goes and becomes real wealthy putting roofs on buildings, lots of buildings.” He coughed several times, his mouth clearly very dry.
Brad was earnestly trying to understand. “And, how did that hate turn itself against Victor? Carla told Tee she’d never met him. Wished him luck.”
Belcher looked beseechingly at Brad. “Could I have some water, man? I’m dying here.”
Brad stood up slowly, extending his hand to Belcher. “Come on, Steve. Stand up. Let’s go get you a drink of water. Which way to the kitchen?”
Belcher led the way into the drab, off-white kitchen, the highlight of which was 1970’s vintage, avocado green appliances. Walking directly to the kitchen sink, where he used a dirty glass, he drank down two big glasses of water. He turned back to Brad. “Thanks.”
Brad motioned toward the little two-person kitchen table with his gun. “Okay, Steve. Let’s have a seat at the table, both of us.” Belcher complied. The table wobbled as Brad leaned his left elbow on it, his right hand holding the gun under the table in order to make Belcher feel a little less threatened. “Now, Steve, tell me why Carla hated her brother.”
“No,” Belcher shook his head. “She didn’t hate him. She just hated the father. It’s just that the father brought Victor into the business, eventually made him head honcho. Carla followed all of that stuff in the business section of the newspaper. Anytime something big would happen with the Rasmussens, Carla would read about it, then she’d have a hissy fit.” He took on the woman’s voice. “ ‘That piece of crap. He didn’t have a minute for me and my mother. Not a minute’s time. Not a f’ing dime.’ ”
Brad nodded and shrugged. “I get that, I guess.”
Belcher didn’t need to be asked any more questions. “So, then Victor gets lucky with that racehorse of his and Carla gets even crazier.” Belcher dropped his jaw and rolled his eyes. “And then this bourbon thing, that really pushed her over the edge.”
“How so?”
Belcher’s eyes widened. “Are you kidding me? She’s a damn bartender down at McCullen’s, and now Carl’s prized son is going to become one of those bourbon-making guys, and twenty-year-old bourbon at that. That was it, she snapped.”
Brad would have waited for Belcher to continue, but he sensed that Belcher was running out of gas, and he didn’t have the key information he needed yet. “Okay, Steve. I get all that. But what I don’t get is why Carla wanted Victor dead. Can you help me out there, Steve?”
“Yeah.” Belcher took a deep breath. “Here’s the thing. My sister, she works down at St. John’s Hospital. You know, where they took Carl when he first got sick.” Belcher stopped and looked at Brad, a question in his eyes. “You do know that Carl’s sick, real sick, right?”
“Yeah, Steve. We know.”
“So, my sister, she knows Carla and I are together, so she tells me that he’s sick, probably going to die. She tells me. I tell Carla.”
“And?”
“Well, first, she’s walking around the house kind of singing to herself. You know, ‘Ding, Dong, the bitch is dead,’ and all. But then, she says to me, ‘Hey. I’ll bet there’s no one home at Carl’s place. Don’t you think we should go slip in there and take some of the stuff he should have given to me over the years?’ ”
Brad gave Belcher a “Did you buy that?” look.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I should have talked her out of it, but you don’t know Carla. She’s got a mean streak, a hell of a mean streak. I guess I just went along with it.” He paused and rubbed his head like he was trying to erase the memory. “But here’s the thing. First, she says we should dress up. We’ll be less noticeable in his fancy neighborhood if we have good clothes on. Then, when we get to his house, just to be sure no one’s home, Carla walks up to the door and rings the bell, bold as can be.” Belcher’s mouth dropped as if the next part of the story were a surprise to him. “Son-of-a-bitch, some German lady answers the door. And instead of asking us what we want, she just asks us if we’re from the company.”
“And, of course,” Brad interjected, “you said, ‘Yes.’ ”
Belcher shrugged. “Well, not me. But Carla did. So, the lady invites us in and asks if we want to go into his office.” Belcher raised his eyebrows. “Who says ‘No,’ to that? So, in we go. Now, I’m no computer genius, but it wasn’t hard for me to figure out how to get into his computer. We poked around.”
Brad was pleased that the whole story was finally coming out, but he was getting impatient with the pace. The night was wearing on. Nine o’clock was on its way. “So, did you find anything?”
Belcher nodded and smiled. “You bet your ass we did. We found a copy of the old man’s will.” He gave Brad a snarky look. “And what do you think it said?”
Brad simply shrugged.
“He was leaving everything to Victor. Everything. It pissed Carla off so bad she could have taken a dump right there. She starts walking around and around in the office. At first, I thought she was looking for something to take. Then I figured she was just looking for something to break. But damn, I was wrong.”
“How so?”
“All of a sudden Carla stops. She turns around to me and smiles. Then she asks me a question.” He stopped to take a breath, or maybe just more for effect.
Brad couldn’t wait. “Come on, Steve, my man. Let’s get to it. What did she ask you?”
“She asked me, ‘If the old man dies and Victor’s not around, who gets all his money, all his stuff?’ She got really excited, smiling. ‘All his everything?’ ” Belcher’s smile got even bigger. “So, I told her that if the old man died, and Victor wasn’t around, it would go to his wife or to one of his other kids. And since he was divorced from Carla’s mom, and his second wife was already dead. Everything would go to Carla.” He laughed. “She was grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. She’d already figured that out.”
Brad took another deep breath. “So, that’s the deal? Carla knew Carl was dying and figured if Victor was dead, she would inherit everything?”
‘Yeah,” Belcher raised his finger, “but she’s no fool. She also figured that if Victor died before the old man did, then the old guy might change his will.”
Brad perked up. “So, she had to keep Victor alive, right?”
Belcher rolled his head on his shoulders. “Well, kill him, but make it look like he was still alive.”
Brad shook his head. “Yeah, Steve, that’s what I meant. And she stole Victor’s laptop and started sending messages to Missy Charles, saying he was in Europe. Am I correct?”
“Damn,” Belcher’s eyes widened again, “you are good. That’s exactly what she did. And every day that lady, Missy Charles, would send him an email asking him questions about the business, and Carla would have to come up with some bullshit answer that made it sound like it was Victor answering them.”
“Quite a plan.” Brad nodded. “So, Carla kills Victor and is still waiting for Carl to kick the bucket, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“And as soon as he does, Carla’s going to step in and claim the inheritance, right?”
“Well, kind of.”
Brad’s head popped up. “What do you mean, kind of?”
Belcher thought for a while, then he sat up taller and asked, “Do you know much about legal words?”
“I guess I do. Why?”
“Well,” Belcher seemed to be enjoying himself, “do you know the legal term par stirps?”
“You mean, per stirpes? Like purr stir peas?”
Belcher shook his head, embarrassed. “Well, I guess, something like that. Anyway, before we left the old man’s place, Carla asked me to print out a copy of the old man’s will. After she killed Victor,” Belcher wagged his finger at Brad again, “and remember now, I had nothing to do with that, she started reading that will every day. It just made her happy to read it, to know that that was the lega
l piece of paper that was going to make her rich.”
“Let me guess,” Brad wagged his finger back at Belcher, enjoying the turn-about, “she kept stumbling over the term, per stirpes. Am I right, Steven?”
The energy seemed to slip out of Belcher. “Yeah, she finally went to the internet and looked the damn thing up.”
Brad smiled. “And it said that per stirpes means, ‘by the root,’ or ‘by the branch.’ That there are two ways to pass things down in a will. Per capita, by the head, and per stirpes, by the root. In other words, if the old man died and the estate went to Victor, per capita, and Victor wasn’t around, it would go to Carl’s other child, Carla. But if it’s left per stirpes, then it wouldn’t go to Carla. It would go to Victor, and per stirpes, by the root, it would go to Victor’s heirs. In other words, when Carl passes, everything goes, through Victor, to Carl’s namesake, Carl David, you know, Davey.” Brad sighed and smiled again. “And did Carla lose it when she figured that out, when she realized she’d killed Victor for nothing?”
Belcher looked at Brad with dead earnestness. “Oh, no. She just figured that now, before the old man died, she had to kill Davey, too.”
48
When Sonia got off the phone with Jet, after sending her to relieve Brad at The Embers motel, she felt uneasy. No matter what Brad had said, there was still something that told her that Missy was guilty. She had the incriminating files, but she had no hard proof. She stood up at her desk, convinced she should go follow Missy Charles, at least until nine o’clock, “game over” time. Missy seemed to have a lot of plans in motion. Maybe, just maybe, she would do something that Sonia could bring to the bourbon brotherhood. Something solid.
Missy’s home, where Jet had seen her last, was on Lakeshore Drive, not far from Sonia’s office. It would take her only a few minutes to get there. Before she reached her destination, however, her phone sang to her. Driving, she picked up the phone without looking at it. “This is Sonia Vitale.”