Sex, Lies & Bourbon (Sex and Lies Book 5)

by Kris Calvert

  I stood still, my arms still tightly folded against my chest. I still wasn’t ready to let him in.

  “So how much did you hear?” he asked.

  “All of it.”

  He dropped his hands to his side in fists of celebration and looked to the ceiling. “Yes! See? I’m guilty of not leaving her office before she could disrobe and for not telling you what happened. And for that, I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”

  Now toe to toe with him, I discreetly snapped the new rubber band on my wrist. There was too much going on and I needed to parse it all out before allowing Win into my head.

  “Look, I know you want to talk about this—this thing with Piper and you—and me. But I need to find John Lee. I’ve got some questions for him.”

  “John Lee?” Win said, thumbing over his shoulder. “I just spoke with him. He’s at the house.”

  I tore through the building like it was on fire. Win hurried after me. “I have the cart with me. I’ll take you up there.”

  As we sped up the steep embankment toward the house, Win began what I knew was the first in a long line of questions I wasn’t ready to answer just yet.

  “Why do you need to talk to John? Has there been a break in the case? Have you found a connection?”

  “It’s nothing I can discuss with you yet, Win,” I said, brushing the hair from my face as the wind blew through us.

  “What do you mean you can’t discuss it with me? It’s my house, my father.”

  “Yes,” I countered. “And you’re a man who conveniently forgot to tell me you were home meeting with your dad on the day of the murder.”

  “Listen, I know we’re taught where there’s smoke there’s fire, but I can promise you, one has nothing to do with the other,” Win said, beating his open palm on the small steering wheel of the cart for emphasis.

  “Until I can prove that, you’re on the watch list with everyone else.”

  “What are you even saying? That I’m a suspect in my father’s murder case?”

  I remained silent. Of course I didn’t think he’d killed his father. I believed Win when he said he was back in New York City. Still, after learning from Teller that Piper had held a knife to his throat, John Lee was meeting with the mob; Magnus had been having an affair with Mary and and who knew what was going on in Lena’s head, I was playing this investigation close to the vest.

  “Ginny? Answer me.”

  “Of course you aren’t a suspect, Win. But you’re also not supposed to be involved in the investigation. I know this is hard for you, I’d feel the same way if I had to sit idly on the sidelines and watch another agent investigate a murder in my family, but you have no choice. Maybe you should just be happy that it’s me doing the investigation. Because I can promise you I’ve cut you way more slack than anyone else would’ve.”

  “Shit. Fine.”

  It was a desperate word and I know he felt desperately apart from the whole of it. But for right now, he was just going to have to trust me.

  As we approached the house, a storm cloud rolled through the sky and a bolt of lighting sent us both running. Turning the corner, I ran right into Agent Knotts who’d apparently been waiting for me outside the house.

  “Knotts!” I shouted. “Let’s get out of the weather.”

  He looked to me as the rain began to fall on his black leather jacket and I watched the two men exchange untrusting glances before we all made a run for it.

  Once inside the kitchen area, Win looked back and forth between us, waiting for something—anything.

  “I need to speak with you, Agent Grace.”

  “Fine, fine,” Win said with guarded reluctance. “I need to find Cee Cee anyway.”

  Alone in the kitchen I looked to Knotts. “I came out here to talk to Lee, but I’ve not found him. I did get some very interesting information from Piper, who’s been fired by the way.”

  “Such as?”

  “Two years ago Piper Presley held a knife to Win’s throat. He had to take out a restraining order against her.”

  “But she wasn’t fired?”

  I shook my head. “The decision to keep her was Robert’s. But get this—she found the knife she used on Win in Robert’s office.”

  “Where’s the knife?”

  “Says she gave it to John Lee.”

  Knotts nodded. “Where is Lee?”

  “He’s here somewhere. On the property.”

  My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was my brother. “Jackson?”

  “Where the hell are you? You call me to drive down here with this stuff and you’re not even here.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Hurry,” he said. “National Weather Service says there’s a storm blowing through—a big one.”

  “I said, I’m on my way.”

  I looked to Knotts. “Sorry. There’s something I need to take care of. Follow Lee and call me. I’ll be over to interview him with you shortly. But first—”

  “We’re hot on this guy, Grace. Where are you going?”

  Rushing out the door and into the blowing rain I shouted over my shoulder. “I’m following up on a lead!”

  Rushing into my hotel room just as the rain began to fall, I found Jackson sitting on the bright floral bedspread—our father’s notes and trinkets scattered across it like a bad garage sale.

  Before saying a word, I rushed to him and hugged him tightly. Unable to hold the tears back, I cried again for what seemed like the millionth time in one day. “I’m sorry you had to come down here. But it’s important I know what happened—what happened to Daddy.”

  “I think you’re chasing a whole lot of nothing Gin, but let’s look through all of this and see if there’s anything that piques your interest. God knows if you don’t, you’ll obsess over it until you drive me nuckin’ futs.”

  “Whatever,” I sighed, knowing he was speaking the truth.

  “I don’t know what you’re looking for,” he said fingering through some of the scraps of paper with our father’s handwriting on it.

  “Me either, but I’ll know it when I see it.”

  “He left the most cryptic notes. It was as if he had his own code to himself,” Jackson said.

  “Wait. What did you say?” I thought back to the photo with the triangle drawn on the back.

  “I said, it was like he had his own code.”

  “Exactly.” I pulled the crime scene photo of Mary Holloway from my bag “See here? A triangle with the initials M13, M13 and R18—Mary, Magnus and Robert—a love triangle.”

  “That’s what you think this means?”

  I nodded.

  “What’s the ten, two, twelve here in the middle? October second, twenty-twelve? Is it a date?”

  “I don’t know. Are there any other doodles like that anywhere in his scraps of paper and post-it notes?”

  “What do the numbers represent?”

  I shrugged. “Just like you said, his cryptic code.”

  Frantically, Jackson began to sort through the pile. I stopped when I happened upon a photo of Mom and Dad together. It was a small copy of their wedding photo. On the back it gave the date of their wedding, April 29, and a series of numbers.

  I picked up another photo. This one was of him and his buddies playing pool. Turning it over, I read aloud, “The Gang.” Below the caption was a string of numbers.

  I handed the photo to Jackson. “Who do you think the gang is?”

  “Those are his FBI buddies.”

  “How do you know?”

  Jackson pointed to the man far in the background doing his best to photobomb the shot. On the back of his jacket the initials FBI were printed in large letters.

  “I see,” I replied sarcastically. “But the numbers…”

  “What do M and 13 have in common?”

  “Holy cow! This is so easy,” I shouted standing on top of the bed. “M is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. He’s using a simple substitution cipher! Read off the letters on the back of their wedding photo.�
��

  “Twelve, fifteen, twenty-two, five—new line—twenty-one—new line—four, five, twenty-two, five, eighteen.

  “Love U D ever. No, love you 4 ever.”

  “What the hell?” Jackson said picking up the other photo.

  “Read them off,” I asked in an excited panic.

  “Eighteen, eight, eleven, nine, twelve, twelve, five, eighteen. Then, fourteen, nine, seven, eight, twenty, seven, fifteen, twenty-three and fourteen.”

  “R-H-K-I-L-L-E-R-N-I-G-H-T-G-O-W-N”

  I stared into my brother’s eyes. “Robert Holloway killer—nightgown.”

  “What’s he talking about? The nightgown she was wearing?” Jackson asked as I pulled the photos from the crime scene out of the file.

  “Dad thought there was evidence on Mary’s nightgown that proved Robert was the killer.”

  “You got all of that from just those letters?” Jackson asked.

  I nodded.

  “Ten, two, twelve. J, B, L,” Jackson said.

  “Wait, what?”

  “The other numbers in the triangle. J, B, L.”

  “Oh holy Jesus. Jerri Belle Lee.”

  “Who the hell is that?” Jackson asked.

  “She’s the one person I believe, like Daddy, knew everything.”

  “Is she dead too?” Jackson asked with a sarcastic laugh.

  “Yes.” I nodded, reaching for my ringing phone in the floor.

  “Grace.”

  “It’s Knotts. John Lee is on the move. He’s headed east on highway twenty-seven.”

  “Any idea where he’s going?”

  “His tail seems to think he’s going home.”

  “Do you have the address?”

  “Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes. Text it to me and don’t go in without me.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, Agent Grace.”

  Hanging up, I took Jackson’s face in my hands and kissed him on top of the head. “I gotta go.”

  “What?” he nearly shrieked. “Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. I gave up my day and drove down here with all this stuff and you’re walking out the door on me?”

  I nodded.

  “No fucking way, sis. I’m staying. If that dickless piece of shit shows up looking for you, I’ve got a few things I’d like to say to him.”

  “Jackson,” I deadpanned. “Don’t do this to me. I’ve got to go.”

  “Go, go,” he repeated, shooing me out the door with his hand.

  I stopped everything and turned to him. “I’m fine. You should go. We’ve got agents crawling all around this town. I feel bad for taking you away from work today.”

  “I dunno about all of this, Gin. I think you’re in over your head.”

  “Jackson, I just came out of deep cover inside the New York City mob, I think I can handle a family murder in Valley Springs, Kentucky.”

  “Now it’s just a little family murder? Two hours ago this was a conspiracy that killed our father.”

  “I think Robert Holloway had something to do with Dad’s accident, I do. I just need to prove it.”

  “Fine. I’ll go. But I’m calling you later and I swear if you don’t pick up, I’m driving back and breaking necks.”

  “Whose?” I asked sarcastically.

  “Win Holloway’s if I need to, yours if you don’t answer your damn phone.”

  “I’m reading you loud and clear,” I said, walking out the door.

  24

  GINNY

  The small red brick house that was the residence of John Lee was fairly non-descript. His blue Ford truck sat under the carport, and although not lit, Christmas lights hung precariously from the gutters for dear life. A long orange extension cord tied the entire operation together on the soffit. It was the worst redneck engineering I’d seen in a long time.

  I parked down the street, not wanting to crowd the official tail, and hurried to Knott’s car.

  “Been waiting long?” I asked, jumping in the passenger’s seat.

  He shook his head. “I think we knock on his door and just ask some questions. If he gives us any trouble, we cart him off to Louisville.”

  Finally, alone with Knotts, I wanted to ask him about my dad. It tugged at me like a chain smoker out of cigarettes. “Be honest with me. What do you know about my father—Mary’s case and his death? Please. I’m begging you.”

  He took a long pause and a deep breath. “I don’t know much Ginny. When shit like that goes down, no one wants to talk about it or get involved. There’s always the fear you could be next.”

  “But my father wasn’t afraid.”

  Knotts shook his head. “I don’t think GG was afraid of anything.”

  I gasped. “You called him GG.”

  He nodded. “Your dad was hot on the trail of something. Then right in the middle of his investigation, his car skidded out of control on a rural highway in the middle of a thunderstorm. I dunno,” Knotts said rolling down the window and lighting up. “It seemed to stink to high heaven. No one thought about any of it being interconnected until pages went missing from the file. It was as if his investigation was wiped clean from the record.”

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I think the whole thing—past and present—stinks to high heaven.”

  I nodded, looking away, and thought about how Cee Cee had told me the world unfolded like it was supposed to. Did that mean falling in love with a man whose family more than likely had my father killed for getting too close to their secrets? What did that mean for me?

  “I have a suspicion about John Lee,” I offered up.

  “Yeah, what’s that?”

  “I think he’s Robert Holloway’s illegitimate son. I mean, think about it. He’s twenty-three, his mother was killed in a car accident—not unlike my father—Holloway hired him to work at the distillery when he was just sixteen.”

  “That doesn’t mean crap, Grace.”

  I cocked my head and shrugged my shoulders. “Seems a little too coincidental to me, but maybe it’s just my intuition talking.”

  “Well, tell it to be quiet. We need to deal in facts, not theories.”

  “Watch it, Knotts. I may be a woman and younger than you, but I’m still the SAC on this case.”

  “What about Lee’s little trip to Churchill Downs today?” Knotts ignored my comment.

  “I have a message into my contact in New York to find out what he knows, but it takes a few days to get messages in and out.”

  “Informants are funny like that,” Knotts replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They don’t want to be chopped into little pieces and fed to the fish.”

  “And for that very reason, I am patient,” I replied watching the rain fall on the windshield.

  “What do you say we do this?” Knotts asked.

  “Let’s go, but I’m taking the lead.”

  “For the last time Grace, I have no intention of stepping on your toes,” he grumbled climbing out of the car.

  Knotts was starting to grow on me.

  We walked to the other dark sedan and he knocked on the window. “We’re going in to ask him some questions. Stay outside, but be on alert.”

  Hurrying up the muddy hill to Lee’s house, we covered our heads with our jackets, making a run for the front porch.

  I rang the doorbell instead of pounding on the frame. I didn’t want our visit to come off as a raid. When John Lee opened the door, his face fell as if he’d been caught reading a Playboy by his mother. He looked shocked and guilty.

  “Mr. Lee,” I said, holding my badge up to my face for him to see. “I don’t know if you remember me or not. I’m Agent Grace with the FBI, this is my associate, Agent Knotts. I wanted to speak with you today at the distillery, but you left before I had a chance to catch up with you.”

  A bolt of lightning struck and the thunder that followed made us all wince.

  “Come on in.” Lee of
fered. “It’s getting bad out there.”

  Stepping into the home, I immediately scanned the room for anything unusual. It was tidy for a bachelor pad and the seventies décor was mostly flea market motif—organized chaos.

  “Have a seat,” Lee offered, now moving the stack of motorcycle and gun magazines from the couch and floor. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “No problem,” I replied. “Do you live here alone?”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “We want to ask you some questions about the night Robert Holloway was murdered.” I looked at him and held my anger just below the surface wondering if this was his idea of letting me take the lead.

  “What do you want to know?” Lee asked.

  “When did you arrive at the Winterbourne place that day? Do you mostly work nights?” I asked.

  John Lee looked back and forth between the two of us. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No, no,” I said, doing my best to assure him. “We have to interview everyone who was there around the time of death.”

  Lee shrugged his shoulders and looked to the ceiling as if to recall the events of the evening from his cluttered mind. “I arrived at work at my usual time—seven in the evening.”

  “Do you know who might’ve been on the premises at that time?” I asked, pulling out my small notebook.

  “I can only tell you which vehicles were in the garage that night.”

  I nodded. “Okay.”

  “Mr. Page’s black Mercedes, Miss Presley’s Range Rover, but she left around eight that night. Miss Holloway’s little sports car the ah…ah…”

  “Jaguar?” Knotts offered.

  I looked at him and raise an eyebrow. “I saw it in the garage myself,” he said.

  “Yeah, the little blue one is hers,” Lee agreed. “Teller was in and out because Mr. Win was in town for the day—oh—and Ethel was there.”

  “Ethel?”

  “Yeah, that’s Mr. Cecil’s 1957 Chevy 3100.”

  I looked to Knotts.

  “It’s a truck—an old one,” he said.

  “What’s a typical work day like for you, Mr. Lee?” I asked. “Do you have specific tasks required of you, or do you just keep an eye on the place—make sure a barrel doesn’t go running off somewhere.”