Down the Rabbit Hole Page 5

  A uniformed police officer stepped in front of her when she was only twenty-five yards onto the property. He lifted his hand. “What’s your business here?”

  Sonia gave him a big smile. “Oh, I just saw all the commotion and I wondered what it was all about.” She batted her eyes and looked around him. “The lights. The cars─A TV van? Did a famous horse die?”

  “This is now a restricted area. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave ma’am.” There was no smile on his broad face as he looked down at her.

  Sonia played her best innocent bystander. She stood on her tiptoes, looking around his big body. “Can’t I just stay right here and watch?”

  “No, ma’am. Restricted area.” His long arms were already not-so-subtly pushing her in the direction of the road. “Don’t want anyone to get hurt or to interfere with the emergency vehicles. And this is private property. I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist that you leave─ immediately.”

  Sonia’s opportunity had slipped away. Not wanting to press her luck, she walked back to her car, at a total loss for what to do next. Deflated, she got into her car and started toward home. Something’s going on there, and I’ll bet they would have let that son-of-a-bitch, Brad Dunham, in to see it. Damn him. In her mind, Sonia could see Mr. Semper Fi standing at the counter in Magee’s and then walking through the place like he owned it─the puke green shirt bulging with his muscles. Her Italian blood boiled. That son-of-a-bitch. Then it hit her. She didn’t really know a thing about Brad Dunham, and now he was a son-of-a-bitch. Sonia blew that same wisp of hair out of her face. Man, I am tired.

  When Sonia walked up the steps to her apartment she was worn out and stiff. She took a half-empty bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator and poured herself a glass. She plopped into her favorite chair and started munching on a large handful of pretzels. So, this is dinner?

  Sonia turned to the Ten O’clock News on the local Fox affiliate, the earliest news show in town. The attractive young female anchor opened the program. “Thank you for joining us. This evening our ‘Big Story’ concerns one of our local horse farms. Police report that the owner of Dahlia Farm, Mr. John Abbot Hensley, has committed suicide.”

  Part II

  9

  Sonia couldn’t sleep that night. By five in the morning, she had given up and gotten up. She had turned on the local Fox affiliate again, hoping to learn more about the suicide of John Abbott Hensley. All she saw was the same story and the same video that had aired last night at ten. By seven o’clock it was time for the Today Show on NBC, which she knew would have local cut-ins. She poured herself a third cup of coffee and turned it on, figuring that they would now be reporting with a little more depth. She was right, but just barely. The reports now gave a little more background on Hensley. He was a lawyer who lived in Cincinnati. He owned the farm. He seemed to be in town for a routine visit to the farm. Blah, blah, blah. She had already discovered that information on her own. And, in fact, she knew more than they did. She had seen his demeanor when he walked around the farm. She knew exactly when he entered the barn─pretty much. She knew, pretty closely, when they had found the body. The reports kept referring to it as a suicide, but all the while that she watched the reports Sonia kept saying softly but intensely, “Stronzate. Stronzate.” Italian for bullshit.

  She kept running it over and over again in her mind. Hensley had arrived in his fancy car, with his white pants, his madras shirt, his stylish glasses. He was confident, all smiles. Then he’d headed for the barn, but Hollings kept trying to show him something out in one of the fields. She hadn’t thought about it then, but now it seemed to her that there had been a bit of tension between Hollings and Hensley. Sonia paced around and around in her tiny apartment. They go into the barn, the cop comes, but then he leaves. The guy in the black Lincoln comes, then he leaves. Then Hensley commits suicide? It just doesn’t add up. Damn it, it just doesn’t add up.

  By nine in the morning, she was frustrated and antsy. She had no real business report to file, but she went to the office anyway, forgetting to stop by and get her coffee and croissant. She hardly noticed climbing the stairs. She entered the office, hoping to find Jet there. But it was no surprise to her that, at nine-fifteen in the morning, Jet had not yet come in. Sonia paced around her office, in fact, around the entire BCI space. She would stop occasionally and stare aimlessly out the front window. Her eyes, of course, settled first on the school district building, then on the white house. I wonder how Brad Dunham is doing this morning.

  Finally, after forty-five minutes, the door squeaked open and Jet pushed her way in. “Have you heard?” Sonia asked, standing in the doorway to her own space.

  Jet slipped off her jacket on the way to her desk. “Heard what?”

  “Heard about last night’s suicide?” said Sonia, making quotation marks in the air with her fingers. “John Abbott Hensley?”

  Jet stopped. “I heard something on the radio, but I didn’t pay much attention. Hensley? Isn’t he connected to Dahlia Farm?”

  Sonia’s eyebrows arched. “Connected? Yeah, he owns it.”

  “Whoa.” Then, after a long moment, “Soooo?”

  “So, I was right there when it happened. Right there.”

  Jet’s eyes opened wide. “You saw him do it?”

  “No.” The words flew out of Sonia’s mouth in a quick stream. “But I was staking out Marcos Torres all day, and I saw Hensley show up, though I didn’t know it was Hensley at the time. Then later, much later, the cops were all over the place. I tried to get close but they wouldn’t let me. They say he committed suicide right there in the barn. That’s bull. I don’t know what happened, but I know one thing. That was no freakin’ suicide.”

  Jet stared wide-eyed. “What?! What do you mean, not a suicide?”

  “I’m telling you.” Sonia was rising out of her seat. “I was there. That was no suicide.” Her voice shook.

  “Hold on there, baby girl,” just a hint of Paula Dean in her voice. “Get a hold of yourself and calm down. It’s okay. Where’s your coffee?” She looked around Sonia’s desk.

  “I don’t have one.” Sonia shrugged. “I guess I didn’t go downstairs this morning.”

  “Well, let’s go get you that coffee and your croissant. I’m buying.”

  They walked down the stairs arm in arm. The weather was nicer, but with no jacket on, Sonia still felt a little bite in the air. She didn’t mind. The cold seemed to wake her up. It was refreshing. As they reached the bottom of the steps, Jet opened the door for Sonia and ushered her inside. Sonia could still feel the tingle of the brisk air on her face as she entered a place whose warmth and wonderful smells usually offered a sense of comfort and safety. Usually. Today, however, Sonia wasn’t feeling it.

  Sonia and Jet sat down at a small table by one of the front windows. Sonia had her coffee and croissant, and Jet had given into temptation and ordered a cherry-cheese Danish. They talked quietly.

  Jet leaned in just a bit. “Okay, so, tell me again. Let’s start from the beginning.”

  Sonia looked across the table. She leaned in as well. “Listen, I was there all day. I saw what happened. I’m telling you, Hensley didn’t kill himself.”

  “Now, you didn’t really see it go down, right?”

  “No, you’re right.” Sonia stirred her coffee so hard it almost came over the top of the cup. “I didn’t really see anything. It’s just that something’s not right. I mean, I saw him arrive─Hensley that is. I saw him arrive and he was all smiles. He went in to see Hollings, that’s the farm manager, and then he came out and walked over to the barn. He didn’t seem upset or anything. It just all looked normal.”

  “You didn’t see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Well, that’s not entirely true.” Sonia stirred her coffee again. Her speech slowed. “It did seem that Hollings wanted to show Hensley something, but Hensley didn’t seem interested. In fact, Hollings tried several times to get Hensley to follow him into one of the fields. I
just don’t know what he wanted Hensley to see.”

  Jet took a sip. “So, they just went into the barn then?”

  “Well, yeah, they just walked into the barn.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing. Nothing happened for a long time. Well, not until some cop showed up.”

  A middle-aged man and his wife walked past the table. The man looked down at the girls and smiled.

  Jet smiled back, then leaned in and whispered furtively. “A cop showed up?”

  “Yeah, a detective or something. I never got a look at his face. He was only there for a couple of minutes, but now that I say it, I kind of had a sense of relief when he showed up. Honestly, I realized this morning that I might have been sensing some tension between Hollings and Hensley.”

  “They were getting into it?”

  “No, it was much more subtle than that. It was like Hollings really, really wanted Hensley to follow him into that field, and he was frustrated when Hensley wouldn’t go.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Then that other guy showed up.”

  Jet squinted. “What other guy?”

  “Well, this other guy shows up in a big black Lincoln Continental. He was real tall and thin, and he looked kind of mean. He goes into the barn for a few minutes, comes out, and leaves.”

  “What was he doing there?”

  Sonia’s fists fell to the table. Her voice rose. “How the hell do I know?”

  Jet took a beat before she spoke again. “And nothing else happens?”

  “Nope.” Sonia’s answer was much more controlled.

  “And you don’t know who he is?”

  “Nope.”

  “Had you ever seen him before?”

  “Well, no. But there was just something weird about him, something ominous.”

  “And you think something was going on there?”

  “Yes, I think!” said Sonia. Her voice rose again, so much so that she feared she was attracting attention. She brought her voice down, almost to a whisper. “That’s why I’m so rattled. There was something going on there and I don’t have any idea of what it was. And now John Abbott Hensley is dead. I mean, what the . . . .”

  “What the hell is right.” Jet wagged a piece of her Danish at Sonia. Her voice lowered. Conspiratorial. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “What do you mean, what am I going to do? What can I do?

  Jet gave her a snarky look. “Well, you could put on your big-girl panties and go to the police, couldn’t you?”

  “And tell them what?”

  Whispering even more quietly, Jet leaned in across the small table. “Tell them you were there and something smells fishy.”

  Mirroring Jet’s movement, Sonia brought herself within inches of Jet’s face. “I’m not going to the police. I don’t have any proof. Hell, I don’t even know what I think happened. It just seems . . .” Sonia paused, slumped back in her wooden chair, and sighed. “It just seems all screwed up.”

  There was a long pause as they both sipped coffee that was getting cold and ignored their pastries. Finally, Jet said slowly, “You’ve got to do something.”

  Sonia noted the gentle concern on Jet’s face. “I know. I know I do. I can’t just let this go. But I don’t know what in the world I should do.”

  “Well, we’re private investigators, aren’t we?” Jet tipped her head. “Don’t you think we should go investigate?”

  Taking a deep breath, Sonia nodded. “Yeah, but how?”

  “Questions.” Jet shrugged. “We go ask questions.”

  “Questions,” Sonia said, her voice subtly reflecting a growing sense of energy, “we’re going to go ask some questions.” She sat up taller. “And we’re going to start with the police. C’mon. Finish your coffee and let’s walk down to police headquarters. It’s right down the street.”

  “Sure ‘nuff,” said Jet, sitting up tall in her seat as well. “But listen. Better one person than two. You’re the one who was there, and you’re the one who knows the players best. Don’t make a big fuss. Just slip in there and ask some polite questions. See what they’re willing to share. And if they ask, tell them you have every right to know.” She smiled. “You are, after all, a licensed private investigator. And you were, if it makes any difference, watching the property because you were on a legitimate case.” Jet stood. “We have the paperwork to prove it.”

  Sonia decided that both her coffee and her pastry had passed their moment of expiration. She stood as well, threw her trash in the can, and headed for the door. Jet joined her. As they stepped out into the sunny but still somewhat chilly air, Sonia shivered. “I’d better head upstairs and get my coat before walking four or five blocks.” Sonia stopped and looked up to the top of the stairs. She turned to Jet. “In fact, screw it. I’m going to drive. It’s too damn cold to walk, but I’m going. I’m going there, and I’m going to find out something about what happened last night.”

  10

  Sonia walked through the front door of police headquarters and right up to the front desk. She asked to speak to one of the detectives who was investigating last night’s suicide.

  The officer behind the desk looked so young and squeaky clean to Sonia that she couldn’t help but wonder if he was old enough to drive. “That would be Detective Sergeant Adams, ma’am,” he said. “But he’s not in right now, can I help you with something?”

  The officer was being polite, but Sonia’s Italian blood had gotten a bit stirred up. “Well, I need to talk to somebody who knows what’s going on. When will he be back?”

  “I really don’t know, ma’am. He’s out working the case, I guess. Can I have him give you a call?”

  Sonia’s insides churned. I want some damn answers right now. Still, there was no use making a scene. “Yes, please have him give me a call.” There was an edge to her voice.

  “Absolutely, ma’am. Just write your name and number on this sheet and I’ll have him call you as soon as he gets back.”

  Sonia jotted down her information, left, and drove the few short blocks back to her office. She huffed. Well, that didn’t get me very far, did it? Still, she had at least gotten started. As she pulled into the parking lot, it struck her that what she needed to do was listen to her recorded notes and get that information down on paper. That way she would tell a coherent story when Detective Sergeant . . . “Oh crap, what was his name. Oh well, whenever Detective Sergeant ‘What’s-His-Name’ calls, I’ll be ready.” Back in her office, she went to work cleaning up her notes and did some research on John Abbott Hensley. As she did, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of man this absentee owner was, with his madras shirt and his really thick glasses. She had seen the smiles on the faces of the Steve Hollings, the farm manager, and the others, but they had seemed less than authentic. Was Hensley oblivious? Did he not sense the shallowness of their smiles? Or was he just used to that kind of reception? Did that all fit the general tenor of his life? She wondered.

  It had been less than two hours since she had left police headquarters, but Sonia was wondering when the heck this detective, “What’s-his-Name” was going to call her. Finally, right around 1:15, her cell phone rang.

  “Bluegrass Confidential Investigations, this is Sonia Vitale speaking.”

  “Ms. Vitale, this is Detective Sergeant Adams calling. You left your name and phone number with the officer at our front desk?”

  Sonia grabbed a pen and jotted down the detective’s name. “Yes, I’d like to talk to you about last night’s suicide,” Sonia said, hoping her disbelief didn’t show in her voice.

  “You mean Mr. Hensley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any information you’d like to share with us?”

  “Well, I might. But I have a few questions I’d like to ask as well. Can we meet somewhere?”

  “I’d be glad to come to you. Are you somewhere here in town?”

  “Yes, right here on East Main. It’s Bluegrass Confidential I
nvestigations. We’re up above Magee’s.”

  “Great. I could be there in about ten minutes or so. Does that work for you?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll see you then.”

  “Yes, ma’am. See you in ten minutes.”

  Sonia hung up and looked around her office. It was in pretty good shape, but she set about straightening it up a bit anyway. Somehow, she had liked the sound of Detective Sergeant Adams on the phone. Sonia watched her hands organizing a small pile of mail. Weird. You haven’t even met this guy and yet you’re acting like you want to show him what a good homemaker you are. Get real Sonia girl, this is business.

  Thirty-seven minutes later, Detective Sergeant Adams walked up the stairs and into the BCI offices. Sonia wondered why anybody ever bothered to say they’d be there in ten minutes.

  Adams was a tall, attractive man. His looks reflected the strong influence of the Scots/Irish/English immigrants who had made their way west to Kentucky, from Virginia and North Carolina, through the Cumberland Gap. Tall, sturdy, somewhat rambunctious folks, they had created a life for themselves in the hollers and on the sides of the mountains in Eastern Kentucky, Tennessee, and West Virginia. His demeanor was quiet and polite as he took a seat in Sonia’s office.

  Adams asked the required questions about what Sonia had seen and why she had been there. He took copious notes in his pad, glancing up briefly at Sonia when she mentioned the visit from the police officer and also when she mentioned the arrival of the blond man in the black Lincoln.

  Sonia let out a sigh. She’d finished telling her story.

  Adams stood up suddenly. “I want to thank you for sharing this information, Ms. Vitale. I’m sure it will be helpful in our investigation.”