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"I think I've had enough brotherly love for the day," I declared, annoyed that I had to plant my hands on my desk to pull myself onto my feet. "I am going to confront her so we can close this case."
My gait was stiff and slow as I made my way across the office. It didn't get any better the more I walked either, but I figured that once the case was done, once the client was happy with the results, I could spend some time on the couch with an ice pack and a bottle of whiskey, give myself a chance to recover.
Reagan Hoffman worked at a place called Devil Tears Whiskey, a luxury brand that I hadn't tried yet since it had a three-digit price-tag. While I enjoyed a good glass of whiskey, I didn't feel like any bottle of booze should go for well, well over a hundred bucks.
There were two main headquarters, I learned when I sat in my car researching on my phone to avoid my brothers. One was in California. The other was right here on the outskirts of Navesink Bank.
I figured it was safe to assume Reagan worked at the local one, so I set my GPS, and made my way there.
The Devil Tears Whiskey building actually looked like it may have, at one time, been a barn. A very large two-story barn, but a barn nonetheless. There was the nearly rounded roof that met the reclaimed wood shakes, giant windows that had to have been more modern with their black dividers. There was a giant, barn door on a slider, leaving me to wonder how the hell they managed to lock the place down for the night.
The grounds, yeah, they weren't your typical grass. No. It seemed they were either intentionally made to seem as though they were carelessly allowed to go crazy, or purposely left as a pasture, the ground speckled with wildflowers, bright pops of color against the lower greenery.
The strangest part of the whole building, however, was the parking lot. Let's face it, businesses sprang for asphalt lots.
Not Devil Tears Whiskey, though.
Oh, no.
They had a giant patch of what looked like clover interrupted by small strips of concrete pavers just wide enough for wheels to rest on.
"Weird," I mumbled to myself as I pulled my car onto one of the sets of cobblestones. It wasn't hard to find a spot since the only car in the lot so far was a familiar black Tesla. It was parked in the only spot that also had a charging station.
And from the new angle in the lot, I could see a giant patch of the field toward the back overtaken by gleaming black solar panels.
"Alright then," I said, shaking my head, making my way toward the side entrance door. Finding it unlocked, I had to wonder why a woman who was clearly in the office alone would forget to lock the entrance.
It worked in my favor, though, as I let myself into the lower level.
Within, I found myself surrounded by a whole lot of nothing. Old advertising materials. Stacks of shipping crates. Five-gallon buckets.
It was more like a basement than anything, but there was a stone staircase leading upward, and I continued up.
The upper level was clearly the office space.
It was one of those open concept type areas, but some of the desk stations had dividers set up, and I decided right then and there that I could never work in a place where you would never find any privacy.
The wide-paneled floors were flat, the walls covered in wood very similar to the kind found on the outside of the building.
Some of the six desks were immaculate. Others were cluttered and full of personal items.
There were houseplants of all shapes and sizes scattered around near the windows, and the soft hum coming from a mostly-hidden air purifier in the corner. Beside it appeared to be an empty humidifier.
On the far wall was a long table that looked as though it had once been a regular wooden door, but was painted a bright blue color, and was home to the office coffee machine. Not a pot and a burner, oh no, but the kind of industrial-looking machine you'd find at an actual coffeehouse. Beside it was a water purification pitcher, mostly empty, and a wooden rack lined with different sugars, teas, and what seemed to be spices.
Weird.
Interesting, but weird.
Maybe they were the sort of people who put cinnamon and allspice in their coffee or some shit.
There was a large stainless steel bottom fridge beside the coffee station where they likely kept their milk and all their from-home lunches.
There wasn't a proper break room. And I guess that shouldn't have surprised me since we didn't technically have one either, always being the sort to eat at our desks or if we were feeling social, the seating area just inside the front door.
