Page 23 of Rage

“Prints?”

“Checking now.” He grimaces. “I thought I’d head out there.”

“I wish I could tag along, but I’m going to talk to Mr. Brooks.”

“You taking someone with you?” he asks casually.

It’s not a casual question, but I let it go. “I thought I’d take Mona.”

“I’ll meet you at the farm later.” He lays an exaggerated frown on me. “Before midnight?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Looking past him, I lower my voice. “You’re not smitten with me, are you?”

“To put it mildly.”

We’re both pressed for time. Too busy to linger. Too stressed to indulge in silly banter. I savor the moment anyway.

“See you later,” he says, and then he’s gone.

CHAPTER 6

Blue Lake Tap and Brewery is located on Washington Street just south of downtown in Millersburg. The two-story brick building has been capably transformed from 1950s ugly to twenty-first-century shabby chic. As I pull into the lot at the rear, the clock on my dash tells me it’s 8:02 P.M. I think of the presser that began two minutes ago and remind myself that Mike Rasmussen is a hell of a lot better at public relations than me.

The parking lot is jammed with cars and SUVs. Most are newer models. No junkers here at the Blue Lake Tap and Brewery.

“That’s his vehicle there.” Next to me, Mona points. “Plate’s a match.”

The sporty BMW coupe looks as if it was just driven off the showroom floor and is parked nose-in nearest the back door. A sign artfully painted onto the weathered brick proclaims the spot belongs to the HEAD BREWMASTER.

I pull around to the side lot, which is also full, and end up parking in the gravel just off the alley. “Parking is certainly at a premium.”

“This place has some of the best beer in the state of Ohio.”

I shoot her a sideways glance. “Good to know I have the resident expert to keep me up to speed.”

She grins and we take the alley around to the front of the building. The double doors are refurbished antiques of carved wood and beveled glass. We go through and are met with a funky Black Keys number, the enticing aroma of bar food, the din of conversation, and the clinking of dishes. To my right, the bar is jammed with early-evening revelers, mostly thirtysomething men, watching the Guardians trounce the Royals. Behind the bar, three huge copper fermentation vats gleam beneath the lights, adding a hip microbrewery vibe. To my left, a dozen bistro tables are packed with patrons, couples and families alike. The tabletops are crowded with plates of food, beer mugs, and sweating glasses.

A young female server takes an order at one of the tables. Another balances a tray the size of a tire as she dances through the throng. The two bartenders behind the bar are in motion, too, but not as frenetic, so I head that way.

“Smells good,” Mona mutters.

“Food any good?” I ask.

“Fair to middling, but they’ve got a dynamite IPA.”

I reach the bar and sidle over to the nearest bartender, who’s chatting with a couple sampling a flight of beer. I show the bartender my badge.

Grinning, he grips his chest as if in the throes of a heart attack. “Patrons tell me our beer is so good it should be illegal. I thought they were kidding!”

I laugh, give him a moment to enjoy his joke. “I’m looking for Carter Brooks. Is he here?”

“Yeah, he’s around. Back in the office, I think.” Curiosity flickers in his eyes as he snaps up a glass and fills it from the tap. “Want me to call him for you?”

“Sure.”

Nodding, he slides an iPhone from his pocket and thumbs in a speed dial. “A couple of cops are out here asking to see you.” His face remains impassive; then he laughs. “I’ll let her know.”

He drops the cell into his pocket and smiles at me. “He’ll be out in a sec.”