Page 89 of Rage

“Did the court return the firearm?”

“He forfeited the Beretta.”

“Judge must have been in a good mood,” I mutter.

“Or Mr. Brooks had a very good attorney.”

The statement stops me cold, my mind looping back to Wilma Borntrager. “Who was his attorney?”

More tapping of keys. “Brett Adamson with Adamson and Schneider out of Cleveland.”

Bingo, I think. “I’m ten-seventy-six the brewery.”

“Roger that.”

A blazing sun boils like molten steel on the western horizon as I pull into the parking lot of the Blue Lake Tap and Brewery. The place is busy and it takes me several minutes to find a parking place. I’m sweating by the time I go through the front doors.

I see the same bartender as last time I was here and veer left to avoid him. I want to catch Brooks off guard this time and see how he reacts to the news of Wilma Borntrager’s murder.

I weave through a smattering of tables, sidle past the opposite end of the bar, and push through the swinging doors. No one notices me as I stride past the kitchen and enter the hall at the rear of the building. Brooks’s office door stands open about a foot, a slant of light spilling into the hall. I go to the door, peer inside, see Brooks bent over a laptop, pounding the keys as if he’s in the midst of a speed test.

I rap on the jamb. “Mr. Brooks?”

His head jerks up, his eyes narrowing. “Chief Burkholder.” He stands, looking past me as if expecting someone else. “What are you doing here?”

“There’s been a new development in the Samuel Yutzy case,” I tell him. “Do you have a few minutes?”

His mouth goes flat. “To tell you the truth, it’s a busy night.” He closes the laptop. “Tomorrow morning would be better.”

“I won’t take up too much of your time.”

The desktop phone on his desk beeps three times as I enter. He glances at the display and frowns. “Hang on.”

I take the visitor chair across from him while he talks to the person on the other end of the line about a late delivery and refrigeration problems. It’s a slightly heated exchange and he sets down the phone with a little too much force.

His face is taut when he turns his attention to me. “What can I do for you?”

“I understand you have a former employee by the name of Wilma Borntrager.”

He gives me a how-would-I-remember-something-so-mundane stare. “I have a lot of employees. I don’t recognize that name.”

I pull a photo of her from my pocket and slide it across the desk so that he can see it. “Wilma Borntrager. She just turned eighteen.”

“I don’t hire anyone under the age of nineteen here at the brewery,” he tells me. “I know Ohio employment laws.”

“So you don’t recognize her?” I ask.

Sighing in annoyance, he looks down at the photo. “Well, she is kind of familiar.” His brows knit. “I don’t think that’s her correct name, though.”

“She used the alias of Cassidy Robinette.”

“That’s it.” He snaps his fingers. “Now I remember. She worked here for a short time and then just stopped showing up.”

I nod. “Did she have any problems with any of her fellow employees while she worked for you? Any problems with customers?”

He gives a not-so-covert glance at his watch. “Not that I recall.”

“Mr. Brooks, Wilma Borntrager was found dead this morning.”