Page 84 of Rage

“We interviewed the bartender and two of the bouncers, all of whom were working the night your coffee got spiked.”

Sheriff Mike Rasmussen is sprawled in the chair next to the air conditioner. Judging by the circles beneath his eyes and the five-o’clock shadow on his usually clean-shaven face, he didn’t make it to bed last night.

“They weren’t very cooperative when I talked to them,” I say.

“A trip to the sheriff’s office must have adjusted their attitudes.” His smile looks more like he’s got a hamstring cramp. “The only employee with a criminal record is the maintenance guy. He wasn’t there the night it happened.”

“You guys get a search warrant for the place?” I ask.

“We executed it during non-business hours.” He shrugs. “Our culprit had plenty of time to flush whatever they had on hand. We didn’t find shit.”

I didn’t expect them to discover who spiked my drink. Still, I’m disappointed.

I look at Tomasetti. “Lab results come back?”

He scowls. “Gamma-hydroxybutyric acid. It’s a Schedule I controlled substance. The prescription form is called sodium oxybate. It’s sold on the street as a party drug. Also known as Georgia home boy, G, goop, grievous bodily harm, and liquid ecstasy.”

“Lovely,” I mutter.

It’s seven thirty in the morning and I’m in the war room with Tomasetti and Rasmussen. Despite the hour and the rattle of the air conditioner in the corner, it’s hot and stuffy and none of us are in the mood for any of it.

Rasmussen picks up his coffee and gulps twice. “Heard you had trespassers last night at the house on Lost Creek.”

I recap my conversation with Rose Yoder. “It’s no coincidence that two of the young women living at that house knew Samuel Yutzy and were employed at The Cheetah Lounge.”

“So, we have a few interesting connections,” Rasmussen says.

“Borntrager and Yoder met Yutzy at an Amish rager,” I begin. “According to those two young women, Yutzy later got them jobs, either at the brewery in Millersburg or The Cheetah Lounge.”

Tomasetti takes it from there. “That’s a pattern. But to what end?”

Rasmussen shakes his head. “So, we have a pattern. And there may very well be other individuals involved that we don’t know about yet. But I gotta be honest here. I don’t see how Yutzy getting these women jobs at a topless club plays into the murders.”

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question,” Tomasetti mutters.

“One of the things that links all of these young people,” I say, “is that they’re Amish—Yutzy, Shetler, Borntrager, and Yoder. Most of these kids have led protected lives. They’re not savvy or street-smart. They don’t have the life experience to deal with that kind of freedom—”

“Or someone who would take advantage of that,” Tomasetti puts in.

I nod. “They make bad decisions. They go overboard. Get in over their heads. That makes them vulnerable.”

“And while a business establishment like The Cheetah Lounge has its inherent fair share of shade,” Tomasetti says, “the larger question here is whether the club or the people connected to it had a motive to murder Yutzy and Shetler.”

Rasmussen puts out the obvious question. “What’s Yutzy’s connection to the club?”

“Who did he piss off?” Tomasetti adds.

“He had to have been tight with someone who does the hiring,” I say.

“Who owns the strip club?” Rasmussen asks.

“That’s where the plot thickens.” Tomasetti’s frown deepens. “Normally, we could simply contact the Ohio Secretary of State at which time BCI would be supplied with the names. The LLC that holds the title to The Cheetah Lounge is based in New Mexico.”

“New Mexico?” Rasmussen makes a face. “That’s weird.”

Tomasetti’s mouth curves into a humorless facsimile of a smile. “It just so happens that if you’re a privacy-minded individual and want to form an anonymous limited liability company, New Mexico is the shining star in terms of confidentiality.”

“Makes sense.” Rasmussen sighs. “If someone doesn’t want their name floating around in connection with a strip joint.”