Karen Vail 01 - Velocity (17 page)

“You gonna show me what you found?”

“It was dark and I didn’t have a whole lot of time, but I thought it might be important.”

“Let me see it.”

Dixon pul ed to the curb, then flicked on the dome light. She stuck her hand inside her blouse, extracted a piece of folded paper, and handed it to Vail.

Vail unfurled it.

“It’s just an address,” Dixon said. “I think it’s Ian Wirth’s. His home.” Dixon thought a moment. “Wirth, Victoria Cameron, and Isaac Jenkins were the only three people who were against Superior getting that bottling contract. Cameron and Jenkins were kil ed. If I’m right, and this is Wirth’s home address . . . we may be on to something. There’d be no reason for Guevara to have it. Right?”

Vail sat there staring at the page. Off somewhere in the distance she heard what Dixon was saying. But she was seeing—and
thinking—
something else. Because in front of her was an address, al right.

But what caught her attention was that it was in Robby’s handwriting.

27

A
re you sure?” Dixon asked. “Robby’s handwriting?”

Vail wiped away the tears that had pooled in her lower lids. “No doubt whatsoever.”

Dixon looked away, facing the windshield. The interior dome light made the glass into a mirror from which their distorted reflections stared back at them. Neither one looked pleased at this news.

Vail glanced at the clock. “I leave for the airport in six hours. How the hel am I gonna solve this in six hours?”

“I know this is hard for you, Karen. It’d be hard for me, too. But have faith in us.

This case doesn’t have to be wrapped up before you get on that plane.”

“The longer Robby is missing, the less chance we have of finding him. And if he is around here—in Napa, in California, on the West Coast—the thought of flying twenty-five hundred miles away is . . . ” She shook her head. “It’s like I’m abandoning him. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. “Of course it does. I’m sorry. But I promise you, I won’t give up. We won’t give up.”

Vail looked down at the paper bearing Robby’s handwriting. “What does this mean?”

“At its most basic level, Robby wrote someone’s address on a piece of paper and it ended up in César Guevara’s possession. At the moment, that’s al it means.”

That’s not all it means. There’s something here. But as has been the case this
past week, nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. We catch the serial killer,
who says, “There’s more to this than you know.” And he’s being truthful. So
what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I figure it out?

Dixon pul ed her phone and started tapping away. She stopped, dropped it into her lap, and waited. A moment later, it buzzed and she lifted it to her ear. “Yeah.”

She listened a second and then said, “Okay. Meet you there.” Dixon hung up, then yanked the gearshift into drive.

Vail, however, was stil staring at the paper.

BRIX SUGGESTED THEY MEET at a restaurant, since none of the task force members had eaten anything for several hours. Dixon pul ed into the parking lot, where a large landmark sign read “Brix - Restaurant Gardens Wine Shop.” Had this been another time, she would’ve thought Brix’s choice of eating at the Brix restaurant curious, but with the burden of the past few days weighing heavily, she was only concerned about getting some glucose into her brain and figuring out what the hel was going on.

As they approached the entrance along the dark walkway, patio chairs and coffee tables were occupied by a couple of women toking on cigarettes. Behind them, a wal of windows showcased a brightly lit gift shop stocked with tasteful artwork, wine racks, and clothing.

Near the large wood plank entry doors stood three men huddled in a circle: Brix, Gordon, and Mann.

Dixon and Vail greeted them, then Mann held open the door and they al filed in.

The interior was wel -appointed in warm woods and a wine motif. Oversize half barrels fitted with red upholstered seats lined the aisle to the left, serving as individual booths. Above, dozens of Chardonnay-shaped bottles jutted out from a central light fixture. Off to the right, on the far side of the restaurant, marble-topped oval tables sat in front of intimate two-seater couches. Perfect for the romantic couple winding down a day of wine tasting and sightseeing.

The kind of Napa experience Vail and Robby had envisioned when they went wheels up at Dul es.

Dixon took in the décor and said, “I’m not sure I can afford this.”

“Yeah, make that two of us,” Gordon said.

There were only a few couples scattered throughout the restaurant, a function of the late hour. Brix greeted the hostess, who was sporting a wide grin and hugging menus across her chest. She motioned for them to fol ow her.

Gordon jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to hit the head.”

“Ditto,” Mann said. “Meet you at the table.”

“Karen,” Brix said as they continued past the bar to their right, “about a week ago when you got here, you asked me if I owned this place because of my name. I don’t. But I’m part owner of a winery, remember? I don’t do police work because I have to, I do it because I want to. So don’t worry about the cost. I got it handled.”

Brix led them alongside the barrel-wal ed booths and stopped opposite the servers’ pickup window, then reached out and pul ed open a wood door to a private room. “The reserve wine cel ar. It’s cozy and gives us the ability to talk about serial kil ers without disturbing the customers.”

“Good thinking—but this room is . . . ”

“Gorgeous. Elegant. Exclusive. I know.”

To their right, three windows looked out onto the main dining area. But the remaining wal s—and ceiling—were lined with side-lying wine bottles encased in hardwood wine racks with dramatic top-down low-voltage lighting, creating an air of showcased uniqueness to each vintage.

“This is my first time in here,” Dixon said, perusing the magnum bottle of Anomaly Vineyards Cabernet. “Probably my last, too.”

Vail and Dixon settled down in chairs facing the windows. Brix took a seat opposite them, then engaged the waiter with a nod as the man entered the room.

“Bring us a spread. Whatever you’ve got prepared. We’re hungry and we need some time to talk undisturbed. There’l be five of us.”

“Yes sir,” the server said.

After he had left the room, Brix turned toward Vail and Dixon. “I know we’re under the gun. I realize you’re leaving in a few hours. And I know Detective Hernandez is stil AWOL. But what the hel were you thinking? The warrant—” he lowered his voice and glanced around, even though they were in a private room. “The warrant was denied. You’re both vets here, you know the deal. I mean, what the fuck?”

“It was my cal ,” Vail said.

“No, Karen, it wasn’t your cal . There was no cal to make.”

Vail leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s done is done. If it matters, it wasn’t a waste.”

“It doesn’t matter, because anything you think you may’ve gotten, it doesn’t count for shit.”

“Legal y,” Dixon said, “that’s true. But it is significant.”

Mann and Gordon entered the room and, in unison, craned their necks to take in the décor.

“It’s nice,” Brix said. “We’ve covered it. Have a seat.”

As they settled in, Gordon said, “I take it you’re ripping them a new one.”

“I was just getting started.”

Dixon set both her elbows on the table. “Before you get too upset, the address we found was Ian Wirth’s.”

Gordon stuck out his pudgy hands, palms up. “So Ian Wirth’s address was found in Guevara’s house. Guevara’s company had a contract with the Georges Val ey AVA board. Victoria Cameron was a board member and Isaac Jenkins’s business partner was on the board. Are you saying we’re back to thinking Guevara was involved in the Cameron and Jenkins murder? I thought we settled that when we caught Mayfield.”

“Not the least of which,” Brix said, “is that if Guevara’s wrapped up in that, there’s nothing we can do about it because you broke into his fucking house!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and lowered his voice. “Do you see what—”

“It’s not that,” Vail said. She brought both hands to her face and rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “The address. Yes, it was Wirth’s
home
address. But . . . ” She reached into her pocket and pul ed out the paper. Laid it on the table in front of them. “What bothers me is that it’s written in Robby’s handwriting. And yes, before you ask, I’m sure.”

There was silence at the table. The waiter must’ve sensed the opening, because he slipped in with plates cradled across his left forearm. He deftly set them down across the center of the table and said, as he pointed, “Halibut wrapped in prosciutto. Gril ed lamb chops with creamy spinach. Artisanal cheese plate with apple slices, spiced almonds, and dried dates. Clams, served with a warm sauce drizzled on top and presented on a bed of sea salt. Final y, fennel sausage pizza.

Need anything else, please let me know.” He turned and left.

Austin Mann looked at Brix, who held up his hand. “I got it covered. Honest.”

They al stared at the food. Poking out from between the halibut and lamb chops was the Wirth address. It served as a barrier to the decadent treats in front of them.

“So what does this mean?” Mann final y said.

Vail sat back. “I’m at a loss. I’m too close. I can’t see it objectively. The obvious questions are, Why did Robby know César Guevara? Why did Robby write down Wirth’s home address? Why did he give it to Guevara? What’s Guevara’s relationship to John Mayfield?”

Dixon shook her head. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know Robby knew Guevara. Al we know is that Guevara was in possession of a piece of paper containing something Robby had written.”

“That’s true,” Brix said. “So let’s al calm down a minute.” He motioned to the food. “Eat. We need to get something in our stomachs.”

They hesitated until Brix himself grabbed a slice of pizza. Then Gordon, Mann, and Dixon dug in. Vail was the last to toss some food on her plate. She reluctantly stabbed at the halibut and scooped the fish into her mouth. But despite the promise of heavenly flavors, she didn’t taste anything.

“The pressing question,” Dixon said, “is why Robby had Ian Wirth’s home address. There’s just no obvious reason for that. Robby was on vacation. He didn’t know Wirth. He had no
reason
to know him.” She put down her fork, pul ed out her phone, and scrol ed through the log. “I need Wirth’s phone number.”

“He’s on the Georges Val ey board, right?” Mann asked.

“Yes. And if Robby had any contact with Wirth, I want to know why.”

Brix leaned to the left and pul ed a sheaf of papers from his right rear pocket.

“You gonna cal him now? Kind of late—almost 11:00.”

“It’s about his dead col eagues. I don’t think he’l care.”

Brix read her the number. Dixon dialed, then rose and stepped outside the room.

“I wish Mayfield was conscious,” Vail said. “I’d like another crack at him. I didn’t do such a good job the first time around.”

“Bul shit,” Brix said. “You did great. That shit with making him talk to his mother, that was fucking bril iant. If your phone hadn’t rung—”

“If Ray hadn’t unloaded on him,” Gordon added, “things would be different.”

Vail lifted a shoulder, played with her food. “But my phone did ring. Ray shot Mayfield. And Robby went missing.” Saying the words, at the late hour with her flight looming, final y hit. She dropped her head to keep from bursting into tears—but it didn’t work.

“Ah, shit,” Brix said. He got up and moved to the other side of the table, beside Vail. Took her in his arms and let her bury her face in his chest. Her shoulders lifted and shuddered, and she grabbed his arms, wanting to escape the embarrassment, the pain, the stress, the strain of the past week.

Dixon walked back in and said, “What happened?”

Vail lifted her head, pushed away from Brix and grabbed her napkin. She stuck her elbows on the table and wiped the thick, rough cotton against her eyes. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Nonsense,” Mann said. “Probably best that it did. You needed that release.

We’re not robots, Karen. We go about our jobs seeing al sorts of shit—violence, greed, death, you name it—and we try to bury it. Wel , sometimes, especial y when it’s personal, it just fucking gets to you.”

She nodded, then reached for her glass and swal owed a mouthful of water.

Brix straightened out his shirt, then left the room.

“Thanks,” Vail said. “I—You’re right.”

Dixon held up her phone. “Wirth didn’t know a Robby or Roberto Hernandez, and said he didn’t remember having any contact with him.”

Gordon frowned. “Worth a shot.”

“But . . . he did receive a cal a few days ago, a voice mail from some unidentified cal er. Warning him that his life was in danger.”

“Why didn’t he cal us?”

“He did,” Dixon said. “But Wirth didn’t get the message right away because they cal ed a line for a smal subsidiary of his. He doesn’t check it daily. Once he retrieved his messages, which was yesterday, he cal ed the number on the card I gave him.”

“Which is your office line,” Mann said.

“Right. And I haven’t been to the office, and I haven’t checked my voice mail. I’ve been a little busy. He’s beefed up his security, just in case it wasn’t a prank.”

“He didn’t recognize the voice?” Vail asked.

“Nope.”

“So he’s got a guardian angel.”