Dixon slowed for a stopped truck in front of her. “And what?”
“And you’re intimidated by being a woman in a male-dominated profession.”
“Is that some sort of . . . what do they call it, projection?”
Vail laughed. “Maybe.”
“But you’re right. Sort of. Still, I have no trouble putting one of these guys in their place if they get out of line. But it really hasn’t been a problem.”
“But it was, once.”
“Once.”
That’s all she said, and Vail let it drop. She watched more vineyards roll by, then asked, “So how long have you been with the DA’s office?”
“A few months.”
Vail lifted an eyebrow. “I take it you were in law enforcement before that.”
Dixon glanced at Vail.
Vail knew the look: Dixon was measuring her answer. There was a story behind this, and she was deciding how fine a filter to use . . . how much she would share and how much she would hold back.
“In a nutshell,” Dixon finally said, “I was born and raised here, in the valley. I was with the sheriff’s department for five years, then took a job with Vallejo PD. I was promoted to detective and a few years later I transferred to the DA’s office. So there you go. My law enforcement pedigree.”
Vail figured she had Dixon’s reaction pegged correctly: A detective did not usually transfer out of her department to become an investigator for the district attorney unless she was retiring from that agency, or injured, or in search of a quieter, safer existence. There was definitely more to her transfer than she was relating.
But Vail didn’t want to press it, since it was their first time having a conversation—and because Dixon was turning right at Montalvo Villa Estate Wines, a large winery set back from Highway 29, majestic in its pristine setting and architecture. Its landmark sign established its founding in 1931.
Vail and Dixon drove down the long, paved roadway lined by impeccably maintained vineyards. Placards mounted on a wood fence that ran the length of the road labeled the vineyards with what Vail assumed were family names: Genevieve’s Family Vineyard, and, fifty yards further, Mona’s Estate Vineyard.
“Anything I need to know about the family?”
“They’ve got three residences on-site. The parents, Frederick and Mona, have the main house. The two smaller houses, if you can even use the word ‘small’ in this setting, belong to their daughter Genevieve and her husband, and their son Phillip and his wife. The other son lives off-site, as did Victoria and her husband, Kevin.”
“Any reason why two siblings get to live on the family estate and two don’t?”
“No idea. They’re private people, for the most part. But Victoria and her husband purchased their own winery, so maybe that ruffled some family feathers. Frederick has been around in the region a lot longer than someone like Robert Mondavi, but he never got the attention or the respect Mondavi got. I’m not singing the blues for Frederick, though. He’s done just fine lurking in the shadows, so to speak.”
“If he values his privacy and shrouds himself in mystery, he can’t take on the persona of a colorful, influential personality. Sounds like that isn’t what he wants.”
Dixon pulled the car into a spot and shoved the gearshift forward. “Oh, he wants it. But he wants it to come to him. The attention, that is. But he won’t go in search of it. I guess it’s a different way of going about getting attention: His behavior, the mystery and privacy, has promoted some of the attention he claims to want to avoid. People wonder. The lack of access produces greater interest.”
They got out of the car, walked to the winery’s administrative offices, identified themselves, and asked to see Frederick Montalvo. The office manager raised an eyebrow as she perused Vail’s credentials, then was on the phone to her boss. A moment later, she said, “I’ll take you back.”
They were led through strategically lit, walnut-paneled, high-ceilinged corridors. The woman stopped at a room at the far end of the hall, rapped the wooden door three times, then opened it. Vail stepped in after Dixon, and the scene before her stopped her short. The entire far wall consisted of what appeared to be one expansive glass pane—possibly twenty feet wide and fifteen feet high. Beyond the window stood the vines of an endless vineyard, stretching back and ending at a steep climbing hill, itself covered with neat rows of grapevines. Vail thought she was looking at a three-dimensional painting of unrivaled beauty.
Dixon reached out and shook the hand of a thin, silver-haired man seated at a desk that was half the size of the window, impressive in its own right: hand-carved legs with a front that was, in relief, a depiction of a group of men tending to vines on rolling hills. She quickly realized she was looking at a carpenter’s representation of the view beyond the glass.
At first glance, the man looked to be about seventy, but something about the way he moved made Vail think he might’ve been older, or stricken with a muscle-wasting disease. He leveraged himself with both hands on his desk to rise slowly from his leather chair. “Any news on my daughter?”
Dixon stepped forward. She was the local cop here; she would be the one to deliver the news.
But before she could speak, the phone buzzed. Montalvo looked down at the desk, thought about whether to answer it, then lifted the receiver. “Yes.”
He listened a moment—Vail could hear a loud, distressed male voice at the other end of the line—and she realized what must be happening. Lugo had just informed Kevin Cameron of his wife’s death. Frederick Montalvo, family patriarch and the woman’s father, got the first call.
Montalvo’s face drained of color, his left hand slipped from the desktop, and the phone dropped from his grip as his legs gave out. He hit the carpeted floor with a thud—with Dixon and Vail quickly at his side.
Vail tossed down her purse, then checked Montalvo’s pulse while Dixon lifted his legs. His skin was clammy, but judging by his slow and regular pulse, Vail felt he had fainted rather than had a heart attack. He opened his eyes, blinked, and stared at Vail, who was hovering over his face.
“Mr. Montalvo, are you okay?” she asked.
“I—my daughter. Is she—is she? . . .”
“Yes. We’re deeply sorry.” She cradled the back of his neck. “Come on, let’s sit up. Slowly.”
Montalvo, with Vail’s help, moved into a seated position, still on the floor. He put his head between his knees while Vail supported his back. And then he began to weep.
Vail and Dixon shared a look. Vail could tell that Dixon hated this as much as she did. There was just no good way to deliver this kind of news. The reaction often ranged from outright disbelief to massive heart attacks, and everything in between.
Dixon lifted the fallen receiver from the desk. She had apparently surmised what had happened as well, because she said, “Mr. Cameron, are you there?” She waited, then said, “No, he’s fine. He’ll be fine. I’m sorry for your loss.” She listened a moment, then said, “Of course we will,” then hung up.
“How did it happen?”
Montalvo’s voice was weak, frail.
“I think all we should say at this point is that she crossed paths with a killer and we’re doing our best to track him down. We have a task force already set up—”
“You’re not answering my question,” he said, more forcefully. He turned away from Vail’s supportive hold, rolled to his right side, and struggled to get to his feet. He swayed a second, then found his chair and sat down heavily.
“She was murdered,” Vail said. “That’s all you need to know. The details are unimportant. And you have to trust me on that. I help track these killers for a living. And I can tell you that we’re doing everything we can to find this guy. That’s a promise.”
“Where? Where did you find her?”
“In the wine cave at Silver Ridge Estates.”
Montalvo sighed, then shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
Vail bent down, retrieved her purse, then s
lung it over her shoulder. “Why’s that?”
“They’re a competitor, of sorts. Worse than that, perhaps. We’ve had some difficulty with the family.”
Dixon moved closer. “What kind of difficulty? Which members of the family?”
“The disagreement goes back a very, very long time. I doubt it’s related. It wasn’t violent. Just business.”
“How long is a very, very long time?”
“Decades. About forty years.”
Dixon looked at Vail, then at Montalvo. “Tell us more about—”
“It’s got nothing to do with anything, Ms. Dixon. And no, I don’t care to discuss it. It’s family business, that’s all.”
“With all due respect, sir,” Vail said, “that’s for us to determine. You can’t possibly know what’s related and what’s not. That’s our job.”
Montalvo sat there, the fire gone from his eyes, his shoulders slumped forward, his gaze downcast. “I’ve said all I’m going to say. Now . . . please, leave me alone. I have to go tell my wife that her daughter . . . that her daughter . . .” His bloodshot eyes started to tear up. “I’ll call you if I come across anything you need to know.”
Vail doubted they would hear again from Frederick Montalvo, but there was nothing more they were going to get from him at present. At least they had something to dig into.
They again offered their condolences, then left the way they came in.
FIFTEEN
John Wayne Mayfield stood beside his vehicle, peering intently at the entrance to the administration building of Montalvo Villa Estates Winery. No one would question his presence, yet because of who he was, he was as conspicuous as a pus pimple on the tip of a nose.
Didn’t matter, though. He could easily deflect anyone who came his way and asked why he was there. His job gave him that power and authority.
Less than twenty minutes after arriving, the two women left the building; a looker redhead and a well-put-together blond. Mayfield didn’t know who they were, but he would make it a point to find out. They looked official, but he hadn’t seen them around—he most certainly would’ve remembered them.
He should have expected this. But this was where it got interesting—which was good; this was something he’d never had to deal with, and he welcomed a challenge.
Mayfield reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a notepad, and began writing. A moment later, he watched as the women settled themselves into their Ford. They remained there a few minutes, talking and making a phone call. He walked to his vehicle and then followed them down the road, off the property, and onto 29, keeping a discreet distance.
The duties of his real occupation would have to wait. For the rest of the day, he had a new job.
VAIL CLOSED HER DOOR and turned to Dixon, who was staring through the windshield. She made no effort to insert the key into the ignition.
“So what do you make of that?” Vail asked.
“Hard to say. There are a lot of families who’ve been here decades. Bragging rights, competitive posturing—even among family members. There are rifts, feuds, politics . . . so this disagreement Montalvo talked about, it’s nothing to write home about.” She raked her hair back off her face. “But it could be motive.”
Vail wasn’t sure about that, but said, “We should at least check it out.”
Dixon pulled out her phone, and dialed Lugo. It rang through her car’s hands-free speaker. He answered on the second ring. “Ray, we’re on our way over to Kevin Cameron’s place. You still there?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We’ve got some questions for him.” Dixon turned over the engine and drew back the gearshift. “Give me the address. We’ll be there in ten.”
Dixon turned onto 29 and took the nearest cross street that went through to Silverado Trail, a gently winding picturesque road that was largely untouched by tourist spoils, restaurants, and city buildings: only vineyards, smaller production wineries, scenic foothills, and the occasional well-financed home set back on a hillside perch.
They turned left and headed down a private road that snaked uphill into the drive of a generously sized Tudor home. It wasn’t as pretentious as Montalvo Villa Estates, but it was, nevertheless, a multimillion-dollar structure.
Vail followed Dixon to the front door, where Dixon pressed the chime. It sounded large and cavernous inside, and when the wooden entry door swung open, it didn’t disappoint. A spacious great room stood before them, with a wall-sized stained glass window, similar in style to the one at Peju—only larger—directly ahead.
Ray Lugo stood grasping the highly polished brass knob. His face was long and he looked like he had been crying.
“You okay?” Dixon asked.
“Kevin took it hard.”
You don’t look so good yourself. Vail stepped in and Lugo closed the door behind them. In a low voice, Vail said, “Frederick Montalvo mentioned some kind of disagreement they’ve had with the family that owns Silver Ridge Estates. Supposedly goes back four decades.”
Lugo straightened, moving from family friend back to detective. “You’re thinking motive?”
“Doesn’t really fit what we saw at the crime scene,” Vail said. “Still, worth checking out.”
Dixon matched Vail’s low volume. “We need to ask Kevin if he knows anything about this feud.”
Lugo looked over his shoulder nervously, then turned back to Dixon. “He’s kind of in a bad way. Later may be better.”
“If this is a straight murder, then any delay could compromise our ability to close the case,” Vail said. “If it’s a serial, like I think it is, and this feud is unrelated, then it’s better we get out in front of it ASAP.” Sensing Lugo’s persisting hesitation, she said, “Don’t worry, we’ll go easy on him.”
Lugo turned and led them left, down a hall that fed into an expansive, tiled family room. “Kevin,” Lugo said to the man sitting stone-faced on a desk chair. Kevin didn’t appear to be aware of their presence. He was staring ahead, shoulders slumped and jaw hanging slack.
Depression, shock, disbelief.
Vail had seen the look many times before. She moved in front of Kevin Cameron and sat down. “Mr. Cameron, I’m Special Agent Karen Vail with the FBI and this is Investigator Dixon. You spoke to her on the phone a little while ago.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’m sorry about Victoria’s death. But we need your help if we’re going to catch the guy who . . . took her life. Will you help us?”
Kevin’s eyes, glazed and red, canted upward to Vail. He examined her face, then his gaze moved to Dixon, and he did the same with her. “Yes,” he finally said in a near whisper.
“We know about the feud your wife’s family’s had with the family that owns Silver Ridge Estates. Can you tell us who your disagreement is with, and what it was all about?”
He stared ahead for a long moment, then refocused his eyes. “It goes back to the parents, Harold and Anna. That’s when the whole thing started. It all had to do with typical wine industry stuff. Frederick was just taking over the business from his father, Gerard, and he was aggressive coming out of the gate. He wanted to really inject some energy into the brand, which he felt was stale, not growing, and maybe losing market share.” Kevin stopped, shuddered as he took an uneven breath.
“Silver Ridge had won a lot of wine competitions, and they were kind of full of themselves. Frederick wanted to make a splash, so he set his sights on Silver Ridge’s up and coming star winemaker. He spent a year trying to lure him away but the guy was loyal to Harold and Anna. Fifteen years later, Silver Ridge hit a tough spot. Harold had a stroke and Anna had some health problems, too. The sons, who didn’t get along too well to begin with, took over day-to-day operation of the winery. So with all that uncertainty, and with Montalvo doing better but still not reaching its potential, Frederick swooped in and snagged the winemaker.”
Vail added all this up to motive. But there were still disconnects. “The family feud is obvious. But how malignant did it get—how bad were the f
eelings between the families?”
Kevin shrugged. “I’m relaying all this as it was told to me. I wasn’t around, so I can’t really judge. But from what Victoria said, and from what Frederick told me once, it was pretty poisonous stuff. They had some arguments over the years that the AVA board had to step in to resolve.”
“AVA?” Vail asked.
“American Viticultural Area. It’s a designation determined by the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms to specify where a wine is grown and made. Think of it like a branding. When it says Napa Valley on the label, you know that at least 75 percent of the grapes used in that wine are from the Napa Valley.”
“Why wouldn’t all the grapes come from the valley?”
Dixon chuckled. “Sticky question. Grape prices are lower, as you’d imagine, in other regions of California that don’t have the cachet of Napa. Some would say the quality of Napa. So it’s okay to mix some grapes from, say, the Central Valley, provided 75 percent of the grapes used are from Napa. It protects their brand.”
“How many AVAs are there?”
Dixon deferred to Kevin, who shrugged. “Well over a hundred,” he said. “Probably closer to a hundred twenty-five, hundred thirty. The better known ones are Stags Leap District, Russian River Valley, Anderson Valley, and so on.”
Vail looked at Dixon, who indicated she had all she needed. Vail placed a hand on Kevin’s shoulder. “Thanks for all your help. I know this wasn’t easy. If you think of anything that might help us find . . . the person we’re looking for, would you give Investigator Dixon or Sergeant Lugo a call?”
Dixon handed him her card. Lugo made no such move. He and Kevin were friends, and Kevin undoubtedly had Lugo’s number. In fact, without question, Kevin’s call—should he make one—would go to his buddy.
Lugo led them to the front door. Out of earshot of Kevin, he said, “I don’t think this feud is related to the murder.”
“Too soon to say for sure,” Vail said. “But the odds are strongly against it.”
Dixon held out a hand. “I wouldn’t discount it just yet. The body was found at their winery. But we don’t have enough info yet. We need to dig more before we make any decisions.”
Crush Page 8
