“Did Agent Rooney go over the unusual things our killer does to the body?”
Friedberg clapped his hands to shake off the dirt. “I went to that FBI Profiling seminar in ’06 that your colleague did, Agent Safarik. I know what to look for. He was really good. Great freaking class. How is he?”
“Doing well,” Vail said. “He retired, but he’s got his own company, still doing profiling, expert testimony, the whole shebang.”
“Well, that’s how I knew to fill out the VICAP form. Every cop in the country should take that course.”
Friedberg led the way back toward the bridge, up the stairs and down the incline to the wood post and cable fence that prevented one from taking a header down the cliff, into the Pacific. The sun was setting and the temperature had dropped another few degrees. Head-lighted cars streamed from the city across the bridge into Marin.
Vail took a deep breath. Cold, damp, sea breeze. Smell of salt riding on the air. “Any suspects?”
“Couple people we were looking at. One was a guy who was working for a local pest control company. I liked him, but he blew out of town after we questioned him. Turns out he used a fake ID, name, address. His whole employment app was bullshit. Couldn’t find him—he vanished like water droplets in the freaking San Francisco fog. But just when we were about to start a goddamn manhunt, this other guy came on our radar. Billy Todd Lundy. Some psycho who’d been in and out of mental health institutions as a kid, went off his meds, and had all sorts of run-ins with SFPD.”
Friedberg had Vail’s attention. Mental health issues. That could fit with the severed breasts. “And what happened with Billy Todd Lundy?”
“We questioned him, there were holes in his story. He was seen around Battery Spencer a couple days before the murder, which fit with the estimated TOD. And he also lived down the block from Ivers’s apartment.”
“Violent tendencies?”
“When he was off his meds, yeah.” Friedberg pulled a pack of Marlboros from his pocket and tapped it. Removed one, lit it. “But that’s where things got screwed up. We didn’t have enough to hold him, so we kicked him loose.” He leaned on the fence’s wood post. Took a long drag of his smoke. Nodded at the Golden Gate. “Did I tell you before about the bridge?”
Vail and Dixon shared a look. “Yeah, we went through all that. Your buddy the painter.”
“No, no,” Friedberg said, shaking his head urgently. “Its less glamorous side.”
Dixon faced him. “I don’t follow you.”
“It’s the most prevalent place in the country to commit suicide. Over twelve hundred a year. And those are just the ones we know about. Because of the dense fog we get here, and, well, times when no one’d see a jumper, like at night, some cops think the number’s much higher.” He pointed at the bridge. “Someone supposedly hooked up motion-detecting cameras that recorded the jumpers. Confirmed the theory that the rate was worse than we thought. Kind of morbid, don’t you think?”
“Inspector,” Dixon said. “The point?”
“Two days after we kicked Lundy, he jumped. Right there, by the north tower.”
“Any chance he survived?” Vail asked.
“Who knows? I think a couple people have lived to talk about it over the years. But let’s say the odds are against it. It’s a two hundred-fifty-foot drop. He’d be going eighty-five miles an hour when he hit the water.” Friedberg took another long puff, then held up his cigarette and examined it. “At least this kills me slowly.”
Vail thought about that a moment, then said, “Yeah, I guess that’s something.”
THIRTY-NINE
John Wayne Mayfield finished “work” early—when Dixon and Vail headed out of town, he felt the risk of following them was too high. If one of them had taken note of his vehicle behind theirs in Napa, and the same vehicle happened to still be following theirs on the highway, thirty or more miles later, the chances of them dismissing it as a coincidence plummeted to unreasonable levels.
So when Dixon and Vail headed out of Napa, entered Vallejo and then Highway 37, Mayfield turned around and headed home. Now, as he settled down in front of his computer, a glass of fine ’02 Cakebread Cellars Cabernet by his side, he had thinking to do—and tasks to complete before he planned his most high profile murders. There was considerable risk involved and there would be no turning back. He could still stop right here and come away clean. With what?
No, as he thought about it, there really was no turning back . . . even if he never killed again—which was just not going to happen.
He sat in front of the keyboard, staring at the screen. Took a sip of wine and let it linger on his tongue, savoring the complex Cabernet borne from Rutherford’s exceptional soil and climate. He swallowed, then woke from his reverie. His task called to him, and though fraught with risk, it required his attention.
Everything had been leading up to this. He had no choice. He had to do it. He wanted to do it.
But wait.
As he sat there, an idea began to form. Perhaps there was another way. He’d give it one more shot, put forth one last effort, before he chose what he considered the “nuclear option.” He thought it through, examining it from all angles, role-playing how it would go down once he contacted the cops.
This might just work—at considerably less risk. He’d take precautions, give them what they wanted . . . so long as he got what he wanted. It was a trade. Equitable. Fair. Just a reasonable business offer.
If he was going to do this, he had to do it right. He made a phone call to gather the particulars, then checked the wall clock. He had barely an hour before this copy was due. Not much time. And he didn’t want to screw up, not this late in the game. Even if this was the path of lesser risk, if he wasn’t careful it could end in disaster. He took a deep breath to calm his thoughts.
Then he opened a new document and started typing.
FORTY
Dixon and Vail had left Robert Friedberg with a copy of his file in hand. They were headed back to
Napa and their appointment with Ian Wirth. At the time prompt from Dixon, Vail had called and given the man the promised thirty-minutes’ notice.
As they pulled into the circular drive of Wirth’s three-story brown brick and stone-faced home, Vail tucked Victoria Cameron’s file beneath the seat and pulled down the sun visor mirror to straighten her hair. The wind at Battery Spencer had done a job on it.
“Why didn’t you tell me my hair looked like I just came out of a wind tunnel?”
Dixon shoved the car into park and turned to Vail. “I was driving. It’s dark. I didn’t notice.” She pulled down her own visor and combed her hair into place. “How come you didn’t tell me mine was a mess?”
Vail looked at her. “Guess we’re even.”
They popped open their doors and strode up the walk. “I’m starving,” Vail said. She pulled her BlackBerry and texted Robby about meeting for a late—very late—dinner.
Dixon rang the bell. Within seconds, the large walnut door swung open.
“Good timing. Just got in a couple minutes ago.” He extended a hand. “Ian Wirth. Come on in.”
Wirth was a shade over six feet with small clear-rimmed glasses and a full head of close-cropped light brown hair. He turned and led the way along the dark wood floor into a paneled library. There was an ornate mahogany desk at the far end of the rectangular room and a smaller matching meeting table nearest the door. He motioned them to pristine glove leather seats. A pitcher of water and a pot of hot coffee sat in the middle of the counter behind them.
“Java?” Wirth asked.
“Sure,” Dixon said. She eyed the freshly brewed coffee and said, “I thought you just got home.”
“I called my housekeeper and had her take care of it before she left.”
While Wirth poured the cups, Vail noticed a large, framed sepia photo hanging behind the desk. “Grandfather?” Vail asked.
Wirth swung his head around, then turned back, a smile broadening his face. �
�Great grandfather. Józef Wirth. That photo was taken in Bialystok, Poland, sometime around 1725. My grandmother told me that the genealogist who worked on our family history discovered that there were seven families that migrated in a group from Poland in the 1800s. There were others who decided to stay, and they were eventually swept up in the Nazi roundup in 1938. I’ve got a whole book if you want—”
Vail held up a hand. “Not that I don’t find it interesting, Mr. Wirth, but—”
“Please, call me Ian.”
“Ian,” Vail said. “We’ve had a long day”—make that a long week—“and we just have a few questions to ask you. If you don’t mind.”
Wirth dipped his chin. “Of course.” He removed a creamer from the counter and placed it on the table. “You said you had questions about the Georges Valley board.”
Dixon dumped some milk into her mug and stirred it. “We spoke earlier with Crystal and she told us about Superior Mobile Bottling. The vote that turned a little contentious.”
Wirth bobbed his head. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“How would you put it?” Vail asked.
Wirth lifted his coffee, warmed his hands on its sides. “We’ve had some issues lately on the board. I’m really not supposed to talk about this—”
“The confidentiality agreement,” Vail said. “Crystal told us about it. It’s okay. We’re not taking notes. We’re not going to share any trade secrets. We just want some background for our investigation.”
“And what investigation is that?”
Dixon blew on her coffee. “Can’t say. But it’s got nothing to do with wrongdoing on the part of the board or its members. In fact, I doubt it has anything to do with the AVA at all. But we need some background. As Crystal put it, we’re fishing.”
“Just curious,” Wirth said. “What’d you think of her?”
Vail hiked her brows. “Crystal? Nice lady. Very interesting.” Great body. She should be shot.
“She’s my ex-wife. Did she tell you that?”
Vail didn’t know what to say.
“No,” Dixon said, “she didn’t mention it.”
Wirth sat there a moment, lost in thought. Then he shook his head. “Sorry.” Smiled, then nodded at the seat Dixon was occupying. “That was her favorite chair.”
“Right,” Dixon said.
“Don’t worry, it won’t color my answers. What do you need to know?”
“The acrimony on the board.”
“Ah, yes. Well, Crystal probably told you all about the controversy Victoria was stirring.”
“Controversy?” Vail asked. She felt a buzz on her belt. She stole a look at the display. Robby had texted her back:call me when ur done. i’ll pick a place and text u the address.
“Victoria was the most vocal opponent of using Superior. She was also an aggressive power broker. She was due to take over the presidency, as part of our board’s three-year rotation. She was leading a group of three board members who wanted concessions from the other members of the AVA and they were using this Superior contract as leverage.”
Dixon took a sip of her coffee. “Leverage for what?”
“She and her cohorts would agree to renew Superior’s contract—if the board supported their efforts to convince the government to modify the proposed AVA law that sets forth the minimum grape requirement for our AVA standard.”
Vail held up a hand. “Kevin Cameron told us something about this. The minimum requirement refers to that 85 percent rule?”
“Yes. The Alcohol and Tobacco Tax and Trade Bureau requires that a minimum of 85 percent of the grapes used in wines that are listed as coming from our AVA have to be from the Georges Valley district.”
“Your minimum is 85 percent,” Vail said, “but Napa’s is 75 percent?”
“Correct.”
“And the purpose is to protect consumers?”
“Well, yes—but it also supposedly protects the Georges Valley brand, because people who buy a Georges Valley wine expect a certain quality that comes from the area’s soil, microclimate, and weather patterns.
“But,” Wirth continued, “there are three higher volume vintners in our group—including me and Victoria Cameron—who want to be excluded from that minimum requirement because our brands existed well before the law was passed. But if they enforce the minimum, our brand, Georges Valley Estate Wines, Victoria’s brand, F&M Georges Valley Family Winery, and one other, Georges Valley Reserve Select, would disappear overnight. Our business models are based on importing quality, but less expensive, grapes from the central valley.”
“But there are no Georges Valley grapes in your wine,” Vail said.
“That’s correct. We couldn’t charge what we charge for our wine and use predominantly Georges Valley grapes.”
Vail set down her mug. “Isn’t that misleading?”
“That’s their argument. Our position is that our brands have been around for twenty years, well before this minimum grape law was proposed. It’s unfair to penalize us—put us out of business by losing our brands—because of an administrative issue that some people have pushed through politically.”
Dixon blew on her coffee. “Why would the government allow that kind of exclusion?”
Wirth shook his head, then held up a hand. “Exclusion isn’t exactly the right term. We want our brands grandfathered in. But if our association doesn’t endorse their application, the government probably wouldn’t want to get involved in our own internal dispute.”
“So,” Vail said, “Victoria was trying to broker a deal in which she and her allies would ratify the Superior Bottling contract, and in turn, the AVA board would endorse the grandfather clause. And what’s in it for the other members who don’t have a stake in this grandfather clause?”
Wirth spread his hands. “They want Superior to get the contract. We’ve been using them for almost three years and they’ve done a good job. They turn out a quality product, they’ve got the best pricing on the market, and they’re a one-stop shop.”
As Vail reached for her coffee, her stomach rumbled. “Sorry.” She threw a hand against her belly. “We haven’t eaten.”
“And we’ve taken enough of your time,” Dixon said. She pulled a card from her pocket and placed it on the table. “If you think of anything else about what we discussed, give me a call.”
Wirth took the card and looked at it. Vail sensed there was more he wanted to say. “Is there something else, Ian?”
“You can’t tell me what the investigation is about, but you’re asking a lot of questions. Questions that, when I put them together with the fact that Victoria is dead, lead me to think that you believe she was murdered.”
“She had a stroke,” Dixon said.
Wirth pursed his lips and nodded. Kept his gaze on the card. “My father was a cop, did you know that?”
Dixon and Vail shared a look. Vail had a feeling she knew where this was going. We may have to come clean with this guy. He sees through this. And if we can convince him it’s in everyone’s best interest to keep it quiet, it might be better than if he were to talk to others about his assumptions . . . or worse yet, start investigating her death himself.
“If the cause of death was not a stroke,” Vail said carefully, “would that change what you’ve told us?”
“No,” Wirth said. “See, I grew up with a father who was a cop, then a detective. In Sacramento. I spent a lot of time with him, I learned how he thought, how he saw people. How he saw the world.” He looked at Vail. “I know to be straight with cops when they come asking questions.”
“Good,” Dixon said. “That’s always best.” She tapped her card with a finger. “Call me if you think of anything else that may be related to Victoria’s stroke.”
They stood from their chairs. “But if you have a theory on Victoria’s death,” Vail said, “I think it’d be best for all concerned if you kept it to yourself.” She looked hard into his eyes.
“You were never here,” Wirth said.
/> Vail nodded, shook his hand, and left with Dixon.
FORTY-ONE
“Was that smart?” Dixon asked as she pulled out of his driveway.
“A guy like that, if we confide in him, he may confide in us. He understands what we’re trying to accomplish. He may not be a LEO, but he grew up with one. I think he’s an ally. We may now have a set of eyes in the enemy camp.”
As Dixon headed down 29, Vail coordinated dinner plans with Robby. Dixon dropped her at Bistro Jeanty, advertised as “serving classic French haute cuisine” in Yountville, a pleasant town just off the main drag. With art galleries, gift shops, specialty restaurants, bed-and-breakfasts and modest homes, the area was its own little haven sporting an eclectic mix of young newlyweds and middle-aged empty nesters on a weekend getaway.
Vail settled down at a table with her back against the wall, facing the entrance of the restaurant. The place was still busy, despite the late hour. A few moments later, Robby appeared in the front door. His eyes scanned the tables, found Vail, and his face broadened into a wide smile.
He swung his hips through the narrow spaces between tables. He was wearing a long leather jacket, which, once he reached Vail, was slipped off his shoulders by a hostess who offered to hang it for him nearby.
Vail and Robby embraced and he gave her a kiss. His lips were warm.
“When did you get that jacket?”
“When I got us a new wardrobe, at the outlets. I saw it and said, what the hell, I’m on vacation.” He settled into the chair and spread the white napkin across his lap. “This place okay?”
“Looks great.”
They gave the waitress their dinner choices, then ordered wine—Whitehall Lane Cabernet for Vail and Rombauer Fiddletown Zinfandel for Robby.
After the woman collected the menus, Vail reached across the table and took Robby’s hand. “So what’d you do today?”
“What I’ve been doing every day. Visit a winery, taste, have lunch, drive down the road and taste some more. Today I went into Healdsburg. Beautiful drive.” He stopped and looked into her eyes. “Wish I was doing all this with you. I feel bad you’re stuck working.”
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