The sergeant scanned the reports. “Astounding lapses.”
“I’m thinking that between unearthing Baby Doe and seeing this, we should officially reopen the Dylan Sommer abduction case.”
He studied Reed a moment, then picked up his phone and dialed their lieutenant.
“He’s free now. Let’s take a walk.”
Moments later they sat in the lieutenant of detectives’ spacious, light-filled office. Lieutenant George Torres came from the school of hard knocks. The son of a vineyard worker and housekeeper, he had fought his way up to highest ranking Latino in the Sheriff’s Department. He often said that anybody who said racism didn’t exist in this country was either blind or a liar. He also said that anybody who used it as an excuse was a fool.
He’d cried when Barack Obama won the United States presidency. The doors, he’d said, were finally opened for all.
Mac filled the man in; when he finished, Torres narrowed his eyes. “This pisses me off. I remember this murder. The victim was Latino.”
“Yes, sir.”
“First a suspect, then a victim. And the ball was completely dropped. I was a rookie deputy at the time.”
“Who was Sheriff?” Reed asked.
“Oscar Beulle. Retired not too long after. Maybe a year.”
“He’s still alive,” Mac offered.
Lieutenant Torres nodded. “Right. Moved to Calistoga to be near his daughter. Grows a few grapes. Pops in every now and then to ‘check on us.’ ”
“I think we should question him. See what he remembers.”
“I agree.”
“Do we officially reopen the Sommer case?” Reed asked.
“Talk to Beulle first.”
“What about your counterpart from back then?” Tanner asked the lieutenant. “Maybe he’d remember-”
“He was killed in the line of duty. I was a rookie. I remember because it shook me up pretty bad. I had a wife and a new baby. Frankly, I thought about a career change.”
“Dig a bit,” Mac said. “See if the detectives in charge of the investigation are still active. Maybe there’s more here than we’re seeing.”
If there was, Reed discovered after several hours, he wasn’t going to learn it from the detectives who had worked the case. Everybody who had touched the Sommer disappearance or Alvarez murder had either relocated or was dead.
Which left former Sheriff Beulle.
Calistoga, an old western-style town with more than a touch of eccentricity and known for its natural hot springs, was located in Napa Valley.
Reed found the man at home, tending the patch of vines he had in his backyard. Folks did that around here, used an available back- or side yard to grow grapes, then used them to make a few cases of wine. He’d thought about it himself, but figured it’d be too weird, considering his family history. Besides, when would he have time to tend the vines? He was never home.
“Sheriff Beulle?” he said, crossing to the man’s garden gate. “Detective Reed, Sonoma County Sheriff’s Department.” He held up his shield.
The man smiled, waved him in, then went back to pruning his vines. “What can I do for you?” he asked when Reed neared him.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions about an old case.”
“That so?” he said without stopping his work. “What case?”
“Dylan Sommer and Alberto Alvarez.”
Beulle stopped, looked up at him. “Thinking about reopening them?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded and motioned Reed to follow him. “ ’Bout time for a break anyway.”
“How do you do with your vines?” Reed asked as they made their way to the back of the house.
“Pretty well. Seventy pounds of grapes last year. Got two cases of merlot out of it.” They climbed the stairs to the back porch. “It’s a tasty little wine, too. I’ll pour us a glass.”
“None for me.”
Beulle grinned. “Good man. But I’d only have reported you if you’d had a second.”
He slid open the glass door; Reed followed him inside. It was a simple home, without any fussy, homey touches. Apparently there was no Mrs. Beulle.
True to his word, Beulle poured himself a glass of his house merlot, then a splash in another glass and pushed it across the counter.
Reed swirled the sample, then tasted. Beulle was right-it wasn’t bad. He told him so.
The older man thanked him, then swirled the liquid. “So why now?” he murmured, more to himself than Reed, “twenty-five years later?” He answered his own question. “The remains of that baby. You’re thinking it’s little Dylan Sommer.”
Reed didn’t confirm, just let Beulle go. “And you’re reopening Alvarez, because of Schwann. Same manner of death, secateur to the throat. Only Alvarez had nothing of value to steal.”
“Except his life.” Reed cocked an eyebrow. “You seem privy to facts we haven’t released, Sheriff.”
Beulle laughed. “Don’t play naive, Detective. I still have plenty of friends in the department; what I don’t get from the news, I get from them.” He sipped the wine, expression thoughtful. “Is the ID on the boy positive?”
“No. But it’s looking strong.” Reed sensed that the older man wasn’t just curious but hungry for information. “I’ve got a question, Sheriff. Why didn’t you investigate a possible connection between the Alvarez murder and the Sommer boy’s disappearance?”
Beulle stiffened. “I had my best men working on the case. They didn’t see a reason to.”
“Maybe it’s just me, but it seems like a no-brainer. The man was considered a suspect, then turned up dead.”
“So?”
“So, it’s a red flag. Maybe he was in on it and was killed to keep him quiet. Or maybe he saw something and was killed because of it.”
“If he’d seen something why not say so, especially when we had his feet to the fire? As for being part of it, Alvarez was a migrant farmworker. He spoke almost no English. He’d come for harvest, gotten hurt, so the Sommer family had taken pity on him and let him stay on.”
Beulle shook his head. “Dylan Sommer was abducted from his bed. The perpetrator was smart and prepared. He slipped in while Harlan and Patsy were out and the other children were sleeping, and stole the boy.”
“Not that smart,” Reed murmured. “Not that prepared.”
“No? He got away with it, didn’t he?”
Reed leaned forward. “Depends on how you define ‘getting away with it.’ If the remains we found belong to Dylan Sommer, the perp didn’t get far with him. Why do you think he did it, Sheriff?”
“Ransom. Something went wrong. Or they got scared. And they killed the child, buried him and ran.”
“Maybe what went wrong was Alvarez got a look at them. That’s why he was killed.”
“With his own secateur?” He shook his head. “No. Alvarez was killed by one of his own kind.”
“His own kind? Another human being?”
Beulle ignored that. “Autopsy found alcohol in his system. A lot of it. My detectives believed he had been out drinking and gotten into a fight that ended up going terminal.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What about the rumors that Dylan had been abducted to be part of a ritualistic sacrifice?”
A mottled red crept up Beulle’s cheeks. “Rumors, Detective. Ugly and destructive. We never found anything to suggest such a thing.”
“No evidence in the area of ritualistic activity?”
“You’ve obviously read the activity reports. This area is known for that ritualistic crap. It comes and goes. It’s not against the law and most of it is harmless.”
“Most of it?”
“Yeah. When they start harming animals, it crosses the line. But in most cases, that line isn’t crossed.”
Reed narrowed his eyes. “Since you’re still plugged into the department, you heard about the altar up by Bart Park?”
“I did.”
&nb
sp; “They crossed the line with that one.”
“Like I said, it does happen. I don’t know what you want from me, Detective.”
“Did you question Alvarez’s family?”
“He had none.”
“His friends or close associates?”
“The ones we could find. Asked around in the community, nobody had a clue who would have harmed Alvarez.”
“And he didn’t confide in anyone?”
“No one.”
“You’ve got a good memory, Sheriff Beulle.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Dylan Sommer’s disappearance was the worst case I ever faced. I retired when I did because I couldn’t clear it. You don’t forget cases like that, Detective. Just because you leave ’em behind doesn’t mean they leave you alone.”
Reed experienced a moment of sympathy for the man. “I thought if I spoke with the case detectives, something might jump out at me. I saw that Detective Hurst was killed in the line of duty. What about the other detective?”
“He relocated,” Beulle said, and stood. “The Chicago area, I believe. Left police work. Had simply had enough of it.”
“Do you have any idea how I could contact-”
“Sorry. I haven’t heard from him in years.” He held out his hand, indicating their meeting was over. “Tell Lieutenant Torres I said hello.”
Reed shook his hand. “I will. And if you think of anything pertinent-”
“I’ll call.” Beulle showed him back to the door he had entered through. “I hope you can prove the remains are Dylan Sommer’s, so that family gets closure.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Monday, March 8
Noon
Alex knew of the El Dorado Kitchen. Located in the El Dorado Hotel on Sonoma’s town square and helmed by up-and-coming chef Justin Everett, it was consistently named by critics and foodies as one of the places to eat in wine country.
Rachel had already arrived and was waiting for her at a table in the courtyard. She looked like a million bucks in her earth-toned brocade blazer and Alex wished she tried a little harder than her jeans and denim jacket.
The waiter was at the table, opening a bottle of wine. Alex raised her eyebrows. Apparently, people here drank wine with every meal, no matter the day of the week.
A moment later, Alex reached the table. Rachel smiled brilliantly up at her. “You did remember! I was worried you wouldn’t.”
The waiter held out the chair for her. Alex returned the smile and sat. “You’re not the only one. I half thought the wine had prompted the invitation, which you had then immediately forgotten you made.”
Rachel laughed. “I never let the wine talk for me. And I never forget.” She waved the waiter off and poured them both a glass of wine. “It’s a Russian River Pinot.”
Alex tasted. “Mmm, yummy. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. I’m so glad you agreed to have lunch.” The waiter delivered a basket of bread and Rachel dug in.
“How was your morning?” she asked, spreading herb aïoli on the sourdough bread. “Did you explore a bit? Hunt down some of your mother’s old friends?”
“Much less exciting, I’m afraid. I spent the morning working on my doctoral dissertation.”
Rachel looked utterly disappointed and Alex laughed. “Don’t worry, I plan on striking out this afternoon. But no caves. Maybe never again.”
“I’m so sorry that happened. How’re you feeling today?”
“Frankly, embarrassed.”
“Don’t be. We’re used to drama around here. Goes with the wine.”
“I don’t know how I got so turned around. My sense of direction is usually pretty good. And I know what I heard. There were people partying in there.”
“That’s what really worried Joe and Ferris. They’ve had problems before. Kids smoking pot, stuff like that. It’s a huge liability. Like I said, those caves creep me out, too. You should see the caves at our winer-” She bit the words back and shook her head. “I keep forgetting, you have seen the Sommer caves.”
“But I don’t remember, so it’s sort of like I haven’t.”
“I find this whole amnesia thing of yours fascinating and weird.” Rachel broke off a piece of her bread and popped it in her mouth.
Alex could have been offended. But she found Rachel’s honesty refreshing. She laughed. “Want the truth? I find it really weird myself. Not so fascinating.”
“You don’t remember any of this?”
“Nope. Nothing.”
The waiter arrived with food. “I hope you don’t mind, I ordered several of my favorites apps for you to try. Fried egg pizza, fennel sausage and Fourme d’Ambert.”
“Not at all. It looks wonderful.” Alex helped herself to a little of each. “Why should I see the Sommer caves?” she asked. “How are they different?”
Rachel leaned forward. “The Reed caves are modern, ours are original. Dad likes to say Francis Reed had a case of extreme cave envy, so he had theirs dug.”
“But isn’t a cave a cave?” Alex gave in and broke off a piece of sourdough bread. “How are they different?”
“Try as different as a Disney jungle and a real one.” Rachel selected a portion of the pizza, then went on. “The first caves, like ours and the Schramsberg caves, were dug by hand in the late 1800s. They’re living caves, complete with mossy lichen hanging from the ceilings. They can be… atmospheric. If you can screw up your courage, I’ll give you a tour sometime.”
Alex shuddered. “No thanks.”
Rachel smiled. “To give you an idea, we have forty thousand square feet of caves and Schramsberg has fifty. Red Crest, where you got lost last night, is only fifteen-Don’t look now, there’s Joe and Ferris. Oh shit, they saw us.”
Alex turned. Sure enough, Reed’s brothers were heading toward their table. The same as the other night, she was struck with how different in looks the three Reed brothers were.
Rachel stood. “Joe,” she said warmly, offering her cheek for a kiss from them both. “Ferris. You remember Alex.”
How could they forget? Alex stood and greeted the men. “I’m so embarrassed about Saturday night. I’m usually not so excitable.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ferris said, smiling.
“It’s understandable,” Joe murmured. “Ferris told me you thought you heard voices?”
“Yes, but I-”
“She and I were just talking about that. Wondering if being lost in there might have jogged a childhood memory.”
Alex looked at Rachel in surprise. The woman winked at her, then turned back to the two men. “Seems I even remember something like that happening to you, Ferris. How old were you? Six? Seven?”
“Six.” He looked at his older brother. “A joke perpetrated by Joe and Clark.”
“And their group of evil henchmen.”
“Reed swooped in to save the day,” Joe drawled, though his playful words didn’t match his expression. “Already playing hero. We’ll let you get back to your lunch.”
When the two had gone to their table, Rachel leaned toward her. “Daddy’s boys, the both of them, I can’t stand either of them, though I find Mr. CEO Joe particularly loathsome. At least Ferris can laugh at himself once in a while.”
Alex was shocked. Rachel must have been able to tell, because her lips lifted in a self-mocking smile. “How’s that for honesty? Clark’s the same way. They’re their fathers’ puppets.”
Rachel pushed away her plate and reached for her wineglass. “I have a lot of respect for Reed. Walking away like he did.”
“What about you? You didn’t walk away.”
“I couldn’t.” She smiled. “Cut me open and I bleed cabernet sauvignon.”
Alex laughed. “So you love the work, but they don’t?”
“They covet it, there’s a difference.” She drained her glass and poured another. “Clark and Will both strut around like a couple of peacocks. Sommer Wines are the plumage. They can strut all they want, but I’m an equal shareholde
r. And you know what? Without me, those feathers aren’t nearly so fine.”
Rancor for her cousins was obvious. Alex supposed this was what Reed had been talking about.
Rachel motioned with her glass and the garnet-hued liquid dipped and swayed. “Until Dylan disappeared, Dad ran Sommer Wines, not Treven.” She leaned closer and motioned Alex to do the same. “But Dad was Grandpa’s favorite. So he put him in charge.”
She stopped, then shook her head. “His favorite, that sounded awful, didn’t it? I should say, Grandpa recognized Dad’s gifts. And he and Grandpa had the same vision of how to move the company forward.”
“And Treven’s differed from theirs?”
“Oh yes, world wine domination, bottle by cheap bottle.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Expansion and profits, by whatever means necessary.” Rachel started to say something else, then caught her breath. “Oh my God. That was your mother’s ring, wasn’t it?”
“You remember the ring. Any idea what BOV stands for?” Alex slipped the ring off and handed it to Rachel. “The inscription. I’m curious.”
She studied it. “No clue. You know who you could ask? There’s a jewelry store on the square, the Golden Bow. They specialize in wine country designs, they might know something.”
Rachel handed it back. “I just had the most completely morbid thought. If they hadn’t dug up that grave, we wouldn’t be sitting here together.”
Alex had thought the same. Many times over the past days she’d thought of how those remains had changed her life. And sometimes as she lay in the dark, she wondered what changes still awaited her.
“Do you think it’s him,” Alex asked softly. “Do you think it’s our… brother?”
Instead of answering, Rachel said, “The grave was in one of our vineyards. One of the Sommer family’s first. We produced a small production of old vine zinfandel called Two Brothers.”
“Two Brothers? For Harlan and Treven?”
“Actually, for the two Sommer brothers who founded the winery. The first Friedrich and Oliver.” Rachel picked up her glass and twirled it. The wine caught the light and Alex found herself mesmerized by it.
Blood Vines Page 13
