by Nadia Gordon
Wade looked at her with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “Okay.”
She took a notepad and pen out of her knapsack. “They’re going to make me leave in a second, but before I go we have a job to do.” She pointed the pen at him. “We don’t have time to argue about this.” He didn’t say anything, so she went on. “I want you to try to remember every person who might have seen that gun or even heard about it. That includes anyone who ever spent enough time in the winery to have seen it by accident.”
The glare of the sun blinded her when she stepped outside the doors of the police station. One of the women behind the desk in the reception area had said she would probably find Sergeant Harvey at the taqueria down the street having a late lunch. True to habit, he was sitting alone at a table by the window, eating one of three tacos from a red plastic basket when Sunny came in.
“Hi, Steve.”
“Hi, Sunny.”
“Can I join you for a minute?”
“You bet. Have a seat.”
She slid in across from him in the smooth plastic booth, glancing at his food with a covetous twinge of hunger. Lunch would have to wait. Steve Harvey took another bite of his taco, giving her time.
“I wanted to talk with you about Jack Beroni’s death. I was hoping you could tell me a little more about it, about what you found out there.”
“That’s police business, Sunny. I don’t know that I can tell you much, at least not much more than is already being squawked about all over town,” he said, turning a concerned face back to his meal. He wore a wristwatch that reminded Sunny of the one her father always wore, a gold Timex with a Twist-O-Flex band.
“Well, specifically, I was wondering if you and your team had fingerprinted the handle on the door to Wade’s barn.”
“Wade’s place isn’t a crime scene. We haven’t fingerprinted anything over there.”
“And what about the bullet that killed Jack Beroni?”
“What about it?”
“Has it been checked for fingerprints?”
Sergeant Harvey chuckled. “It’s at the lab, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. Even assuming the perpetrator didn’t wear gloves, and I think that’s not a very safe assumption since we are talking about premeditated murder, there is only a space about an eighth of an inch across where the bullet sticks out of the casing and could pick up a fingerprint. And, to answer your next question, since you’ve become such an investigator, that almost certainly means not much chance of picking up any DNA, either. The bullet expands on impact and then passes through six inches of blood, bone, tissue, and fabric. It’s nice to think the killer’s signature would still be on there, but it’s just not practical in most cases.”
“Still, you might find something.”
“Might. But are you sure that’s going to help your friend? I assume that’s what you’re after.”
“Wade Skord is innocent. If there are someone else’s prints on that bullet and the same person’s prints on the barn door, that would prove his innocence.”
“Not necessarily, but it would be interesting. And extremely unlikely.” Steve Harvey wedged the remainder of taco number one into his mouth.
Sunny said, “You haven’t found the gun. You took a pair of gardening gloves from the workshop at Wade’s. I assume you’ll test those for gun powder residue. You took a box of shells and the two casings out of the garbage can. You have the bullet, and the body. Is that the extent of the physical evidence?”
Steve looked surprised, then smiled. “Not entirely. There’s the angle of entry. That tells us that the shooter was standing about a hundred yards away, probably to the southwest, in the trees beyond that artificial lake they have out there by the gazebo. Whoever did it had to be a good shot, to be that decisive at night. And the coroner has confirmed the time of death at around ten or eleven o’clock Thursday night. There’s some other stuff, but I think I’ve told you everything I can. This is a police investigation. I’m not at liberty to share all the details.”
“You must have Jack Beroni’s cell phone records. Whoever he was supposed to meet probably called him to set it up.”
“Yes, we have cell phone records, if we need them. And that’s all I’m going to say about that. You understand, don’t you, Sunny? I can’t go around divulging our case.”
Sunny clutched her car keys, thinking. She said, “Somebody is trying to frame Wade Skord for murder.”
“Well, if that’s the case, they’ve done a pretty good job of it.”
Sunny glanced around the taqueria. Two girls about junior-high age were giggling at a table across the room, an old man was reading a newspaper at the window table on the other side of the door, and the crew behind the counter were standing with their arms folded, talking in Spanish. Otherwise, the place was empty. Sunny lowered her voice. “Wade Skord didn’t kill Jack Beroni or anyone else.”
“I wish I could agree with you, Sunny, but the facts are standing in the way on this one.” He tore a bite out of taco number two and chewed robustly while maintaining eye contact. He had big brown eyes lined with dark brown lashes that emphasized the startled look he wore much of the time, like Bambi in uniform. “Facts are facts, Sunny,” he said. He took a hearty pull on the straw stuck in a bottle of Mexican orange soda.
“What facts?”
Steve chewed another enormous bite of taco into submission and worked it into manageable mounds tucked into either cheek, thus freeing up the area in the middle so he could speak. He took his notepad out of his breast pocket, flipping to a page and reading out loud. “Suspect is known to possess a registered firearm of the same make and model as that matching the bullet found at the scene of the crime and determined to be the cause of death. Suspect is known to have fired said firearm in the vicinity of the murder at the approximate time of death. Suspect has had disputes with victim requiring police intervention in the past, including a recent spate of alleged death threats corroborated by multiple witnesses. Suspect was unwilling or unable to surrender his firearm for ballistic testing. Suspect has no verifiable alibi for the time of the murder.” He looked up from the notepad. “Plus some other stuff I can’t tell you about. It doesn’t look too good.”
“Just because he lives nearby, owns a gun, and can’t prove he didn’t do it doesn’t mean he’s guilty,” said Sunny.
“No, but it establishes probable cause. That’s enough to get a warrant and make the arrest.”
“What good does having Wade in jail do?”
“I can’t let a murder suspect run around town just because he’s a friend of yours,” said Steve. “We will continue to investigate this crime until we get to the bottom of what happened, but for now I need to make sure the suspected perpetrator doesn’t fly to Brazil while I’m taking fingerprints off a dilapidated barn door.” He sipped from the orange soda, rationing the last of it, and wiped the corners of his mouth with his fingers.
Sunny sat quietly, watching him look out the window and study the assortment of pedestrians who ambled between the big silver trunks of the downtown elms.
“I’ve been in this business long enough to know that the truth is generally fairly obvious,” he said, turning back to face her. “The guy holding the gun is usually the guy who shot the gun. The guy lifting the stolen barbecue into the bed of his pickup truck is usually the guy who stole the barbecue.”
Sunny turned the ring on her car keys, considering the situation. Even though what he said made sense, it couldn’t be right. There was simply no way Wade Skord had shot Jack Beroni. But she needed some more time and some evidence if she was going to convince Steve Harvey.
He read her thoughts. “Sometimes you think you know your friends, and then you find out that maybe you know a lot less about them than you thought you did. Happens to everybody.”
“What’s this about Wade threatening Jack?”
Steve consulted his notebook. “Several witnesses have corroborated the story that Wade Skord threatened Jack Beroni with physical injury up to
and including death on several occasions, most notably September third at a meeting of the Northern California Vintners Association and Wine Auxiliary. And there’s a good deal more than that, Sunny. Skord has a long history—including a criminal history—of abuse and conflict with Jack Beroni.”
“That’s ridiculous. Wade never threatened to kill Jack Beroni.”
“Well, several witnesses of good standing in the community say he did.”
Steve finished his meal. He’s relaxed, thought Sunny with a sickening feeling in her stomach. He thinks he’s got his man. She said, “Did you find anything else at Beroni? Were there footprints, signs of a struggle, anything unusual?”
“Nothing. This was a classic medium-range hit by a trained sharpshooter. We are talking about somebody confident in their ability to hit a target from a good distance at night. Somebody who practiced that kind of marksmanship on a regular basis.” He watched her as his words sank in. “The shooter never even got near the target. Just stood in the woods, put the crosshairs on Beroni’s chest, and pulled the trigger.”
Sunny thought about it, imagining Wade possessed by a demon anger she’d never witnessed in him. She pictured him in an angry conversation with Jack on the phone, maybe drinking. He stormed out of his house, hiked half a mile through the night to the base of Beroni Vineyards, stood at the edge of the woods, and raised the butt of his rifle to his shoulder, releasing the safety. He would steady it, peering through the scope. At first darkness and the shadowy forms of distant trees would fill the viewfinder, then he would find the white of the gazebo, the orange glow of a cigarette, and finally the white field of Jack Beroni’s shirtfront. He would hold the gun steady, exhale, correct his aim, and pull the trigger. She shook her head. “A sharpshooter would steal a gun and leave it behind. He certainly wouldn’t use his own traceable gun and take it home with him.”
“I agree that he would get rid of the gun.” He seemed to delight in letting her make Wade look guilty. She felt her face flush with anger. “So he might use his own. Sometimes people do stupid things when they’re upset. They get impulsive.”
He stood up and went to the counter, coming back with two orange sodas. He handed her one. “Let the professionals handle this, Sunny, okay? You’ve got two choices. Either your old friend is in big trouble, or else I’m wrong and the bad guy is still out there. Either way, you’re going to be a lot better off at home or taking care of business at Wildside. Poking around in a murder investigation, particularly a high-profile operation like this one, is certainly not going to help anybody. I’m getting plenty of pressure from high places, and the last thing I need is the local foodies running around stirring up trouble.”
They walked back toward the station past the emerald-green lawn of the park. The tension of their earlier discussion seemed to dissipate in the bright sun.
Sunny drank her soda. “So he died Thursday night around ten o’clock?”
“Thereabouts.”
“Shot just once?”
“Once pretty much did the trick,” said Steve.
“What was he doing down there, anyway?” asked Sunny.
“I’d like to know,” said Steve. “What makes a guy leave a fancy party where he’s having a nice time with his girlfriend just so he can drive home and go for a moon walk?”
“You got me,” said Sunny. One of Steve’s fellow officers crossed the sidewalk up ahead and glanced at them long enough to register the facts, then strode past into the station. “Is Wade going to be able to get out on bail?”
“Probably. We’ll find out Monday or Tuesday at the latest,” said Steve.
“Tuesday? Can’t they decide before then?”
“It’s up to the judge.” Sergeant Harvey hitched up his pants, retucked his shirt, and resettled his belt and holster for his return to duty. “I want you to stay out of this mess now, Sunny. A murder investigation is nothing to play around with. I’d be pleased as punch if you want to come down and have lunch with me for social reasons, but don’t go getting involved with what’s none of your business.”
Sunny gave him a submissive smile and turned back toward the main drag of town where she’d left the truck.
In the park beside the police station, the large white gazebo was still decorated with semicircles of red, white, and blue bunting for Labor Day. Her eyes sought the white stairs, half expecting to see blood pooled and dripping. Under a nearby tree, a couple of young guys in dirty jeans and flannel shirts were curled on their sides, sleeping. At the other end, a Mexican family had set up a picnic at the wooden table. She passed a series of tourist shops selling expensive Italian pottery, gourmet ice cream, and coffee-table books full of glossy photographs of the wine country. At the corner, she passed a row of newspaper kiosks. The headline on the St. Helena Star caught her eye. SHARPSHOOTER WAITING IN THE WINGS, it shouted in thirty-six-point type. She bent down for a closer look, expecting the lead to describe the cold-blooded assassination of Jack Beroni. Instead she learned that the glassy-winged sharpshooter had moved one step closer to the valley.
6
Rivka’s blue beach cruiser was chained to the Neighborhood Watch sign in front of Sunny’s house. Rivka was sitting on the front stoop in a pair of ratty jeans, eating a Popsicle. Her lips and tongue were stained an unnatural shade of pink.
“I was hoping you’d be back soon. I brought lunch.” She lifted up a shopping bag next to her.
“Thank God. I’m starved. I didn’t know you were coming over or I would have called before I left,” said Sunny.
“It was an impulse. Last night after I got home I started worrying. This morning I couldn’t reach you or Wade on the phone, so I thought I’d come over and put my mind at ease.”
Sunny watched her, waited for her to explain.
“The whole Jack Beroni thing. You and Wade seemed quiet last night. And then this morning when I called over there he wasn’t around, and then you weren’t around. And last night he said the cops had come by yesterday asking questions about the murder. Then I started thinking about how he’s always shooting his gun up there, and I started worrying that maybe the cops would wonder if that was a strange coincidence, especially with him living so nearby and being sort of, you know, unsociable.” She looked up at Sunny’s face. “They arrested him, didn’t they?”
“This morning.” She sat down next to Rivka on the stoop. They stared at the jumble of lemon verbena, lavender, jasmine, and local weeds run amok in the front yard. A climbing rose covered in pale yellow blossoms grew thickly over the redwood archway facing the sidewalk.
“Your yard needs watering,” said Rivka. “Not to mention some pretty major weed-control action.”
“I’ll get right on that,” said Sunny. “Do I smell barbecue?”
“Yep. Rude Shelley’s.”
“Still warm?”
“Maybe.”
The phone was ringing when Sunny opened the door. She picked up the cordless and Monty Lenstrom said, “Sunny? What’s going on? Is Wade in jail?”
“Monty?”
“People at the shop are going around saying that Wade was arrested this morning for Jack Beroni’s murder. Is that true?”
“For the moment.”
“What do you mean, for the moment? Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m fine.”
“When did you find out?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“Listen, Sunny, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Wade’s the one in jail.”
“I know, but it must be a pretty big shock for you. You two are pretty close.”
“Monty, he didn’t do it.” Sunny made a face at Rivka, who was pulling white takeout cartons out of the bag and arranging them on the counter.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, absolutely sure.”
“He’s been violent in the past.”
“Jesus, Monty. Like when?”
“Like last year at the Meadowood Croquet Classic. One of the croquet pro
s was talking to Ellie and Wade just walked up, handed her his glass, and decked the guy. He almost lost a tooth.”
Sunny cradled the phone against her shoulder and took out plates and silverware while she talked. “That was totally different. That guy was a known weasel. That croquet pro was the one who was taking Ellie out to dinner at French Laundry all the time and sending her flowers the day after she and Wade separated. Anybody who will wine and dine a guy’s wife before they’ve decided whether or not to break up for sure deserves to be punched.”
“I don’t know, you weren’t there. Wade was out of control. He has a nasty temper, and he expresses his anger in physical ways.”
“Monty, what exactly do you want?”
“I just wanted to know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“This is help? You’ll have a lynch mob after him by sunset.”
“All right, fine. I’m sorry. Just let me know if I can do anything.”
“Okay.”
“Talk to you.”
“Yeah.”
She hung up the phone with a look of disbelief on her face. “Monty thinks Wade did it.”
“He doesn’t really think so. He’s just scared.”
“He was giving me his ‘I’ve been in therapy my whole life, so I’m practically an expert in human psychology’ voice. He said Wade expresses his anger in physical ways.” She used air quotes around the offending phrase.
Rivka looked skeptical. Sunny braced her hands on the counter. “Okay, be honest. Do you think he did it?”
Rivka considered the question for several long seconds. “I’m not sure. I don’t know him as well as you do. But I’d say it’s unlikely.”
Sunny opened a carton of potato salad and divided it up between two plates. She picked up a barbecued rib covered in sauce from another carton and pointed it at Rivka. “We’re going to go visit Silvano Cruz. Right after I give some quality attention to Rude Shelley’s spicy ribs.”
Rivka found the address in the phone book. Silvano Cruz’s house turned out to be a few miles outside of town, right next to where her yoga instructor held weekend classes in the backyard during the summer. Out on Main Street, the tourists were out in force, soaking up the crush season and keeping the traffic moving at a crawl. Sunny took side roads as far as she could, then cut over where Main turned into Highway 29. The afternoon light shone on the hills to the east as the truck plunged into the shadowy tunnel formed by ancient elms lining both sides of the road. When they emerged, Greystone, the granite edifice that was home to the Culinary Institute of America, appeared on their left. On the right were rows and rows of vines, recently unburdened of fruit and on the verge of turning shades of red and gold for autumn. A few miles later, Sunny turned left down a narrow dirt road. A meadow of dry yellow grass and gray weed stalks opened to the left, then the dense oak woods resumed. Further on they passed the yoga instructor’s house, surrounded by neatly manicured trees. Soon after that, they came to a mailbox labeled La Familia Cruz in slanted gold and black letters.
