Crush kv-2

by Alan Jacobson

  Robby handed the Glock to Vail.

  “It’s my backup piece,” she said as she bent over to reholster it on her ankle.

  Brix frowned. There was nothing more he could say.

  “Crime scene’s yours, Lieutenant.” Vail rested her hands on her hips and watched as Brix stepped forward, following Vail’s path to the body. He lowered his Maglite and ran the beam over the victim. When the brightness hit the area of severed breasts, Brix rocked back involuntarily. He caught his balance and looked away a moment, then seemed to force his eyes back to the body.

  “God damn,” Brix said. “Shit.” He turned away, then marched out, into the large storage room. Vail and Robby followed. “You okay?” Vail asked.

  Brix seemed to collect himself, then lifted his head and faced her.

  “I’m fine.” He extended a hand. “Thanks for securing the scene. Where are you staying? I’ll need to get a more complete statement.”

  “Mountain Crest B&B.”

  “I know the place.” He dug out his cell phone, flipped it open, and shone his flashlight in Vail’s face. He pressed a button, it made a camera shutter click, then he did the same to Robby. As he snapped his phone closed, he said, “I’ll be in touch. We’ll take it from here now. You know your way out?”

  Vail felt her blood pressure rising. This was usually the point where she said or did something she later regretted. Robby either sensed the tension or he’d gotten to know her pretty well, because his large hand clamped down on her elbow. He pulled her close against his body, then gently turned her around.

  “We’re fine, thanks,” Robby said.

  It was all happening slowly, Robby’s voice somewhere in the background, as he led Vail through the tunnels. The next thing she knew, she was standing at the wine cave’s entrance, the cold fresh air of a Napa evening blowing in her face.

  FOUR

  A fter returning the flashlight to Miguel Ortiz, they got into their rental and rode in silence, at a considerably slower speed, along Highway 29. Although they were supposed to have been treated to an exceptional meal paired with exceptional wine, the winery offered them a refund or a rain check voucher and sent its guests home because of a “water main break deep in the cave.” Vail almost laughed aloud when they were told of the reason for the sudden cancellation, but stopped herself. It didn’t matter. After the discovery of the body, the excitement of the evening seemed to leave them like air escaping a leaky balloon.

  Finally, with the sunset now only a distant memory from what seemed like a long-ago afternoon, Vail sighed deeply and said, “Where are we headed?”

  “A restaurant my friend recommended. I don’t know if we can get in, but he said it’s worth the wait.”

  ROBBY PULLED THEIR NISSAN MURANO into the parking lot of Bistro Don Giovanni. Vail was busy thumbing the keyboard of her BlackBerry, texting a message to her fourteen-year-old son, Jonathan. Vail’s Aunt Faye was visiting from New York and staying at her house with Jonathan while Vail was on vacation.

  Vail hit Send, then slid the phone into its pouch.

  They left the car and headed toward the restaurant. Vail saw clots of people sitting on an outdoor veranda that rimmed the bistro under a covered awning. They hovered in close quarters over flickering candles. Couples holding hands, friends laughing. Vail and Robby walked in and gave their name to the host, who had a thick Italian accent. The restaurant swelled with chattering conversation and clinking plates. It smelled of garlic, tomatoes, and olives.

  “I think that may’ve been Don Giovanni,” Robby said, as they walked back outside onto the deck. He flagged a waiter heading toward him. “Hey, is that Don Giovanni?”

  The server, who had an olive complexion and spoke with an Italian accent, grinned. “There is no Don Giovanni, sir. Donna Scala owns the restaurant with her husband, Giovanni. And yes, that man is Giovanni.”

  “Got it,” Robby said. “Don, Giovanni.”

  “Tell Giovanni his restaurant smells heavenly,” Vail said.

  Robby thanked the man and turned away. “Just a guess, Karen, but I’m sure he knows.”

  Vail’s phone buzzed. She pulled it out, read the text, and smiled.

  “Jonathan?” Robby asked.

  “He’s gotten his sense of humor back, which is good to see.”

  They continued on down the wood steps into a gardenlike setting, an expanse of grass surrounding a fountain sprouting surreal brass sculptures that towered above the ground: a frog, hind legs in the air as it landed on a square pedestal; an Italian soldier balancing on a tall pole with one hand while supporting a large white boulder in the other; and a chef ascending an angled ladder with the flag of Italy in his outstretched hand, as if he were reaching to place it in a holder.

  Vail and Robby crunched gravel as they walked to the fountain’s edge, then stood there examining the artwork.

  She cocked her head to the side. “Interesting.”

  “Not sure what to make of it,” Robby said.

  “That soldier is balancing the delicate choices of life and death. Precariously suspended above the ocean, he holds a large boulder, which in reality he shouldn’t be able to support, as he keeps himself horizontal. A metaphor for staying afloat.”

  Robby studied the scene before him. “Not sure how you got that, but okay.”

  “I tend to get a little philosophical after seeing a serial killer’s handiwork while on vacation.” She turned and sat down at one of the small nearby tables that were arranged around the fountain’s periphery. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up. Bad enough seeing it, no need to talk about it in such a beautiful setting.”

  Robby reached out and took her hand. “Violence is all around us, Karen. It’s a fact of life. We see it all the time. That’s our job. Can’t escape it.”

  “What do you make of Brix?” she asked.

  “Strange name.”

  “Strange guy. But that’s not what I mean. There’s more to this murder than Brix is telling. I saw his face, his reaction when he looked at the body. Like he’s seen this before.”

  “You got that from his reaction?”

  “Body language. Then he sends us on our way.”

  Robby lifted a shoulder. “Maybe. But it’s not our investigation, Karen. We’re not even in the mix here.”

  A woman from the restaurant approached them in silhouette from the bright restaurant lights against the garden’s relative darkness. “Robby, your table is ready.”

  “I’m leaving this talk out here,” Vail said as she rose from the chair.

  Robby reached out and took her hand. “No argument from me.”

  FIVE

  V ail and Robby sat at the bed-and-breakfast’s rectangular table as the hostess announced what she would be serving: stuffed French toast with fresh fruit preserves and maple syrup, orange juice squeezed this morning, and Greek yogurt.

  Joining them were a young couple who looked like they’d enjoyed the firmness of their mattress, and an older couple who appeared to be looking forward to retirement.

  “I’m Chuck,” the gray-haired man said, “and this lovely lady here is Candace. Married thirty-five years tomorrow. And we lived to tell about it.” He elbowed his wife, who took it in stride and bumped him back with her shoulder. “And that’s Brandy, and her husband, Todd,” Chuck said. “Second anniversary is next week. Boston, right?”

  “They can speak for themselves,” Candace said. “Sorry, Chuck sometimes likes to dominate conversations. Trick is to kick him in the shin.” Chuck gave her a look. “What?” Candace said. “It’s worked for thirty-five years.”

  “We met Chuck and Candace a couple days ago,” Brandy said.

  “Karen and Robby,” Vail said. “Virginia.”

  “So what do you and Robby do?” Todd asked.

  “Us?” Vail said. “I’m with the FBI—an agent out of a special unit you may have—”

  “FBI,” Todd said. “Really? You know, I’ve always wanted to ask a cop what it’s like, but, wel
l, I’ve never been in the right setting. Know what I mean? You can’t walk right up to a cop on the street and just ask.”

  “Ask what?” Robby said.

  Todd began nervously bouncing his left leg. “Well, what it’s like. What it’s like to shoot someone. Have you? Shot someone?”

  “I have,” Vail said, flashes of Danny Michael Yates momentarily blinding her thoughts.

  Todd leaned forward slightly. “Ever killed anyone? I mean, what does that feel like?”

  “Todd,” Brandy said under her breath. “That’s rude.”

  “Yes,” Vail said, looking into Todd’s eyes. “I have. But it’s not something that comes up often in my line of work. Actually,” she said with a chuckle, “that’s not true. I killed a bank robber and then almost killed my ex-husband a couple months ago. And then, last week, right in front of the White House—”

  Robby leaned forward and cleared his throat. He forced a laugh, then said, “Karen’s got a very dry sense of humor . . .”

  Apparently, Robby had taken Candace’s advice seriously, because Vail felt a kick beneath the table, a not so subtle signal for her to cut it out. The others at the table looked at each other, apparently trying to ascertain if Vail’s comments were something they should laugh at or take seriously.

  “Joking aside,” Robby quickly said, “Karen’s a profiler.”

  “Like on those shows?” Brandy asked. “What was that one, it was on years ago, we used to watch it right after we met,” she said, poking Todd in the arm.

  “Profiler,” Todd said. “I loved that show.”

  Brandy leaned back in her seat with folded arms. “You just thought the actress was hot.”

  “No, I really liked it, the way she could touch the clothing and see the killer. That was cool—”

  “That was a lot of bullsh—a lot of nonsense, is what it was,” Vail said. “We don’t have special powers. Real life isn’t usually as cool as Hollywood.”

  “But it is pretty interesting work,” Robby said.

  “What about that show Criminal Minds?” Candace asked.

  “More like it,” Vail said. “Except we don’t have our own private jet. It was actually proposed about thirty years ago but it didn’t fly because it cost too much.”

  “Good one,” Todd said. “The private jet didn’t fly.”

  “And what do you do?” Chuck asked.

  “I’m a detective,” Robby said.

  “Sounds like you both see a lot of violence in your lives,” Chuck said.

  We keep on this line of questioning and you’re likely to see a bit of violence, yourself, Chuck. Instead of translating that thought into action, Vail forced her friendliest smile, waved a hand, and said, “Enough about us. Let’s hear about you.”

  And she and Robby heard about Chuck’s work as the owner of an auto detail chain and Candace’s career in banking. By the time the plates were cleared, Vail had lost track of the conversation. Her mind was elsewhere.

  As Todd and Brandy stood to leave and wished everyone a “great time in the wine country,” Robby whispered in Vail’s ear. “What’s gotten into you?”

  Vail turned away from the departing guests. “I don’t know, this thing with Manette affected me more than I thought, coming so soon after Dead Eyes. I’m just on edge, I guess.”

  As the hostess started clearing the table, Robby thanked her, then walked with Vail outside to their car. A heavy dew still hung in the air from a steady, light rain during the night.

  “Then it’s good we’re here. We can relax, put all this stuff behind us—”

  “We have to go see Brix.”

  “Karen, if you’re all dialed up about what happened last week, then you need to let go of this wine cave thing. Someone else will deal with it.”

  “Not my style. It’s in my DNA, I can’t help it. It grabs hold of my brain and doesn’t let go—I tossed and turned all night. Something’s up with him. I need to ask him some questions, get some answers. See if there’s any way we can help out.”

  “Didn’t seem like he wanted our help.”

  Vail pulled open the car door. “Then we have to show him why he should.”

  SIX

  W hile Vail drove, Robby dialed the Napa County Sheriff’s Office and asked for Lieutenant Brix. Though Vail wanted to drop in, Robby felt that they’d pissed on his turf once and didn’t want to come off as confrontational.

  “The courtesy of a phone call would go a ways toward defusing any animosity he may have toward us,” Robby had said.

  “Hey, we were there trying to help out as peace officers. We weren’t trying to ‘piss on his turf.’”

  “He gets to his crime scene and finds a big-time FBI profiler hovering over a vic’s body in his jurisdiction. That’s not intimidating?”

  “Well, that and I’m a woman. I’m sure that didn’t help.”

  “I’m sure not.”

  Vail pursed her lips. “Fine,” she said, “we’ll do it your way.”

  So Robby called ahead. “Got it,” he said into the phone, as he jotted something onto a scrap of paper. He hung up and said to Vail, “Brix isn’t at the station. He’s at a place called”—he consulted his notes—“Peju Province, a winery off 29.”

  Vail pulled out her pocket GPS and began poking the address into its display. “Stella will tell us how to get there.”

  “You named your GPS?”

  “Better than saying ‘it,’” she said. She handed Stella to Robby and put the Murano in gear. “So how do you want to play this?”

  “This is your show, Karen. I’m just along for the ride.”

  THEY ARRIVED AT PEJU PROVINCE, drove down the tree-lined driveway, and pulled around the circle into the parking lot. They walked through the metal archway and entered the winery grounds, which were meticulously landscaped with a variety of shrubbery, lush grass, multicolored flowering plants, man-made reflecting pools, and mixed-media sculptures. They crunched along the curving, decomposed granite trail past a triangular white marble female figurine, then entered a paved path that led past a stucco and stone-faced two-story building with a pointed, weathered copper roof.

  “Beautiful grounds,” Vail said.

  “Cool sculptures.” Robby pulled on the wrought iron handle affixed to the oversize wood doors and they entered a gift shop area.

  “Are you here for a tasting?” a smiling woman asked.

  Vail held up her badge. “We’re here for some answers.”

  The woman’s face drooped faster than a Vegas slot swallows a quarter.

  “It’s okay,” Robby said, holding up a hand. “We’re looking for Lieutenant Brix.”

  “He’s in the tasting room,” she said, still looking a bit rattled. “Follow me.”

  Robby leaned down by Vail’s ear. “Jesus, Karen, cool your jets. You nearly gave that woman a heart attack.”

  “I get this way when my internal alarms go off.”

  “This isn’t our case, remember?”

  The woman stopped in a large, high-ceilinged room containing a wall-sized dome-shaped stained glass window depicting the three Greek graces. Several Brazilian cherry cabinets and tasting bars lined the room. Sommeliers were pouring from red-topped wine bottles. And a man was yodeling.

  “Is that guy yodeling?” Vail asked, nodding at a blonde-haired sommelier with a guitar strapped across his shoulder and scratching out a rhythm with a coin against a ribbed credit card.

  “Not sure,” Robby said. He listened a moment, then said, “Actually, I think he’s rapping now.”

  Just then, the tasters huddled around his counter began clapping. And Vail caught sight of Redmond Brix. And Brix caught sight of Vail.

  He stopped clapping and pushed past the customers to meet Vail and Robby. Poking a thumb over his shoulder, Brix said, “Guy’s a trip, isn’t he?”

  Robby glanced back at the happy guests, who had pulled out their credit cards to buy wine. “Customers seem to enjoy his show.”

  “They make some da
mn fine wine here, too. Now, what is it you want?”

  Direct, Vail thought. Good. I like direct. But I’m not going to play that hand. She got her first look at him in the light. His face was leathery and lined from too many years spent in the sun. From policework? Possibly, but not likely. “Your name,” she said. “Brix. We passed a restaurant a few miles back called Brix. You own it?”

  “Brix is a wine term. A measure of sugar content in the grape.”

  Vail stifled a laugh. “So your ancestors named themselves after sweet grapes?”

  Brix fixed his jaw. “Name used to be Broxton. My great grandparents, Abner and Bella, lived in the old Chianti area of Tuscany and grew grapes for a living. Bella thought they were working too hard for too little and heard about a wine region in California. She wanted to move, but Abner resisted. She finally convinced him to go, and they sold their land and came here and bought a vineyard. They planted Sangiovese and Chianti vines they’d brought from Italy, and hit it big. Bella disappeared five years later. Never found her. Abner changed the family name from Broxton to Brix to honor Bella, since she was the reason they moved to Napa. And she was a very sweet woman.”

  “So I guess you don’t own that restaurant,” Robby said.

  “No, I don’t own that restaurant.”

  Vail tilted her head. “That’s a very . . . sweet story.”

  “Yeah, I think so. Now, you didn’t come over here to ask me about my name. What is it you really want?”

  “Answers,” Vail said. “About the murder.”

  “Why did I know I hadn’t seen the last of you two?” He turned and pushed through the large light-ash doors a dozen feet to his right. They exited the copper-topped building onto a wide footbridge that spanned the man-made pond, then stopped a few feet away, where the sun was breaking through the clouds.

  Brix folded his thick, hairy arms across his chest. “Talk.”

  “Your reaction to what you saw in the cave—”

  “You mean the dead body?”

  “The dead body,” Vail said.

  “And just what reaction would you be talking about?”