Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm. “Of course it does. I’m sorry. But I promise you, I won’t give up. We won’t give up.”
Vail looked down at the paper bearing Robby’s handwriting. “What does this mean?”
“At its most basic level, Robby wrote someone’s address on a piece of paper and it ended up in César Guevara’s possession. At the moment, that’s all it means.”
That’s not all it means. There’s something here. But as has been the case this past week, nothing adds up. Nothing makes sense. We catch the serial killer, who says, “There’s more to this than you know.” And he’s being truthful. So what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I figure it out?
Dixon pulled her phone and started tapping away. She stopped, dropped it into her lap, and waited. A moment later, it buzzed and she lifted it to her ear. “Yeah.” She listened a second and then said, “Okay. Meet you there.” Dixon hung up, then yanked the gearshift into drive.
Vail, however, was still staring at the paper.
BRIX SUGGESTED THEY MEET at a restaurant, since none of the task force members had eaten anything for several hours. Dixon pulled into the parking lot, where a large landmark sign read “Brix - Restaurant Gardens Wine Shop.” Had this been another time, she would’ve thought Brix’s choice of eating at the Brix restaurant curious, but with the burden of the past few days weighing heavily, she was only concerned about getting some glucose into her brain and figuring out what the hell was going on.
As they approached the entrance along the dark walkway, patio chairs and coffee tables were occupied by a couple of women toking on cigarettes. Behind them, a wall of windows showcased a brightly lit gift shop stocked with tasteful artwork, wine racks, and clothing.
Near the large wood plank entry doors stood three men huddled in a circle: Brix, Gordon, and Mann.
Dixon and Vail greeted them, then Mann held open the door and they all filed in. The interior was well-appointed in warm woods and a wine motif. Oversize half barrels fitted with red upholstered seats lined the aisle to the left, serving as individual booths. Above, dozens of Chardonnay-shaped bottles jutted out from a central light fixture. Off to the right, on the far side of the restaurant, marble-topped oval tables sat in front of intimate two-seater couches. Perfect for the romantic couple winding down a day of wine tasting and sightseeing.
The kind of Napa experience Vail and Robby had envisioned when they went wheels up at Dulles.
Dixon took in the décor and said, “I’m not sure I can afford this.”
“Yeah, make that two of us,” Gordon said.
There were only a few couples scattered throughout the restaurant, a function of the late hour. Brix greeted the hostess, who was sporting a wide grin and hugging menus across her chest. She motioned for them to follow her.
Gordon jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I need to hit the head.”
“Ditto,” Mann said. “Meet you at the table.”
“Karen,” Brix said as they continued past the bar to their right, “about a week ago when you got here, you asked me if I owned this place because of my name. I don’t. But I’m part owner of a winery, remember? I don’t do police work because I have to, I do it because I want to. So don’t worry about the cost. I got it handled.”
Brix led them alongside the barrel-walled booths and stopped opposite the servers’ pickup window, then reached out and pulled open a wood door to a private room. “The reserve wine cellar. It’s cozy and gives us the ability to talk about serial killers without disturbing the customers.”
“Good thinking—but this room is . . . ”
“Gorgeous. Elegant. Exclusive. I know.”
To their right, three windows looked out onto the main dining area. But the remaining walls—and ceiling—were lined with side-lying wine bottles encased in hardwood wine racks with dramatic top-down low-voltage lighting, creating an air of showcased uniqueness to each vintage.
“This is my first time in here,” Dixon said, perusing the magnum bottle of Anomaly Vineyards Cabernet. “Probably my last, too.”
Vail and Dixon settled down in chairs facing the windows. Brix took a seat opposite them, then engaged the waiter with a nod as the man entered the room. “Bring us a spread. Whatever you’ve got prepared. We’re hungry and we need some time to talk undisturbed. There’ll be five of us.”
“Yes sir,” the server said.
After he had left the room, Brix turned toward Vail and Dixon. “I know we’re under the gun. I realize you’re leaving in a few hours. And I know Detective Hernandez is still AWOL. But what the hell were you thinking? The warrant—” he lowered his voice and glanced around, even though they were in a private room. “The warrant was denied. You’re both vets here, you know the deal. I mean, what the fuck?”
“It was my call,” Vail said.
“No, Karen, it wasn’t your call. There was no call to make.”
Vail leaned back in her seat. She wasn’t in the mood for this. “What’s done is done. If it matters, it wasn’t a waste.”
“It doesn’t matter, because anything you think you may’ve gotten, it doesn’t count for shit.”
“Legally,” Dixon said, “that’s true. But it is significant.”
Mann and Gordon entered the room and, in unison, craned their necks to take in the décor.
“It’s nice,” Brix said. “We’ve covered it. Have a seat.”
As they settled in, Gordon said, “I take it you’re ripping them a new one.”
“I was just getting started.”
Dixon set both her elbows on the table. “Before you get too upset, the address we found was Ian Wirth’s.”
Gordon stuck out his pudgy hands, palms up. “So Ian Wirth’s address was found in Guevara’s house. Guevara’s company had a contract with the Georges Valley AVA board. Victoria Cameron was a board member and Isaac Jenkins’s business partner was on the board. Are you saying we’re back to thinking Guevara was involved in the Cameron and Jenkins murder? I thought we settled that when we caught Mayfield.”
“Not the least of which,” Brix said, “is that if Guevara’s wrapped up in that, there’s nothing we can do about it because you broke into his fucking house!” He took a breath, calmed himself, and lowered his voice. “Do you see what—”
“It’s not that,” Vail said. She brought both hands to her face and rubbed her bloodshot eyes. “The address. Yes, it was Wirth’s home address. But . . . ” She reached into her pocket and pulled out the paper. Laid it on the table in front of them. “What bothers me is that it’s written in Robby’s handwriting. And yes, before you ask, I’m sure.”
There was silence at the table. The waiter must’ve sensed the opening, because he slipped in with plates cradled across his left forearm. He deftly set them down across the center of the table and said, as he pointed, “Halibut wrapped in prosciutto. Grilled lamb chops with creamy spinach. Artisanal cheese plate with apple slices, spiced almonds, and dried dates. Clams, served with a warm sauce drizzled on top and presented on a bed of sea salt. Finally, fennel sausage pizza. Need anything else, please let me know.” He turned and left.
Austin Mann looked at Brix, who held up his hand. “I got it covered. Honest.”
They all stared at the food. Poking out from between the halibut and lamb chops was the Wirth address. It served as a barrier to the decadent treats in front of them.
“So what does this mean?” Mann finally said.
Vail sat back. “I’m at a loss. I’m too close. I can’t see it objectively. The obvious questions are, Why did Robby know César Guevara? Why did Robby write down Wirth’s home address? Why did he give it to Guevara? What’s Guevara’s relationship to John Mayfield?”
Dixon shook her head. “You’re getting ahead of yourself. We don’t know Robby knew Guevara. All we know is that Guevara was in possession of a piece of paper containing something Robby had written.”
“That’s true,” Brix said. “So let’s all calm down a minute.” He motion
ed to the food. “Eat. We need to get something in our stomachs.”
They hesitated until Brix himself grabbed a slice of pizza. Then Gordon, Mann, and Dixon dug in. Vail was the last to toss some food on her plate. She reluctantly stabbed at the halibut and scooped the fish into her mouth. But despite the promise of heavenly flavors, she didn’t taste anything.
“The pressing question,” Dixon said, “is why Robby had Ian Wirth’s home address. There’s just no obvious reason for that. Robby was on vacation. He didn’t know Wirth. He had no reason to know him.” She put down her fork, pulled out her phone, and scrolled through the log. “I need Wirth’s phone number.”
“He’s on the Georges Valley board, right?” Mann asked.
“Yes. And if Robby had any contact with Wirth, I want to know why.”
Brix leaned to the left and pulled a sheaf of papers from his right rear pocket. “You gonna call him now? Kind of late—almost 11:00.”
“It’s about his dead colleagues. I don’t think he’ll care.”
Brix read her the number. Dixon dialed, then rose and stepped outside the room.
“I wish Mayfield was conscious,” Vail said. “I’d like another crack at him. I didn’t do such a good job the first time around.”
“Bullshit,” Brix said. “You did great. That shit with making him talk to his mother, that was fucking brilliant. If your phone hadn’t rung—”
“If Ray hadn’t unloaded on him,” Gordon added, “things would be different.”
Vail lifted a shoulder, played with her food. “But my phone did ring. Ray shot Mayfield. And Robby went missing.” Saying the words, at the late hour with her flight looming, finally hit. She dropped her head to keep from bursting into tears—but it didn’t work.
“Ah, shit,” Brix said. He got up and moved to the other side of the table, beside Vail. Took her in his arms and let her bury her face in his chest. Her shoulders lifted and shuddered, and she grabbed his arms, wanting to escape the embarrassment, the pain, the stress, the strain of the past week.
Dixon walked back in and said, “What happened?”
Vail lifted her head, pushed away from Brix and grabbed her napkin. She stuck her elbows on the table and wiped the thick, rough cotton against her eyes. “I’m sorry. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“Nonsense,” Mann said. “Probably best that it did. You needed that release. We’re not robots, Karen. We go about our jobs seeing all sorts of shit—violence, greed, death, you name it—and we try to bury it. Well, sometimes, especially when it’s personal, it just fucking gets to you.”
She nodded, then reached for her glass and swallowed a mouthful of water.
Brix straightened out his shirt, then left the room.
“Thanks,” Vail said. “I—You’re right.”
Dixon held up her phone. “Wirth didn’t know a Robby or Roberto Hernandez, and said he didn’t remember having any contact with him.”
Gordon frowned. “Worth a shot.”
“But . . . he did receive a call a few days ago, a voice mail from some unidentified caller. Warning him that his life was in danger.”
“Why didn’t he call us?”
“He did,” Dixon said. “But Wirth didn’t get the message right away because they called a line for a small subsidiary of his. He doesn’t check it daily. Once he retrieved his messages, which was yesterday, he called the number on the card I gave him.”
“Which is your office line,” Mann said.
“Right. And I haven’t been to the office, and I haven’t checked my voice mail. I’ve been a little busy. He’s beefed up his security, just in case it wasn’t a prank.”
“He didn’t recognize the voice?” Vail asked.
“Nope.”
“So he’s got a guardian angel.”
“That guardian angel could be the key to all this. Someone who knows what’s going on—which is more than we can say for ourselves.”
“A guardian angel?” Brix was standing in the doorway holding an open bottle of red wine.
Dixon briefed him on the Ian Wirth phone call.
“Let’s get the audio over to the lab,” Brix said. “Have it analyzed.”
“Already asked him to save it.”
“Whaddya got there?” Gordon asked, wagging a stubby finger at the wine.
“Kelleher Cabernet,” Brix said, spinning the bottle to display the label. “From the owner’s own vineyard. Out there,” he said, gesturing out the windows. “Good stuff.” He reached across the table and poured a glass for Vail. “You need it.”
Vail took it and swallowed a mouthful. It was “good stuff,” as Brix said. By the second gulp it was hitting her bloodstream and she could feel the relaxation flowing through her arms, her legs, and her face.
She put down the glass and leaned back in her chair.
“Now get some more food into you,” Dixon said.
Rather than filling her plate, Vail said, “Aside from this mysterious guardian angel, there’s only one source of information right now.”
Brix held up a hand. “Stay away from César Guevara. We’ll need to take it slow with him. Put some guys on him, build a case. Get a warrant. Do it right.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Dixon glanced over at Vail, who was staring at her plate. Nudged her elbow.
“Yeah,” she said, at the prompt, “no problem.”
“Let’s look at what we’ve got so far,” Mann said. He lifted his prosthetic left hand and tapped the fingers on his right. “Blood evidence on the carpet of your B&B. A fair amount, but not really enough if he’d bled out. But enough if he’d been shot or stabbed, then moved. No results yet on matching the DNA to Hernandez. Then we’ve got the leather jacket found in Mayfield’s house. Hernandez’s?”
“I’m not sure,” Vail said.
Brix pulled his phone. “Aaron should’ve had something on that by now. Prints, DNA. Something.” He began thumb typing.
“We got Mayfield’s boast,” Mann continued. “‘There’s more to this than you know.”
“And,” Dixon said, “Robby’s phone logs were deleted. That might or might not mean anything. If he was the kind of person who regularly emptied out his phone, means nothing. But if someone did it for him, it could tell us a story: who called him or who he called before he disappeared.”
“Any way we can recover that data?” Gordon asked.
Vail swallowed another sip of wine. “I sent it back to the FBI. Theoretically, the lab should be able to read the memory. They were also supposed to get his logs from the wireless carrier. Haven’t heard anything yet.”
“That’s a big one,” Dixon said.
“I know, Roxx.” Vail’s tone was short. “I should’ve thought of it earlier, when I could’ve called the lab. I fucked up.”
Dixon placed a hand on Vail’s forearm to calm her. It worked.
Mann glanced over at Vail and said, “Where are we in finding Hernandez’s friend? The Sebastian dude.”
Brix shook his head. “Last I heard from NSIB, none of the names checked out. And we hit a zero with V. Sattui, the winery that sells the Madeira that Sebastian supposedly drinks. Customer listing, charge receipts, nothing. No one’s recognized Robby’s photo, either.”
“And,” Gordon said, “there’s the fact that Robby’s gone off the grid. No credit or debit card use. No hotels. Nothing at area hospitals or—excuse me, Karen—or at morgues. No plane, train, car rentals.”
“He had a car rental,” Brix said. “He would’ve just taken it if he left of his own choosing.” The sudden vibration of the phone in his hand nearly sent it careening to the floor. Brix angled his gaze down to read the text message. “Aaron—analysis of the leather jacket. He’s able to account for 14 out of 16 latents as—” He scrolled down and continued: “as belonging to Mayfield. The others were unidentifiable partials. Nothing on DNA. Too soon.”
“Doesn’t look like it’s Robby’s coat,” Vail said. She let her head fall forward into her hands and rubbed her te
mples. “I’m not sure if that’s good or bad.”
“It’s good,” Dixon said. “Anything that removes, or weakens, a connection between Robby and Mayfield is good in my book.”
Brix set down his phone and piled a few squares of cheese on his plate, followed by a couple of clams and a lamb chop. “But it does bring up the issue of James Cannon. He’s still in the wind. We’ve got about two dozen deputies and investigators looking for him. His photo has been sent around to LEOs in a hundred mile radius. I’ve even snagged a chopper to scour the woods with infrared. So far, nothing.”
“So it comes back to Guevara,” Mann said. “He’s got skin in the game, but we can’t prove it and we can’t nail it—or him—down.”
Vail sat there, the wine stirring her head in pleasant waves. Her lids felt the weight of a lack of quality sleep and an overabundance of stress. But through it all, the broad outlines of a plan began to form. It wouldn’t be something she could share with the others because they would explicitly forbid her from carrying it out. With time disappearing like a painter rolling a primer coat on a wall, covering all beneath it, she didn’t see a choice. They were beating their heads against a wall. At least, that was how she felt.
Vail pushed her chair back from the table. Her body had the heavy and sloppy movements indicative of high blood alcohol content. “I’d totally understand if you guys wanna knock off. Go catch some sleep. We haven’t had a whole lot of it lately.”
Brix and Dixon locked eyes, silently weighing the offer.
“Seriously, guys. I’m leaving for SFO in like four hours. Unless we’ve got something pressing to follow up on that’s not already being done, there’s no reason to work through the night. Again.”
Brix hiked his brow. “I guess you’re right. Let’s go catch forty winks, start fresh at 8:00 AM. Roxx?”
As the lead investigator, she had to make the call.
Dixon turned to Vail and read her face.
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